It's art

(Levi Strauss POV)

The invitation letter from the Sunshine Indie Film Festival still felt surreal in my hands.

After countless sleepless nights and endless revisions, my film had actually made it into competition. While Sunshine City's festival might not carry the prestige of major international events, its reputation for launching emerging talent made my heart race with possibilities.

My family remained blissfully unaware of my filmmaking pursuits.

The thought of their reaction - particularly my father's inevitable disapproval - threatened to dampen my excitement, but I pushed those thoughts aside. Tonight belonged to the arts, to creativity, to dreams finally taking shape.

The red carpet stretched before us like a crimson dream. My cast members and I exchanged nervous glances before taking our first steps into that dazzling spotlight.

Cameras flashed sporadically - nothing like the frenzied attention lavished on the B-list celebrities in attendance, but enough to make this moment feel magnificently real.

During the opening reception, the warm lighting and flowing champagne created an atmosphere of casual elegance. Several established filmmakers drifted toward our group, their interest seemingly piqued by fresh faces.

"You seem quite young to be directing," one of them observed, wine glass tilting precariously as he gestured. "How many films under your belt?"

"The committee's notoriously selective," another added, his salt-and-pepper beard lending gravitas to his words. "Getting accepted for your work is no small feat."

My chest swelled with pride as I introduced myself. "I'm actually new to the industry. Levi Strauss, pleased to meet you all." The words tumbled out with barely contained enthusiasm.

The shift in atmosphere was immediate and crushing. Their expressions transformed from professional curiosity to thinly veiled hostility at the mention of my surname.

"Strauss?" One filmmaker's voice dropped an octave. "As in the Angel City loan sharks?"

"That family that's been bleeding working people dry for generations?" Another's lip curled in disgust. "Their debt collectors are worse than street thugs."

"I'm not..." The words stuck in my throat. How could I deny my family's reputation when I'd witnessed their ruthless business practices firsthand? "I'm different from them. My work stands on its own merit."

"Right," the first filmmaker scoffed. "I'm sure your family's connections had nothing to do with the selection committee's decision."

The man with the salt-and-pepper beard spat at my feet, the gesture shocking in its deliberate crudeness. "Parasites, the lot of you."

They dispersed like smoke, but their toxic presence lingered. I watched helplessly as they spread through the reception, poisoning other conversations with whispers and significant looks. Soon, the entire room seemed to radiate hostility, dozens of eyes carrying the weight of generations of grievances against my family name.

A heavy sigh escaped me as I nursed my drink at the bar. The familiar weight of my family's reputation settled across my shoulders once again. No matter how far I ran, how hard I worked to forge my own path, the Strauss name always found a way to draw blood.

"It doesn't matter," I whispered to myself, drawing strength from an unexpected source of comfort. "I serve Lord Dionysus now. Let them judge - their hatred means nothing when I carry His blessing in my heart."

The revelation steadied me, transforming bitter resignation into quiet resolve. Around us, the whispers and hostile glances continued, but they seemed to lose their power to wound.

My cast members faced similar treatment, shunned by association. Yet their faith in our work never wavered.

"Just wait," Maria, our lead actress, murmured. "Once they see what we've created, everything changes."

The screening schedule unfolded with mathematical precision. Dururu, the young dwarf filmmaker everyone dubbed the festival's rising star, premiered his work to thunderous acclaim. The audience lavished praise on his technical mastery, his innovative approach to traditional themes.

But watching his film, I felt a certainty deep in my bones - what we had created was different. Special. True.

When our screening time arrived, the theater sat mostly empty. Perhaps two dozen people scattered throughout the seats, many clearly there for purposes other than cinema. A couple in the back row seemed more interested in each other than the screen, while others slouched in their seats with obvious disinterest.

I closed my eyes briefly, centering myself. Lord Dionysus watches. That's enough.

The film opened on the prison road gang, sunlight beating down mercilessly as prisoners wielded their tools with mechanical precision. Our protagonist appeared, defiance written in every line of his body as he faced down the system designed to break him.

Gradually, the rustling and whispers in the theater died away. The couple in the back row broke apart, drawn into the story despite themselves.

"Wait, don't leave yet," I heard a woman whisper to her companion who'd started to rise. "I need to see what happens next."

"This is... unexpected," another viewer murmured, leaning forward in his seat.

My cast members exchanged knowing smiles as we watched our work unfold. The energy in the theater had transformed completely - every eye now fixed on the screen, every viewer held captive by our protagonist's struggle against conformity and oppression.

As the final scene faded to black, silence gripped the theater. Then, like a dam breaking, applause erupted - genuine, enthusiastic, almost desperate in its intensity.

"Brilliant!" someone shouted. "Absolutely brilliant!"

"The metaphors, the symbolism..." An older critic in the third row was scribbling frantically in his notebook. "This isn't just entertainment - it's art!"

"Who made this?" A young woman demanded, turning to scan the crowd. "This director deserves recognition!"

My cast members beamed with pride, their earlier humiliation forgotten in this moment of vindication. We had done it - created something that transcended prejudice and preconceptions.

***

(3rd Person POV)

Within two days, "Cool Hand Jake" became the festival's unexpected sensation. Word spread like wildfire through the indie film community, drawing increasingly larger audiences to each screening. The film's exploration of individuality versus institutionalization resonated deeply, overshadowing even Dururu's technically impressive but safer work.

The same filmmakers who had spurned Levi now approached with careful overtures, though some maintained their distance out of lingering prejudice or pride. Their attempts at networking carried an awkward mix of professional interest and personal discomfort - the Strauss name still carried its weight of history.

Dururu watched his presumed festival triumph slipping away with poorly concealed resentment. The dwarf filmmaker had expected to sweep the awards, his path to recognition seemingly assured until this upstart's film captured the festival's imagination.

The shift in momentum was undeniable. Where once Dururu's name dominated festival conversations, now speculation centered on "Cool Hand Jake" and its unlikely creator - the outcast scion of Angel City's most notorious family, who had somehow crafted a masterpiece about freedom from within the gilded cage of privilege.

***

Amsterdam, the jewel of Roses Kingdom, hummed with unprecedented activity as distinguished guests materialized across the city. News crews scrambled to document each arrival, their cameras capturing a parade of world powers converging on the ancient capital.

Crown Prince Rajesh of Bharat Kingdom descended from his enchanted palanquin, while the Wales princes arrived astride their signature hippogriffs. The Arabia Kingdom princesses emerged from their magic-woven silk pavilion, their beauty drawing gasps from onlookers. Each arrival seemed choreographed to outshine the last.

The appearance of Crown Prince Azazel Morningstar alongside his sister Apollonia sent ripples through the media. Their presence, combined with the steady stream of nobles and elites flooding the city, sparked wild speculation.

"Did you see her? The princess with hair like spun moonlight?" A merchant whispered to his wife as they watched from their shop doorway. "I've never seen such grace."

"Forget the princess," his wife replied, eyes wide. "Why are so many powerful figures gathering here? Secret summit, perhaps?"

"Ha! Maybe they're planning to crown a new High King," another shopkeeper joked, drawing laughter from the growing crowd of observers.

The speculation reached fever pitch when Arthur Pendragon appeared with Firfel and Shafel. Media crews swarmed their car, forcing them to retreat quickly into their hotel.

Inside, Arthur shook his head at the commotion. "This auction carries more weight than I imagined. Even Azazel made an appearance."

"Your eldest brother?" Shafel raised an eyebrow. "The crown prince himself?"

Arthur nodded, watching the persistent reporters through the window. "The auction begins tonight, but I'm curious about the logistics. A venue that can accommodate dragons without causing mass panic in the city..."