When the person Kamigawa was waiting for most returns to the plane… What else are people to do but sing and dance?
—
Kamigawa was loud in a way Xenagos had not expected.
Not merely loud with music, though there was plenty of that. Not merely loud with voices, wheels, engines, shrines, prayers, commerce, steel, and neon light, though all of those crowded the air together until the plane seemed to hum even when standing still.
No, Kamigawa was loud with contrast.
Old wood beneath glowing signs. Paper lanterns beside holographic advertisements. Samurai walking past roaring motorcycles. Shrine gates framed by data-streams. Spirits flickering in the alleys while drones zipped overhead like metal insects.
Xenagos loved it immediately.
He moved through Towashi in a borrowed shape, horns hidden beneath a ridiculous wide-brimmed hat, goat legs disguised under layered performer’s robes, smiles softened into something less divine and more marketable.
He was not here to start a riot.
Not yet at least.
He was here to learn more about this place, since it was too different from all the worlds he had previously visited.
Theros knew how to worship gods and party. Naya knew how to roar deep into every jungle. Thunder Junction knew how to drink... a lot. Strixhaven, apparently, was home to many students who needed to just blow off steam.
But Kamigawa...
Kamigawa was different. It was like Kamigawa's biggest strength was to spread an idea.
Everywhere he looked, someone was watching something. Screens on walls. Illusions in glass. Moving images suspended above crowded streets. A joke made in one district traveled to another in moments. A song from a tiny club became the chorus of an entire avenue before the singer had finished the second verse.
Xenagos wandered until night settled fully over Towashi and the city became a living river of colored light.
Then he saw the crowd.
Hundreds, perhaps thousands, gathered beneath an enormous public screen. It was the strangest sight to him. They were not praying, nor were they kneeling. Nor were they sacrificing bulls, pouring wine, or invoking any god’s name.
And yet...
Their faces shone.
Their hands waved in perfect rhythm, each holding a glowing baton of pink, blue, gold, and green. Their voices rose together, screaming names, repeating phrases, singing along with figures dancing on the massive display above them.
The performers were bright, polished, smiling things. Every gesture mattered. Every wink struck the crowd like lightning. Every sung note sent waves through the people below.
Xenagos stopped walking.
For several long moments, he simply watched.
A girl on the screen lifted one hand.
Thousands lifted theirs back.
She laughed.
Thousands laughed with her.
She sang one line and let the crowd answer.
They did. Immediately. Desperately. Joyously.
Xenagos slowly lowered the cup he had been drinking from.
“Oh,” he murmured.
The crowd screamed again.
The screen flashed brighter.
The performers bowed, and the people below chanted their names as if the words themselves were a feast.
Xenagos’ smile widened.
“Oh, are girls like this really that dangerous?”
Another pause.
Then his eyes gleamed.
“I need one.”
—
The Imperial palace was not loud in the same way.
It was quieter. More controlled. Its beauty came from restraint, from polished floors and careful gardens, from old oaths spoken beneath new lights. Even the machines here seemed to hum respectfully.
Then reality split open in the center of the receiving hall.
A white-haired woman stepped through.
One moment, the court was engaged in the solemn business of governance.
The next, the Wanderer stood before them, one hand already near the hilt of her blade, cloak settling around her shoulders as if the Blind Eternities had only just released her.
For one breath, nobody moved.
Then half the room gasped.
A guard dropped to one knee so quickly his armor clattered against the floor.
“Your Majesty!”
An attendant covered her mouth with both hands. Another began crying before she seemed to realize she was doing it. Advisors rose from their cushions, shock breaking through years of careful discipline.
The Wanderer’s eyes swept the chamber.
“This is Kamigawa,” she said, voice clear and controlled. “The palace.”
“Yes, Majesty,” one advisor breathed. “You have returned.”
“I did not choose to.”
That silenced them again.
The joy did not vanish, but caution threaded through it. The Wanderer straightened, expression sharpening. She had learned long ago not to trust any arrival she had not intended.
“Who brought me here?”
A cough sounded near the back of the room.
Not a nervous cough.
A theatrical one.
The crowd shifted as a satyr stepped forward.
He wore layered clothing that looked like someone had described noble Kamigawan fashion to a festival performer and then let him improvise. His smile was warm, his bow almost proper, and his eyes carried exactly the right amount of apologetic charm.
“That would be me, Your Majesty.”
Several guards immediately moved between him and the Wanderer.
