Vajda

Stella let out a tiny gasp. “Oh! It’s that Vajda guy!”

She was pointing at the studio TV, where contestant number 87 had just stepped into frame. Elvys Eilish stood tall in the center of the audition stage, shoulders squared, beard majestic, eyes fierce enough to part clouds.

Fifty didn’t even blink. His eyes were locked on the screen with laser focus, as if Vajda’s soul might whisper answers through the pixels.

“I wonder what Uncle Elvys is about to say,” he murmured, chin resting on his fist.

Stella did a double take. “Uncle?”

“Yeah, I call him that, but he’s not, like, immediate family. It gets complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“Well…” He scratched the back of his head. “Romani families cherish tradition. And community. So within a city, families settle close. Before you know it, everyone’s a distant relative somehow. Even if the only thing you share is a great-grandfather.”

“That sounds… cozy. But that could happen in any families, not just Romani, right?”

“Sure. It’s also why you have to triple-check before dating anyone. You never know who shares a bloodline until your grandmother screams about it at a wedding.”

She laughed, but her eyes sparkled with something more curious than amused.

“Tell me,” she said, voice suddenly soft. “Are you planning to marry a Romani girl someday?”

Fifty glanced at her. The way she said it wasn’t teasing. Not really. But it came wrapped in a ribbon of something just short of nervousness.

“Why?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “You gonna be jealous?”

“Furious, even,” she declared with mock drama, flinging one leg over the armrest of the couch. “I’ll light candles in my name and pretend I’m fine.”

He chuckled. “To tell you the truth, I—”

“Shhh!” She slapped his arm, eyes wide. “He’s speaking!”

Fifty looked back at the screen, and just like that, the teasing tone between them melted into reverence.

Elvys stood before the judges, not fidgeting like so many before him. His presence was calm, dignified. When he opened his mouth to speak, even Madam of Maybes stopped massaging her crystal ball and sat straighter in her chair.

And for a brief moment, the only sound in the break room was the hum of the old TV—and the heartbeat Fifty didn’t realize he’d been holding in his throat.

“My name is Elvys Eilish,” he began calmly, “and I am a respected Vajda of Shintawa and its nearby regions.”

Madam of Maybes shot up from her chair like she’d been electrocuted.

“No!” she shrieked, pointing an accusatory finger. “Stay away, devil! This man cannot be allowed to pursue the title of Gypsy King!”

Victor choked on his water and scrambled to pull her back into her seat, whispering furiously.

“What are you doing, old hag?! This man is supposed to pass!”

“You dare defy prophecy, you servant of devils?” she growled, resisting.

Producer Fate didn’t move a muscle. His hands were folded, lips pursed, eyes blank. He knew better than to speak when the circus was in full swing.

Meanwhile, Elvys didn’t flinch. He simply placed his hands behind his back and waited for the hysteria to pass.

“I assure you,” he said with calm dignity, “I am no devil. Just a working man. A husband. A leader who’s trying to be the best version of himself for those who believe in him.”

Back in the break room, Fifty gritted his teeth and pointed at the screen.

“That Babble-Yaga probably found out about our connection. Now she won’t let Uncle Elvys pass just to get at me!”

Stella crossed her legs and studied the screen thoughtfully.

“Technically,” she said, tapping her lip, “you might be wrong. Madam of Maybes is acting a little too ridiculous. She didn’t explode like this for the shirtless accordion guy.”

Fifty blinked. “You think she’s faking it?”

She shrugged. “My hunch? She’s testing how bad he wants it.”

Onscreen, Marshall Fate subtly shifted under the desk, delivering a familiar shin-kick to Madam of Maybes.

She didn’t flinch.

Fate narrowed his eyes. The usual puppet was cutting her strings.

“So you chose to make the Vajda feel like he earned it,” he muttered, too low for cameras to pick up. “Well played, Madam.”

She continued her act, eyes blazing with faux fury.

“What does an old devil like you want with a poor white girl?!” she bellowed.

Elvys didn’t miss a beat.

“I am happily married,” he replied. “I need neither another wife nor a girlfriend. If I win, I will set her free. And I will make sure she is happy.”

Madam gasped dramatically, clutching her shawl like he’d just confessed to alchemy.

“You think a white girl has been waiting for someone like you to save her?!”

Elvys’ jaw tensed. His voice, however, remained soft.

“I don’t. There are better men out there for that. But I still want to fight. I want to show people that it’s never too late to dream. And once I am Gypsy King, I will ensure that our youth have a future they believe in.”

The air in the studio shifted. Even the cameras seemed to lean in.

Without a word, Madam of Maybes reached into her shawl, palmed a slender nail, and under the cover of her next dramatic gasp, cracked her crystal ball.

A subtle fissure split the orb. Nobody noticed.

“Ah!” she cried. “The darkness is leaving him! My crystal ball now sees no shadows! Your sincerity… it has moved the heavens!”

She snatched her paddle from under the desk and held it high.

ACCEPTED!

Confetti didn’t fall, but it might as well have.

The second official finalist had been chosen.

Once the cameras cut, Victor leaned in toward Madam of Maybes.

“What the hell was that?”

She smiled slyly, adjusting the shawl.

“Who knows? Maybe I just felt like giving him a little push.”

Back in the break room, Fifty collapsed onto the couch like a soldier returning from war. He groaned as his body met the cushions, limbs spreading like he was trying to merge with the furniture.

“She let him pass,” he muttered, still staring at the now-muted television like it had personally betrayed him.

Stella, curled on the opposite end of the couch like it was her throne, arched one brow, legs tucked beneath her and phone lazily bouncing on her knee.

“What does that mean for me though?” she asked, faux-innocent. “Am I supposed to prepare for a retirement home romance now?”

“You heard the man,” Fifty said, not bothering to sit up. “He doesn’t want to marry you. Happily married. Big speech. Very wholesome.”

She sighed dramatically and flopped her head back. “Oh, please. Look at this baby face.” She gestured to herself with a flourish. “Once he gets his prize, he’ll drop his wife and take me home like I’m some designer souvenir.”

Fifty cracked a tired grin. “Still a better life than with your dad, right?”

“Ha!” Stella sat up, pointing at him like he’d just delivered a punchline she didn’t know she needed. “You got that right.”

Fifty stood with a sigh, stretching his back like a man preparing for a judo match. He adjusted the cushion behind him with a final pat, as if leaving it in good hands.

“Well,” he said, forcing a grin, “it was nice chatting with you, but I’m up soon. Better head back downstairs before someone steals my spotlight—or my snacks.”

Stella’s gaze followed him to the door. “Hey,” she called, her voice softening just enough to sound like it mattered. “Don’t let her fail you.”

Fifty paused, hand on the doorknob. He looked back over his shoulder, smirk cracking through the nerves.

“I won’t lose,” he said. “Not to her. Not to anyone.”

Then he opened the door and walked out—shoulders squared, heart racing, and destiny waiting just a few floors below.

Chapter 7: END