Chapter 881
Serevia, where the event takes place, is a city of music that seems to be surrounded by musical notes, where every street and every building exudes a strong artistic flavour.
The next morning, I arrived at the competition venue.
The grandeur of the concert hall took my breath away—this was a place where history had been made, where the greatest musicians in the world had
once stood.
The building itself was a marvel, a towering testament to the power of music, with acoustics that were second to none.
It was the kind of place that could either elevate a performer to greatness or crush them under the weight of its expectations.
As I walked through the grand entrance, my nerves began to fray.
I had never played in such a magnificent setting before, and the sheer scale of it was daunting.
My heart raced, a mix of excitement and anxiety churning in my chest.
And then, amidst the sea of faces, I saw her–Aria.
She was impossible to miss, dressed in a gown so extravagant it seemed to shimmer with every movement.
The fabric was a deep, royal blue, adorned with intricate beadwork that caught the light in a thousand different ways.
Her hair was swept up in an elegant style, and her makeup was flawless, enhancing her already striking features.
It was as if the entire room was drawn to her, captivated by her presence.
Aria had always known how to command attention, how to be the star of the show.
Our eyes met, and Aria’s expression shifted. With a bright, almost too–sweet smile, she glided over to me, her arms outstretched as if to embrace an old friend.
“Elizabeth! It’s so good to see you here,” she exclaimed, her voice dripping with false warmth.
She pulled me into a hug, her perfume overwhelming my senses.
But as she leaned in, her voice dropped to a whisper, cold and cutting.
“You’re screwed,” she hissed, the words sharp and cruel against my ear.
I smiled back and said lightly, “Good luck with your playing.”
Aria’s face stiffened slightly, the subtle shift in her expression betraying her feelings.
She must have caught the undertone in my words, the veiled mockery of her piano skills.
The anger flashed briefly in her eyes, but she quickly composed herself, forcing a smile as she noticed the cameras still pointed at us.
It was a strained smile, and I knew it took everything in her to maintain that façade.
I didn’t care. This was a competition, and I had my own battle to fight.
The venue was abuzz with media activity.
Reporters flocked around the favorites, microphones and cameras capturing every word, every expression.
I, on the other hand, was ignored.
No one knew who I was; to them, I was just another nameless contestant, a rookie who wouldn’t make a headline.
I didn’t mind the anonymity.
10:33
The Luna Marked with Lies The Queen Crowned hy Revenge
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In fact, I welcomed it.
If allowed me to move through the crowd unnoticed, a shadow among the lights.
I overheard a reporter not far away, her voice enthusiastic as she reported. “There are rumors that the daughter of piano master Orlando Martini also participating in this year’s competition, but she remains elusive. It’s still unclear which contestant might be the one.”
A smile tugged at the corner of my lips as I walked past her, my identity still a secret.
I was glad for that. The pressure of living up to the name Orlando Martin was immense.
It was easier to compete when no one expected anything from you.
The competition was structured in three stages: the preliminary round, the rematch, and the final.
I had already navigated through the preliminary and rematch stages successfully.
Reaching the final was an achievement in itself, as only the best made it this far.
Out of the hundreds who entered the preliminary round, only seven of us had made it to this city, Serevia, to compete in the final.
This competition was known for its rigor, and in the last six iterations, no one had claimed the championship.
The title had remained vacant for twenty–four years.
This year, everyone was eager to see if someone would finally break that streak.
The draw placed me as the sixth performer.
I sat in the lounge area, waiting for my turn, my heart pounding steadily against my ribs.
The judges were all figures I had seen in books or on TV–legends in their own right.
And sitting in the center of the panel, with his usual stoic expression, was my father, Orlando Martin.
“In a flash, it’s been twenty–four years,” Rolin, who sat beside me, said softly, his tone tinged with nostalgia.
“Do you know who the last person to win this competition was? It was your father, Orlando Martin. He was just a young man then, but that victory launched his career into the stratosphere.”
I nodded, recalling the images I had seen of him from that time.