The satyr lifted both hands.
“Peace, peace. I promise, if I had known I was about to summon the emperor herself, I would have worn something with fewer tassels.”
The Wanderer regarded him without smiling.
“Name yourself.”
“The name is Xenon,” he said, bowing again. “Traveling talent scout, occasional magician, professional maker of excellent accidents.”
“This was an accident?”
“Technically,” Xenon said. “A successful accident.”
One guard’s hand tightened on his weapon.
Xenon wisely continued.
“I have a spell. A harmless one. It calls the person whose voice the people nearby most deeply wish to hear. I use it to find performers. Singers, storytellers, hidden talents, that sort of thing.” He glanced around the court, softening his tone. “I expected to summon some famous singer from the city. Maybe a beloved poet. Perhaps a shrine musician with a secret following.”
His gaze returned to the Wanderer.
“I did not expect Kamigawa’s most desired voice to be yours.”
The words settled over the room.
The Wanderer’s expression did not change much, but something in her eyes did.
Around her, the court looked at one another with dawning hope.
An older advisor stepped forward, voice careful. “You are saying the spell brought her because the people wished for her return?”
“For her voice,” Xenon corrected gently. “Though in this case, that seems to be much the same thing.”
The Wanderer studied him.
“If your spell brought me once, can it do so again?”
Xenon smiled. “Yes.”
The room erupted and Xenon looked genuinely shocked.
A guard shouted in triumph. An attendant sobbed openly. Someone laughed so hard it turned into a hiccup. The older advisor sank back onto his cushion as if his knees had forgotten how to continue.
The Wanderer stood at the center of it all, still and upright, but the severity in her face softened.
For years, her spark had dragged her across worlds without warning. She had vanished from council meetings, from ceremonies, from crises, from quiet moments where she had wanted nothing more than to stay. And returning had never been something she could simply choose. Most of the time, Kamigawa was a distant ache beyond her reach, a home she could only hope to stumble back into by miracle or luck.
And now this impossible, ridiculous satyr claimed he could call her home.
She looked at Xenon again.
“If this is true,” she said, “Kamigawa owes you a great debt.”
Xenon pressed one hand to his chest.
“Then I accept payment in gratitude, hospitality, and possibly whatever drink your court considers too strong for visitors.”
A few people laughed.
The Wanderer almost did.
Almost.
“Very well,” she said. “Tonight, you will be honored as a guest of the palace.”
The room cheered again.
Xenon bowed low enough to hide his smile.
—
The celebration began as a formal banquet.
It did not remain one.
At first, there were speeches, measured toasts, and careful expressions of relief. Musicians played old court pieces. Servants moved with quiet precision between rows of guests. The Wanderer sat in a place of honor and listened with dignified patience while advisor after advisor expressed joy at her return.
Then someone brought stronger drinks.
Then someone else requested a livelier song.
Then a guard who had clearly forgotten that he was still on duty shouted, “To the spell that brought her back!” and the entire hall drank.
After that, restraint began losing ground.
Neon lanterns were hung in the gardens. Musicians moved outside. Holographic koi swam through the air above the ponds. Courtiers who had spent years perfecting subtle smiles began laughing like ordinary people. Younger attendants taught older officials how to wave light sticks. Several samurai pretended not to enjoy it, with extremely limited success.
The Wanderer watched it all with a cup in her hand.
She should have excused herself.
There were matters to discuss. Security to confirm. Questions to ask Xenon. Ways this spell could be abused. Ways it could be protected.
But every time she looked at the faces around her, she delayed a little longer.
They were so happy... and all because she was here.
That was harder to leave than she wished to admit.
“Your Majesty?”
She turned.
Xenon stood beside her, holding two cups and wearing the cautious expression of a man about to ask for something he knew was foolish.
“Yes?”
He offered one cup. She accepted it.
“I was wondering,” he said, “whether I might ask a small favor.”
Her brow lifted.
“You already have the gratitude of the court.”
“Oh, I know. Lovely stuff, gratitude. Very filling.” He took a sip. “But, as I mentioned, I am a talent scout. Specifically, an idol talent scout.”
The Wanderer stared at him.
“I am not certain I know what that means in your mouth.”
“That is fair.”
“Nor am I certain I want to.”
“That is also fair.”
Despite herself, she gave him the faintest smile.
Xenon brightened as if he had won a battle.
