Chapter 37: The Stage

Renna pushed open the tall, double doors of the old theatre with the ease of someone who did not care for creaking hinges or dust-covered thresholds. The place had been abandoned for months—maybe longer—but it still held a kind of lingering warmth, like laughter and applause had soaked into the curtains and woodwork and decided never to leave.

Light filtered through stained glass windows, casting fractured colors across rows of velvet seats and a stage half-covered by a faded red curtain. The air smelled of paper and sawdust, and something sweet—maybe old perfume clinging to costumes long forgotten in the back.

She stepped inside like she owned the place, boots hitting the warped floorboards with a casual rhythm. Her jacket swung at her sides, gloves stuffed in her belt, hair tied into a quick loop that had already begun to fray. Her eyes weren't looking for anyone.

She came here to breathe.

To sit in silence.

To think.

But then, her gaze lifted to the stage—dust motes dancing in the shafts of afternoon light—and she smiled. Not because something was funny. Not even because she was happy. It was just that kind of place. The kind of place that invited a grin, a smirk, a smothered laugh that didn't need a reason.

She made her way toward the front rows, trailing her fingers along the worn seatbacks. Then, with a sudden turn, she hopped up onto the stage, landing with a quiet thump that echoed faintly in the hollow room.

She stood there for a moment.

Center stage.

Alone.

No audience. No lights.

But she bowed anyway. Deep and theatrical, one arm sweeping out beside her.

Then she stood up, tossed her hair back, and whispered.

"Tonight's show is for me."

Renna stood at the center of the stage, arms slack at her sides, the dust-laced silence holding its breath around her.

Then—her foot slid back. Her arms rose. A slow pivot, like a clock winding itself.

She began to dance.

No music played. No orchestra stirred in the pit. But in her head, there was rhythm—faint at first, a pulse remembered from long ago. She moved like she used to, back when her body was different, back when mirrors reflected someone she still understood.

A spin, tight and graceful. A leap, barely touching the ground.

There had been a time when she danced in studios with polished floors and practiced moves in front of critical instructors. It was clean back then.

But here—now—on this dust-layered stage in a forgotten theatre—she danced wild.

The boards creaked beneath her steps, but she moved as if they were clouds. Her arms carved the air like brushstrokes on an empty canvas, painting emotions too fragile to name.

This dance—this one—was not for freedom.

It was for him.

For the boy in her original world. The one who sat beside her in quiet cafes, who laughed at the dumb shows they used to watch, who walked her home when the streetlights blinked on like tired eyes.

She had loved him. Quietly. Carefully. With a love so soft it could dissolve in water. She had held it close, scared it would disappear if she ever let it speak. Because he was a boy. And so was she.

And what if he didn't like boys?

What if that smile he always gave her would melt away, replaced with discomfort? With rejection? With distance?

So she had folded that love into origami and hid it in her chest.

Never said it.

Never dared.

Never once whispered I love you.

She spun again, but slower now. The weight of that unsaid truth pulling at her limbs. She imagined telling him—one day, maybe—when they got back to their world. When all of this was over. When she had her old name, her old body, her old voice.

But now…

Now even that was uncertain.

She leapt, not into air, but into memory. And in midair, it struck her: even if she returned, she wouldn't be the same.

Because now, she feared something even more than being rejected as a boy.

She feared being unrecognizable to him.

A stranger with familiar eyes.

What if she told him with this new body, this new voice—and he didn't see her? What if he looked right through her and couldn't find the person who loved him quietly through every smile, every silence, every almost?

Her feet hit the floor again. Hard. The echo cracked through the theatre.

Renna trembled.

And kept dancing.

She danced for the question she never dared to ask:

What is the color of a rainbow?

Not the textbook answer. Not the simple spectrum laid out in neat rows like obedient students.

No.

She danced for her rainbow.

She danced for his rainbow.

She danced to find the colors between the colors—those hidden shades that don't have names. The blush of a secret. The gold behind a glance. The ache-blue of wanting something and not knowing how to ask.

Her body swirled, arms sweeping arcs like brushstrokes trying to capture emotions without language.

Red—for courage she never had.

Orange—for warmth she always gave.

Yellow—for the joy he never knew she felt around him.

Green—for envy she had of people who could love openly.

Blue—for all the nights she whispered into her pillow.

Indigo—for dreams where she told him and he smiled.

Violet—for the regret that bloomed in silence.

She danced because the rainbow wasn't just light broken through water.

It was a promise—always seen, never touched.

A reminder that something so beautiful could vanish the moment you tried to hold it.

And now, in this strange world, with a new body, new name, new fears, she wondered:

Would he still see her rainbow?

Would he see all her colors—messy, wild, trembling—and still want to reach out?

She spun one last time, hair flaring like a comet's tail, and stopped.

Hands lifted to the rafters.

Eyes closed.

Breath shallow.

She didn't have the answer.

But tonight, she danced for the color of a rainbow.

A slow clap echoed through the hollow theatre.

Renna froze.

The dust settled in her lungs, her chest rose and fell, and in the silence that followed her dance, the sound of hands meeting—soft, genuine, almost reverent—felt like thunder.

She turned, heart thudding.

From the velvet-draped shadows of the old audience seats, someone stood up. A silhouette framed by the fractured light through the ceiling.

Alaric.

He was smiling, not like the hero he was becoming, not like the sword-bearing force he could be in battle—but like a friend who had wandered into something sacred and knew better than to speak too soon.

