#relever

The High Table has never been particularly forgiving of those that attempt to leave their employment. And while some have earned their retirement through an excessive body count and perhaps a few lost limbs, Esme found theirs through education. Now, she had never belonged to a specific family, but the Roma Ruski had a fondness for them, if only because one of the Uncles had made her their latest muse.

In their youth, Esme had been a dancer. Graceful. Elegant. Strong despite her small stature. And Uncle Barys loved the way she moved. And she hated his gaze. But he was part of a powerful family with a ballet school where she could not only perfect her craft but have an occupation that wouldn't let her real family starve. Because things were hard in The Bronx but her talent could save them; that's what they always told her. This is a gift. This is gonna save us.

Uncle Barys looked at Esme like her father did; they both saw the potential in her, although for entirely different uses. Her father saw green, stacks and stacks of theater cash if his little girl made Broadway. Even as a child Esme knew that wasn't realistic.

Uncle Barys saw a killer. Small and spry, light as a feather— she could be sent flying through the air and land in the perfect tumble. She could contort herself away from a thrown punch and twirl away from a stabbing knife. In the end, only Uncle Barys had been right.

After years of shedding blood on her own, growing numb to the constant danger they were in, numb to the number of bodies she killed for The High Table, she wanted out. By her age, she might have been drummed out of ballet altogether by someone younger and quicker than her, but The High Table was much more persistent. They didn't care about age. If you killed once, you could kill again. And should you fail...then there was no use for you.

So you want to get out? A French accent rings out, calm as always but silently calculating. She could almost hear the gears turning in his head and she has to stifle an eye roll. Regardless of the lack of respect between her and anyone higher up than her, a deal was made; because The High Table did love their impossible tasks.

You're still young...should you have lived to a very old age, we could have gotten...maybe 500 more kills, yes? She almost scoffs, but rudeness was a death sentence in this arena. We want 500 more kills. So you will train 500 more killers. And each one must kill. That is very fair, is it not?

Once more she wanders the halls of the Ruska Roma's ballet academy, still numb, still blurry-eyed but with her life...or half-life, really. Currently, Esme is one of the few outside instructors within the academy, specializing in a particularly brutal, physically demanding school of dance, which in turn assures her pupils are not only tolerant of pain but also as vicious in their attacks as she had been at their age.

Her pupils are marked by the line of bloody footprints they leave in their wake, each one destined to kill far more than the required one. All doomed to be under the Table.