“I travel looking for voices that can move a crowd. My spell was meant for that. I absolutely understand that I cannot recruit the emperor of Kamigawa. I may be ambitious, but I am not suicidal.”
“A wise choice.”
“But since the spell chose you, I have to ask. Only as a favor. Only as a harmless test.” He gestured toward a small performance platform now being adjusted by several enthusiastic attendants. “Would Your Majesty dare to sing a single song?”
The Wanderer froze.
“No.”
“Oh wow. I got shut down quickly.”
“I am not a singer.”
“Most people are not until the music starts.”
“As the emperor I represent the dignity of my entire country at all times. I truly apologize again, but I simply can not act like a regular country girl, not even for a moment.”
"That is entirely fair and understandable. And in every other situation, I would just let up instantly, call this a dumb idea and move on." Xenon nodded, then looked intensely at the Wanderer. "But I want you to think of the situation this way for a moment."
The wanderers eyes narrowed, but she remained silent.
“My magic can only summon the person whose voice the people most long to hear. Bringing you here was a miracle, yes, but also a very lucky one. A moment like this may not happen the same way twice.” Xenon’s tone softened. “So I would like to test something. Nothing grand. Two songs, perhaps three at most. Just karaoke, surrounded by the advisors and guards you trust most. You may even tell them exactly what I told you: that this is not a performance for vanity, but a way to strengthen the connection my spell followed. If your people hear your voice, remember it, and carry that longing clearly… then perhaps the next time Kamigawa calls, I can find you more easily. What do you say?”
The Wanderer looked toward the platform.
A few nearby attendants had heard enough to become visibly excited. One guard was already whispering to another. The news spread with terrifying speed.
“Our empress is singing?” someone asked.
“I did not agree to this,” the Wanderer said at once.
The words came out sharper than intended.
Everyone quieted.
She exhaled slowly.
Xenon said nothing.
After a long pause, she finally sighed.
She straightened.
“One song,” she said.
The entire garden reacted as if she had promised a festival.
Xenon’s smile became unbearably pleased.
“Of course, Your Majesty. One song.”
—
The first song was an old one.
The Wanderer chose it because it was safe. A court melody. A song of lanterns on the river, of a traveler returning beneath pale moonlight, of a home that waited without resentment.
She stepped onto the platform with her hands folded before her.
The microphone charm floated near her mouth, glowing softly.
For a moment, she almost walked back down.
Then she saw them.
The court. The guards. The attendants. People who had waited through every disappearance and welcomed every return without knowing how long they would have her. She knew she couldn't back out of this.
So she sang.
At first, her voice was exactly what they expected from her. She sounded controlled, steady and refined. She did not perform so much as offer the song. Each word was precise. Each note carried discipline.
The garden fell silent.
Even the drunk guard with the light stick lowered it slowly.
The Wanderer kept her gaze forward, but she could feel the room changing around her. The song was not technically difficult. She knew that. She had no illusions of being a trained performer.
But the people listened as though every note mattered.
Her voice warmed up.
She didn't become louder, but rather her voice just seemed to fill more and more with emotion.
It simply became easier.
The next phrase left her chest with a resonance she did not remember possessing. The floating charm glowed orange-red. The stage lights softened around her. Her sleeves stirred in a breeze that did not touch anyone else.
She continued.
The song reached the verse about the traveler seeing home again.
Someone in the crowd sniffed.
Someone else began quietly crying.
The Wanderer nearly faltered.
Instead, her voice gentled.
She sang the final lines not as an emperor addressing subjects, but as someone who understood what it meant to be away too long.
The last note hung over the garden.
Silence followed.
Then applause crashed over her.
It startled her so much that she took half a step back.
The court stood. Guards cheered. Attendants clapped with tears on their faces. Even the severe old advisor who had once corrected her posture during a ceremony was wiping his eyes with his sleeve.
The Wanderer bowed because she did not know what else to do.
When she left the stage, Xenon was waiting with a cup.
“That,” he said, “I don't even know what to add to that. That was fantastic.”
“It was a simple song.”
“If that was just a simple song,” he said. “then i want to hear what a complicated song sounds like with your voice.”
The Wanderer looked away. “They probably just applauded because I am their emperor.”
“You and I both know that that's not true,” Xenon said. “They applauded because, for a few minutes, you were right there with them much more than you have been for years. Touching their hearts like you never did before.”
She had no ready answer for that.