He didn't say a word, not at first. He stepped forward, brushing aside a torn curtain that had long since given up on beauty, and walked slowly toward the stage.

Renna stared, breath caught between pride and panic.

How much had he seen?

How much had he understood?

Alaric stopped at the edge of the stage, still smiling, eyes a little brighter than usual.

"I didn't mean to intrude," he said gently. "I was just walking and… I heard music. I mean—not real music, just… you."

His words weren't elegant. But they were sincere.

Renna lowered her gaze, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, feeling more exposed now than in any battle they'd fought. Her chest was tight, but she didn't run.

She stepped down from the stage, boots scuffing against worn wood, and stood in front of him.

"You always show up when I'm not ready," she muttered.

Alaric chuckled softly. "I think that's your magic, not mine."

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The dust swirled lazily between them like a fog of unspoken things.

And Renna wondered, not for the first time, if maybe—just maybe—some rainbows could be seen from both sides.

Alaric leaned one elbow on the stage like he was casually leaning on a bar, despite the fact that the wood beneath him groaned like it had personally filed a complaint to the gods centuries ago.

"So," he started with a cocked eyebrow and a smirk, "you gonna tell me what that whirlwind was all about? Or do I need to bribe the orchestra that's clearly living inside your head?"

Renna rolled her eyes, still a little breathless. "I was dancing."

"No kidding." Alaric grinned. "I thought maybe you were trying to summon a god of glitter."

She snorted. "Funny. Real funny. I used to dance for real, alright? Back in the real world. You know. Before we got Isekai'd into… this madness."

Alaric blinked. "Wait. Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously," she said, planting her hands on her hips. "I was a theater dancer. Professional. Like actual shows. Choreography. Applause. The works."

"…Are you telling me I've been traveling with a ballerina?"

Renna narrowed her eyes. "A theater dancer, not a ballerina. Very different."

"Ah, so you don't do the whole pirouette-swan-princess stuff?"

"I can pirouette on your face, Alaric."

He raised his hands defensively, laughing. "I mean, I liked it. The dance. It was… beautiful. Like, dangerously beautiful. Like, I think the dust in this place spontaneously combusted out of respect."

Renna blushed slightly, then frowned. "Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're about to follow it up with a joke about twirling into battle."

"Oh gods." Alaric's eyes lit up. "Can you please twirl into battle next time? Imagine—fireballs flying, swords clashing—and then BAM, you twirl in, do a split, and deck a demon in the jaw."

Renna turned away—half-smiling.

"I'll take that as a yes." Alaric threw a fist in the air. "Team choreography is finally coming together!"

Renna grabbed an old program from one of the cracked chairs and whipped it at his head. It hit him square in the face with a puff of dust.

"Ow—proof of talent and accuracy," he coughed. "Amazing. You're like a deadly stage play."

"You're like a walking intermission," she snapped.

But she was laughing now, shoulders loose, eyes brighter.

Alaric, brushing off the phantom of paper-based assault, grinned like he'd just stolen something valuable.

Renna sat on the edge of the stage, legs swinging back and forth over the dusty floor as the last traces of her dance settled into silence. Alaric flopped into one of the crooked theater seats like it owed him money and leaned back until it creaked in protest.

"So," he said, tilting his head toward her. "Genderbend trope. Let's talk about it."

Renna groaned dramatically. "Oh gods, do we have to?"

"You're literally the trope," he said with a grin. "I'm just trying to get the insider scoop."

Renna plucked at a loose thread on her sleeve. "Fine. What do you want to know? How I didn't spontaneously combust from identity crisis on day one?"

"That's the thing," Alaric said, sitting up straighter. "Most of these stories, right? The character gets gender-swapped and they're just like, 'Oh well! Time to take a bath in my new body and wink at the mirror!'" He threw up jazz hands. "'Instant Adaptation.' Like they weren't just flipped like a pancake."

"Yup," Renna muttered. "No emotional whiplash. No complicated feelings. Just full-speed-ahead acceptance like nothing happened."

"You adjusted fast, though."

"Fast on the outside," she said, tapping her temple. "Doesn't mean the inside wasn't a tornado full of screaming ferrets."

Alaric snorted. "So, tornado ferrets. Got it."

Renna chuckled. "You want the real reason it didn't break me?"

Alaric nodded.

She took a breath, eyes drifting upward to the cracked ceiling. "Because I had to. There wasn't time. Not in a world where a slime can melt your skin off and a cursed carrot can turn your bones into soup."

"That sounds oddly specific."

They both laughed.

"And the fanservice," Renna added, wrinkling her nose. "Ugh. Don't get me started."

"I mean, I'm a fan of service—"

"Don't," she warned, pointing at him.

"—but yeah," he said, dodging the finger like it was a javelin. "I get it. Some of these stories don't even try. It's all jiggle physics and bath scenes. No exploration. No depth. Just bounce, bounce, plot twist, bounce."

Renna crossed her arms. "Like the whole point of me getting turned into a girl is just to make things 'spicy' for the reader. As if that's my entire character arc."

"But you," Alaric said, tapping his chin, "you're different."

"Am I?"

"Yeah. You pirouette through existential horror like it's opening night."

Renna gave him a flat look. "That was weirdly poetic and also stupid."

"Thanks, I try." He grinned.

Renna blinked a few times. "That was… surprising."

Alaric shrugged. "What can I say? I contain multitudes."

"Most of them are chaotic."

"And yet here you are, willingly hanging out with me." He kicked his feet up on the seat in front of him. "Which probably says more about you."

She shook her head, smiling. "You're an idiot."