Ayako shines.

Her affinity is for performing, and she performs beautifully-- glamours come as naturally to her as breathing; she sings spells like she was born for it; she moves through combat casting with the kind of grace that dancers envy.

But grace is not, really, what combat casting is for. Which is why, now, weighing in before induction, the air cold and strange on the back of Ayako's neck, she's not looking at the grams on the scale (they've checked three times) or the English her parents are quizzing her on (she can write poetry in it); she's looking at Mei, and thinking about reading out loud, and combat casting, and comparative advantage, and luck.

She hugs the eleven- and twelve- year olds she's mentored one last time, tells her parents goodbye, promises to be careful just like she has a thousand times, repeats back the messages she's supposed to deliver to their older enclavemates, and thinks about practicality, and beauty, and things that shine. Thinks about alliances and glamours and charm and partnered dancing, two people's motion to make a stronger whole, and when she feels the tug she closes her eyes and does her best to imprint it all and she feels herself fall.