Instead she noticed that her sleeves felt lighter than before. The fabric had shifted somehow, white cloth now edged with faint red-orange feather patterns. Her ears felt oddly warm, and when she touched one, it seemed slightly longer.
She frowned.
Xenon followed her glance.
“What's this?” he asked easily. “Did the stage of Kamigawa enchant you as well?”
“No... I don't think that can be the case.”
She continued to feel her slightly off feeling ear, thinking what this could be.
But the crowd began chanting.
“One more! One more! One more!”
The Wanderer turned toward them.
She could feel the desires in their voices. They were so hopeful.
She sighed.
Then, softly, “One more.”
Xenon grinned and nodded. "One more it is."
—
The second song was not safe for an emperor to sing.
Xenon suggested something livelier, and the musicians, traitors that they were, knew exactly what he meant. The rhythm began with drums, then strings, then a bright electric pulse that sent the younger attendants into immediate cheers.
The Wanderer stood on the platform with the microphone charm hovering before her.
“This is faster than I expected,” she said.
Someone in the crowd shouted, “You can do it, Majesty!”
Another shouted, “We believe in you!”
A third, already too drunk, shouted, “Move the lanterns!”
The phrase caught. People laughed, then chanted it.
The Wanderer closed her eyes for one brief second.
Then she began.
The first lines were awkward. Not bad, exactly, but careful. She sang with the focused determination of someone defusing a bomb.
The crowd loved it anyway.
That helped.
She lifted one hand at the end of a phrase. The crowd screamed.
She blinked.
She tried a step to the side. More cheering.
A smile tugged at her mouth.
By the first chorus, she had begun moving with the beat.
Nothing too elaborate. A turn here. A gesture there. A small sweep of her arm that made the red-orange patterns on her sleeves glow like embers.
The crowd clapped along.
Her voice brightened.
“Again,” she sang, and the crowd answered the next line.
They were terrible.
Too loud, off-key, and completely unified.
The Wanderer laughed into the microphone.
The sound rippled through the garden like sparks through dry grass.
The rhythm caught everyone harder. Courtiers stood from their cushions. Guards clapped in time. A pair of attendants began dancing near the pond. The old advisor looked appalled by his own tapping foot.
The Wanderer saw it.
And something in her changed.
Not her body, though that was changing too.
Her robes shortened as she moved, layers drawing in and reshaping into something fitted, bright, and colorful. White remained, but red and orange ribbons unfurled from her hips and arms. Her legs lengthened beneath her, each step easier, more graceful, more certain. Her waist drew in. Her hips curved wider, giving her turns a sway that made the crowd roar. Her chest filled the newly forming bodice enough that she nearly missed a lyric when she noticed.
But the crowd cheered.
And the missed lyric became laughter.
And the laughter became part of the song.
Her ears stretched longer, curving outward with delicate feathered ridges. Small warm feathers brushed into existence along her shoulders and lower back.
She should have stopped.
She almost did.
Then she saw a stern captain of the guard waving a glowstick with the expression of a man defending his homeland.
The Wanderer burst out laughing again.
The chorus returned, and this time she owned it.
She pointed to the left side of the garden.
They sang back.
She pointed to the right.
They answered louder.
She spun, ribbons flaring, and shouted, “All of you!”
The entire palace sang.
The song ended not with formal applause but with screaming.
The Wanderer came down from the stage breathless, flushed, and smiling before she remembered to compose herself.
Xenon offered her another drink.
She took it and drank without thinking.
“That,” he said, “was very much something.”
She looked down at herself.
The outfit was unmistakably an idol costume now. White and fitted, trimmed in red and orange, with detached flowing sleeves, a short layered skirt, high-cut leg accents, and enough exposed skin to make several court traditions faint in horror.
She touched one of the feathered edges. It was sensitive and warm.
Her face flushed red from the feeling and maybe a little bit from the exhaustion and alcohol too.
The crowd was still chanting her name.
It made her voice softened when she spoke again.
“They looked happy.”
“They still do.”
“I have attended ceremonies my entire life,” she said. “I have received petitions. Given judgments. Led armies. Spoke before councils.” She looked back toward the stage. “None of it felt like that.”
Xenon leaned slightly closer.
“Because a ruler speaks for citizens. But a performer sings touches their souls.”
The Wanderer was quiet.
On the stage, the lights shifted again, warmer now, brighter. The floating screens used for court announcements flickered to life around the garden.
Xenon’s voice became gentle.
