The Prophecy

Fifty took the stairwell slowly, one hand trailing along the cold railing as if he could slow time by dragging his fingers through it.

A familiar shape stepped into view.

“Uncle Elvys!” Fifty perked up, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Congratulations on becoming the second finalist,” Fifty clapped him on the back.

Elvys gave a quiet, approving grunt. “Thank you, son. Even if the whole thing was rigged from the start, I’ll admit—that fortune-teller made the victory feel less hollow.”

Fifty laughed. “Yeah, she’s a scamming witch but sometimes it seems she can be a decent human being.”

Elvys chuckled low in his chest, then his face turned thoughtful. “She made me realize something.”

Fifty raised a brow.

“Now that I’ve passed the preliminaries,” Elvys said, voice steady, “I can’t just play the wise elder card anymore. I have to earn it from here. For the kids watching. For the community. For myself. So despite what I said before—I’m aiming to become the Gypsy King for real this time.”

Fifty's eyes lit up with something between admiration and the thrill of impending battle. “That makes us rivals, then.”

Elvys cracked the faintest smile. “I was already seeing you as one.”

With that, Elvys patted his shoulder once and continued up the stairs, leaving Fifty alone again.

The grin on Fifty’s face lingered a second longer, then slowly faded as he caught sight of a tall mirror mounted at the landing.

He stepped closer.

There he was: same tracksuit, same messy curls, same tired eyes.

He stared at himself in the mirror.

Then, without warning, he pointed directly at his reflection.

“You deserve to sit,” he said firmly.

The mirror didn’t flinch.

“You will sit. You will be the best sitter in the world. They will beg you to sit in their chairs. Thrones. Benches. Bar stools. You will own furniture.”

He raised his voice slightly, as if trying to convince not just himself, but every atom in the stairwell.

“You can do this. You—” he jabbed the mirror one last time, “—are going to sit!”

A soft cough made him freeze. He turned his head slowly.

A crew member—probably an intern, no older than twenty and carrying two mic packs and a half-eaten protein bar—stood at the top of the stairs, wide-eyed and utterly baffled.

Ashamed and red-faced, Fifty practically bolted down the hall. He didn’t stop until he reached the waiting room where the other contestants were still clumped together in nervous silence or too-cool posturing.

Fifty didn’t say a word. He just found an empty spot, leaned back in his chair, and focused on his breathing.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the wall, chaos had chosen a new plaything.

“Before we ask you anything else…” Madam of Maybes narrowed her eyes like she was trying to remember if she’d seen him in a dream or a cautionary tale. “Would you care to explain why a gádžo like you is auditioning for a Romani title?”

The boy flinched. He hadn’t expected it so direct. He shifted from one foot to the other, clutching his laminated number like a life raft.

“I—I grew up with Romani friends,” he stammered. “In my neighborhood, we did everything together. Slept over, shared food, celebrated name days. I—I feel like one of you.”

Victor winced. He could smell the naïve optimism. Marshall looked up from his notes just long enough to register the incoming train wreck, then looked back down. “This is the third time a white person auditioned, what is this?” He murmured.

Madam of Maybes made a sound that was somewhere between a chuckle and a curse.

“Woohooo!” she trilled, throwing her shawl over one shoulder like she was about to cast a hex. “You feel Romani in your heart, yes? But that doesn’t make it so! This is not Halloween, boy! Get lost and never come back!”

She raised her arms like a gothic traffic officer guiding him to the nearest exit.

To the contestant’s credit, he didn’t argue. He gave a slight bow, muttered something about respecting the culture, and shuffled offstage.

Victor turned to Madam and whispered, “Maybe tone it down just a—”

“I am the tone,” she hissed, eyes glowing with dramatic satisfaction.

And then... the silence hit.

The room shifted.

Because now, it was time.

Victor checked the monitor. Marshall perked up. Madam cracked her neck.

“Number one-oh-two,” the stagehand called down the hallway.

Fifty Mirga stood, adjusted his number, gave one last sigh like he was about to walk into battle—and then stepped through the door that could either crown him or crush him.

He didn’t know what was waiting on the other side, but he knew one thing.

He had to prevail.

As soon as Madam of Maybes laid eyes on the boy stepping onto the audition floor, her lips curled like she'd just caught the scent of wet carpet and shame.

“You?” she scoffed, waving a hand like she was swatting a mosquito. “You’re no Gypsy King material. Next!”

The words cut across the studio like a chalk squeak. But Fifty didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink.

Victor leaned back in his chair, one brow raised, barely able to hide his grin. He had been waiting for this. He knew exactly how this was going to go.

Marshall Fate, on the other hand, merely frowned and adjusted his tie like it was personally offended by the turn of events. He did invite this kid back when the show was in its desperate birth throes and nobody was applying. But now? They had a full cast. Who cared if a kid who looked like a haunted math student didn’t make the cut?

Then came the voice—casual, cocky, dangerous.

“Oh, really?” Fifty asked, his tone light, nearly amused. “That’s surprising. You are the greatest fortune-teller in the country, aren’t you? Or did I confuse you with someone else? Hard to tell with the wart on your nose switching sides all the time.”

The camera crew snorted. Victor nearly choked on his coffee.

Madam of Maybes narrowed her eyes into slits. “What are you plotting, brat?”

Fifty shrugged. “Plotting? Nothing. I’m just confused. Because, unless I’m hallucinating from the odor your turban gives off, I could’ve sworn you once said I was destined to become the greatest Romani in history.”

“I never said such a preposterous thing about the likes of you,” she hissed.

“No?” he tilted his head. “Because I distinctly remember something about being branded the next Gypsy King. You know—fate, legacy, divine stuff, all very dramatic.”

Her grip on the table tightened. She said nothing.

“I mean,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself now, “it’s just odd. If I’m a nobody to you, why did my mom have to hand you five thousand crowns?”

That did it.

“That was because my prophecy about you cracked my crystal ba—”

She stopped.

The silence was glorious.

Even the lighting guy froze mid-pan.

Madam of Maybes realized too late she’d just walked into the trap. She had admitted to knowing him. Admitted there was a prophecy. Admitted the orb broke because of him.

Cornered.

But then something shifted behind her eyes. Her expression morphed from panic to inspiration, the way con artists often did when they saw a path back to profit.

“He’s trying to expose me,” she thought. “But he’s... he’s building me a stage! This boy is promoting my hustle!”

“Wahahaha!” she suddenly bellowed, springing from her seat like a dancer from the birthday cake. “Mr. Fate, I was momentarily possessed by the Spirit of Truth! A rare spiritual condition that only occurs when a sacred crystal ball is cracked by chaotic prophecy!”

Marshall looked like he’d just swallowed a cactus. Victor applauded politely.

“I couldn’t see it before,” she cried, placing a hand dramatically on her chest. “But now! The signs are clear! This boy—this precious čhavo—is the one the legends whisper about! The chosen one! The future Gypsy King!”

Fifty’s smile crept back in slow and smug.

“I propose,” Madam of Maybes declared, sweeping her shawl with flair, “a weeklong break! My crystal orb must be healed through sacred ritual. Only then can I judge fairly. But until that time…” She paused, milking the drama.

“You’re accepted, Fifty Mirga!”

Fifty’s face turned into an annoying smirk giving off the sense of satisfaction.

“I didn’t even say my full name when I walked in.”

Chapter 8: END