Third Person's POV The theater buzzed with the presence of so many high-ranking wolves of the arts world. Celestine moved with taut precision, nerves coiled like a spring, yet demanding nothing less than perfection from herself. Several of the front-row masters nodded frequently, impressed. Yet in the center, Giovanna and Sophia watched with unreadable faces, betraying no emotion. During intermission, the murmurs of the pack around her were effusive. "Miss Celestine truly lives up to the title of the most talented rising dancer. I heard most of today's performances are either choreographed by her alone or in collaboration. Truly remarkable-the flaws are negligible," one observer whispered. Giovanna's gaze, however, remained sharp. Her brow furrowed. "Each dance here may appear similar on the surface, but their essence differs. She's trying to showcase too much. As a cohesive, thematic performance, it feels somewhat scattered." Giovanna had come only because her niece, Agnes, had insisted, bringing along a few colleagues. Otherwise, she would have avoided this performance entirely. She had dealt with this young wolf before and recognized the raw hunger in her eyes. Ambition wasn't wrong, but past dealings left Giovanna wary of the girl's true intentions. She would need to lecture Agnes later-not every wolf deserved free passage to such circles. Sophia's verdict was briefer. "Technique sufficient, spirit lacking." The two longtime friends exchanged a knowing glance. Privately, their words were far less gentle: "In my view, Julia shows greater raw talent within the troupe. I don't understand why Miss Ward is more famous." A pause. "My next piece? I'm leaning toward collaborating with Julia." It was Julia herself who had invited them-after attending her recent performance, they had exchanged contacts and spoken warmly. Yet today, the wolf who had extended the invitation never appeared. Sophia and Giovanna simply smiled at each other, shaking their heads at the unpredictability of youth. Backstage, Celestine observed every movement of the wolves in the audience, overhearing fragments of praise and criticism. If it had been another time, she might have been anxious. But not now. Giovanna and Sophia were titans atop the hierarchy of their craft; their exacting standards were normal. She trusted that once her final dance began, all prior doubts would shatter. A wolf whose talent was divine and whose choreographic spirit rivaled legends-such a force was precisely what Sophia sought for her upcoming international production. Julia might have had the opening advantage. But if not for my misfortune-the injury inflicted by Aysel Vale-the opportunity would never have reached her. Yet a substitute was just a substitute. I would reclaim what was rightfully mine. Julia would lose. Even objectively, Celestine possessed undeniable presence beneath the spotlight. Julia studied her competitor critically, her wolf instincts noting every shift, every poise. Across the theater, familiar faces of Celestine's admirers leaned forward in anticipation, already envisioning the bouquet presentation after the final bow. Family, beauty, talent, reputation-these were forces she wielded with lethal precision. Julia's thoughts flickered to Magnus, who had escorted them in. From the moment they entered, he was either on a call, managing pack affairs, or attending to Aysel's needs. Rarely did his gaze drift to Celestine on the screen. Not once. Julia's thoughts drifted to the whispers about Aysel's childhood companions. She smiled wryly. Losing a trivial seed only to grasp a full fruit-sometimes fate worked in strange ways. And she could assert with certainty: Magnus Sanchez was far more reliable than that childhood friend named Damon. In moments like these, he would stand without hesitation beside Aysel, letting her strike freely, no matter the chaos she unleashed. The other suitor Damon, she recalled, had been spotted multiple times among Celestine's admirers. As Julia indulged in her private scheming, her attention remained split between the audience and the stage. The announcement signaled the final performance of the night, and she could hardly contain herself. "Miss Vale, I'll head closer to the stage," she said with unapologetic glee, her eyes glinting. "I want to see her mask fall, up close, when the truth of her pride is laid bare." Tonight's tour could have been ruin for many of them, had Aysel not intervened. How could she not feel vindictive? Yet Aysel herself did not follow. The live feed was crystal clear, every nuanced expression captured in minute detail. She watched Celestine Ward on the stage, the curve of her smile, the sweep of her movements, the audience's fervent reactions to her dance. The final solo of the evening was titled "Chasing the Wind."The performance pursued the ephemeral: the fleeting wind of desire, the capricious love of a phantom lover. Translucent green silk billowed around Celestine like liquid air, an embodiment of the wind itself-ethereal, breathtaking, and achingly beautiful. Agnes had danced under Aysel's guidance, focusing on emotional immersion. Celestine, by contrast, emphasized the romance of the scene, the sweep of the stage, the story told through light and motion. There was no denying it: this was the highlight of the night. Even Giovanna and Sophia's previously indifferent expressions softened into admiration, eyes bright with acknowledgment. The surprise on their faces at seeing Celestine listed as choreographer was unmistakable. Perhaps their judgments had been biased; even so, Celestine had merit. Her dance was precise, her choreography masterful-a rare hybrid of talent and spirit. Sophia even began to consider incorporating Celestine into her upcoming international production. The masters' praise was resounding, and ordinary wolves in the audience gazed with heated fascination. It was, without a doubt, a visual feast. The Moonvale Pack members felt the energy around them and finally allowed smiles to break across their faces. They had known all along: Celestine's skill would shatter the petty judgments of the pack-followers who mimicked others blindly. Magnus might be powerful, but he could not bend the collective perception of the audience. Remus and Luna's pride was palpable. It was no wonder they favored Celestine-her origins might have been unfortunate, but her determination shone. Lykos wanted to proclaim to the world: this wolfling was his sister. Having watched countless performances, he knew without question that this was her finest. Soon, others would beg for introductions to her prowess. The final notes of "Chasing the Wind" lingered as Celestine's chest heaved, her smile perfect, arms wide, bow deep. Applause surged like a tidal wave. Head bowed, face lifted just enough to reveal her lips curved in triumph. She had succeeded. Photographers in the wings unleashed their flashes with prearranged timing. Celestine's mind raced, preparing the narrative she would present-her trials, her inspirations, her plans to ascend the international stage. But the first question shattered all anticipation. Like a bolt of lightning across a dark sky, the reporter's accusation echoed: "Miss Ward, how do you respond to claims online that you have plagiarized others' work?" The microphone amplified the words, sharp and merciless, slicing through every ear in the hall. The audience stirred in shock. Lykos leapt from his seat, claws scrabbling for purchase on the polished floor. "What are you saying? Someone get him out of here!"