“One last song.”
She should have refused.
Instead, she asked, “What kind?”
His smile returned.
“The kind that makes them forget sitting still was ever an option.”
The Wanderer stared at him for a heartbeat.
Then she laughed freely like she never did before.
“Fine,” she said, and the word carried almost no imperial weight at all. “But if I embarrass myself, I am blaming you.”
“I accept this sacred burden.”
—
The third song did not begin inside the palace.
Not really.
It began on every screen Xenon’s magic could touch.
Across Towashi, public displays flickered. Advertisements glitched. News panels paused. Club walls, street monitors, station signs, and hovering projection boards all shimmered with red-orange static.
Then the palace stage appeared.
And there she was.
The Wanderer stepped forward under blazing lights, white hair shining, feathered ears framed by neon, idol costume glowing like festival fire.
The crowd in the palace screamed.
Across the city, people stopped walking.
The Wanderer looked out over the garden and, through the screens, far beyond it.
For the first time that night, she did not seem embarrassed.
She looked thrilled.
“Kamigawa!” she called.
The word rang through the palace, through Towashi, through every glowing screen Xenon had quietly stolen for the occasion.
“You waited so long to hear my voice.”
The crowd roared.
Her smile widened.
“So tonight, I want to hear yours!”
The music struck like fireworks.
Fast drums. Electric pulse. Festival bells. Strings cutting through the beat like wind over steel.
The Wanderer launched into the song as if she had been born for it.
She moved from the first note. No hesitation now. No careful testing. She danced across the stage, ribbons trailing, hair flying, legs carrying her in bright, confident steps. Every gesture pulled the crowd with her. Every turn made the screens flare.
Her voice had changed again.
It was still hers, but larger. Warmer. Sweeter. It slipped into the heart before the mind could decide whether to allow it.
A tired clerk watching from a late-night station smiled without knowing why.
A biker stopped at an intersection and began tapping the rhythm on his handlebars.
Two arguing merchants forgot the argument halfway through the chorus.
In the palace garden, the last remnants of formality dissolved.
The Wanderer sang of roads that never ended, of lanterns carried into strange skies, of homes that could be found wherever music answered. The words should have sounded impossible.
Instead, they sounded like freedom.
A pressure built between her shoulder blades.
She felt it during the second chorus, sharp and bright, like light gathering under her skin.
For one breath, her voice trembled.
Xenon stood at the side of the stage, watching.
Waiting for the explosive moment.
Then the pressure surged.
The Wanderer threw her head back and sang higher.
Red-orange light burst from her back.
The crowd gasped.
Feathers unfolded in a blazing arc, first small, then enormous, spreading wider and wider until two great wings stretched behind her like sunset made flesh. They did not tear the costume. They completed it. Gold-neon lines raced through the feather patterns, turning each wingbeat into a flash of living stage light.
The Wanderer hovered for half a second above the platform.
Then she landed in perfect rhythm.
The garden exploded.
She laughed into the song, and that laughter went everywhere.
Through palace walls.
Through screens.
Through speakers.
Through hearts.
Nobody who heard it could remain sour. Grumpy faces cracked. Stiff shoulders loosened. The desire to sit politely became absurd. Even the old advisor stood, slowly, then raised both hands and clapped above his head like a man surrendering to history.
The Wanderer saw him and nearly missed another line from sheer delight.
But missing no longer mattered.
The crowd filled it in.
Her crowd.
Her fans.
Her revelers.
The final transformation swept through her with the last chorus. Her hips settled into their full, generous curve. Her waist narrowed. Her legs became long, strong, and made for dancing from stage to stage across worlds. Her chest filled the bodice with a graceful, eye-catching weight. Her feathered ears flicked outward, elegant and expressive. Her wings beat once, scattering warm sparks that became tiny holographic feathers over the audience.
And her thoughts opened.
She had spent so long fearing the pull of her spark.
Dragged away.
Torn from home.
Always leaving.
Always returning too late.
But what if wandering was not a curse?
What if every world was a stage?
What if every arrival was an opening note?
What if every crowd, every tavern, every palace, every street, every battlefield after victory, every lonely room that needed laughter, every stubborn heart that refused to dance...
What if all of them were waiting for a song?
The name came to her with the certainty of music.
Xenagos.
God of the revel.
God of the roar beneath applause.
The one who had shown her that a voice could do what a throne could not.
She did not fall into devotion like a prisoner.
