The days leading up to the Varna International Ballet Competition blurred into an intense cycle of training that bordered on the obsessive. For Etienne, the lines between determination and madness were beginning to blur. He pushed himself harder than he ever had before, his entire existence now focused on mastering every technique, every movement, and every breath.
Morning to night, he trained. There were no breaks—no time to stop, to rest, to think. Even Lucien, who had been his harshest critic, began to notice the change. What had started as intense dedication was now spiraling into something far darker.
Etienne's body bore the evidence of his relentless pursuit. His muscles were taut, his frame leaner than ever, but his eyes… they held a hollow intensity, a sharpness that came from pushing beyond the body's limits. He had become a machine—every movement precise, every leap flawless, but there was something else beneath the surface, a kind of desperation that even Lucien hadn't anticipated.
Late one night, after another grueling practice, Lucien sat in his study, reviewing Etienne's performance. He had seen improvement, but it was coming at a cost. The boy was breaking himself, bit by bit, in the pursuit of perfection. Lucien had always demanded greatness, but what he was witnessing now was something different.
He leaned back in his chair, his mind drifting to a time years ago, when Etienne had first started ballet. The memory, vivid and raw, replayed in his mind.
It had been a summer afternoon, the day they officially took him in as Etienne D'Arcy. Lucien had watched as the boy, who had once scorned the arts, grudgingly stepped into the studio. His posture had been stiff, his movements awkward and reluctant. At that time, Etienne had loathed ballet—associating it with his mother's abandonment. But Lucien saw something deeper in him.
"Lift your arms, Etienne," Lucien had instructed back then, keeping his voice soft, as though trying not to spook a skittish animal.
Etienne had responded with minimal effort, his face an expression of resentment.
"Again," Lucien had repeated patiently. "Keep your head high. Ballet isn't just about the movement—it's about the spirit behind it."
The boy had barely understood then. Ballet had been nothing more than a chain that tethered him to a world he didn't want. Yet something had shifted over the next few months, whether it was Lucien's insistence or Etienne's gradual acceptance of his new reality. The once resentful boy began to show signs of potential. His movements became more fluid, more refined, as if something deep inside had awakened. Lucien had been stunned by how quickly Etienne progressed, especially given his initial resistance.
But that spark, that raw talent, wasn't supposed to lead to this.
Lucien was the one who had originally set the high standards, had pushed Etienne to become the best. Yet, looking at him now—watching the boy throw himself into training with an intensity that bordered on self-destruction—Lucien felt a knot of unease. Had he gone too far? Had he unknowingly lit a fire that was now burning out of control?
The memory faded, and Lucien found himself staring at the empty training room through the glass windows. Etienne wasn't there anymore. He had disappeared upstairs to his room, likely exhausted, though Lucien doubted he was sleeping.
He stood and made his way to the stairs, his mind weighing heavy with the realization that this wasn't just about winning anymore. This had become a battle for control—over himself, over Lucien, over the expectations the world had placed on him.
Upstairs, Etienne was hunched over in his room, a notebook in front of him. His hands trembled slightly as he scribbled down notes on his technique, diagrams of positions, lists of corrections Lucien had given him. The notebook was filled with obsessive detail—angles, foot placement, precise timing. He had memorized every critique, every single flaw Lucien had pointed out over the past few weeks.
In the corner of his room, a large mirror stood, reflecting his tired figure. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and his face had grown gaunt. But none of that mattered. All that mattered was Varna.
His mind wandered back to the day when it all truly began. When Lucien had first taught him, he had hated every second of it. He had loathed the control, the way ballet had consumed his life. But something had shifted over the years. What started as resentment had turned into obsession. Lucien had always pushed him, but now Etienne was pushing himself harder than anyone ever could.
He couldn't stop. He wouldn't stop. Not until he was the best.
But what did the best even mean anymore?
The next morning, Lucien found Etienne already in the training room, warming up. His movements were stiff, his body clearly tired from the previous day's exertion. Lucien watched silently from the doorway, not making his presence known.
Etienne didn't stop to rest. He repeated the same sequence over and over again, each time pushing himself harder, until finally, his foot slipped. He collapsed onto the floor, panting heavily, his body trembling from exhaustion.
Lucien stepped into the room. "Etienne."
The boy looked up, his chest heaving, his eyes wild with determination. "I can do it. Let me try again."
"No," Lucien said firmly, walking over to him. "You're pushing yourself too far."
Etienne struggled to his feet, his legs unsteady beneath him. "I have to be ready. Varna—"
"Varna isn't worth destroying yourself over," Lucien interrupted, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "You're no good to anyone if you burn out before you even step on that stage."
Etienne's eyes flashed with frustration. "I can do this. I've worked too hard—"
"And you'll work even harder if you continue like this," Lucien said, his tone hardening. "But you'll break, Etienne. This obsession is going to break you."
Etienne clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to stop. "You're the one who said I wasn't good enough."
Lucien sighed. "I said you needed to dig deeper. Not kill yourself in the process."
Silence fell between them as Etienne's rapid breathing filled the room.
"You were never meant to lose yourself in this," Lucien added, his voice calm but heavy. "The art, the discipline—it's supposed to bring something out of you. Not consume you. Don't let this competition take everything from you."
Etienne turned away, unable to meet Lucien's gaze. His mind was too clouded by the need to be perfect. But deep down, somewhere buried beneath the exhaustion, Lucien's words struck a chord. For the first time in weeks, doubt crept in.
That night, Etienne sat alone in his room, staring at the notebook filled with his notes and corrections. The pages that once fueled his drive now felt heavy with the weight of expectations he had placed on himself.
For the first time since he submitted his application to Varna, he wondered—what would happen if he couldn't be the best?