She rose into it like the final chorus.
The song ended.
For a heartbeat, Kamigawa held its breath.
The Wanderer stood center stage, wings spread, chest rising, face flushed with joy.
Then she lifted the microphone charm.
“Kamigawa!”
The answer shook the palace.
She laughed, bright and breathless.
“Your empress has returned!”
Cheers.
Her grin turned playful, almost wicked in its excitement.
“But tonight, I found a bigger stage!”
The crowd screamed louder.
She looked toward Xenon.
For the first time, she saw him clearly.
Not just the satyr. Not just the scout. Something behind the smile. Something divine, laughing, waiting, proud.
Her wings fluttered.
Then she turned back to the crowd and shouted with all the joy in her new voice:
“I am the Winged Wandering Idol of Xenagos! Wherever there are parties, there will be my songs!”
For one stunned moment, the name was new.
Then the crowd repeated it.
“Xenagos!”
“Xenagos!”
“Xenagos!”
Again, louder, spreading from the palace to the streets, from the streets to the screens, from the screens to the city’s glowing veins.
“Xenagos! Xenagos! Xenagos!”
Xenon stood at the edge of the stage and bowed his head, hiding a smile sharp enough to split the night.
—
The palace did not calm down after that.
It became impossible to remember why anyone had expected it to.
Music spilled through the gardens. Guards danced with attendants. Nobles sang badly and did not care. The old advisor, after losing a brief battle with dignity, requested a light stick of his own and held it with grave importance.
At the center of it all, the Winged Wandering Idol of Xenagos bounced on the balls of her feet, wings twitching every time someone chanted for another song.
She had once stood like a blade.
Now she moved like music could not leave her body alone.
Xenon approached her near the stage steps.
“Well,” he said, “I think that went quite well, don't you think?”
She spun toward him, eyes bright.
“Acceptably? Xenon, they were amazing!”
His brow lifted.
“Were they now?”
“Yes!” She gestured wildly toward the crowd. “Did you hear them during the bridge? They came in early, but honestly, it was kind of perfect, and the right side was louder than the left, so next time we have to split them better, and the screens—wait, how many screens was that?”
“A few.”
Her eyes narrowed playfully.
“That was not a few.”
“A generous few.”
She laughed again, then leaned closer, voice dropping into excited conspiracy. “Can we do it again?”
“The song?”
“The performance. The broadcast. All of it.” Her wings spread halfway, feathers trembling with eagerness. “Not just here. Other districts. Other planes. Oh, there are so many places that have never heard anything like this, aren’t there?”
Xenon’s smile softened into something almost fond.
“There are countless places in the Multiverse that have never heard your voice.”
“That is terrible,” she said immediately.
“Tragic.”
“We have to fix that.”
“Clearly.”
She clasped her hands around the microphone charm as if it were a sacred relic.
“I used to hate not knowing where I would go next,” she admitted. “It felt like being stolen from everyone.”
For a moment, the old Wanderer flickered through her face.
Then the new smile returned, warmer and brighter than before.
“But now? If I vanish, I just take the tour somewhere else.”
Xenon chuckled.
“That is one way to look at it.”
“It is the best way to look at it.” She turned toward the crowd as they began chanting for an encore. Her whole body lit up at the sound. “Listen to them. How could I ever go back to just sitting still and looking serious all day?”
The chant grew louder.
“One more song! One more song!”
The Winged Wandering Idol of Xenagos bounced once, twice, practically glowing.
“Oh, I have to. I absolutely have to.”
“I would never dream of stopping you.”
She started back up the steps, then paused.
Her expression softened, not into imperial restraint, but into sincere, open joy.
“Thank you,” she said.
Xenon tilted his head.
“For what?”
“For bringing me home.” She smiled wider. “And for showing me I can bring the party with me when I leave.”
For once, Xenagos did not answer with a joke.
He simply bowed.
She ran back onto the stage.
The crowd erupted before she even reached the center.
Her wings spread wide. The screens flared back to life. Across Kamigawa, people looked up again as her face filled the city in white, red, and orange light.
She lifted the microphone charm and laughed.
“Alright, Kamigawa! You want another one?”
The answer was thunder.
She beamed like nothing in the Multiverse could have made her happier.
“Then sing with me!”
The music began again.
And the Wanderer, who had once been pulled from world to world by a spark she could not control, finally understood.
She had never been cursed to wander.
She had been born to tour.