The fire crackles, sending embers spiraling into the dark. First come the hunters, their bodies marked with ochre and ash. They drag their feet through the dust, circling the flames, with reverence, with hunger. They feel the heat of the fire on their faces and the sting of smoke in their noses. Then bone strikes wood, the sound echoing from deep within the cave, and their bodies awaken, limbs twisting to the tempo of the drums. The beat quickens. Muscles tense and they charge ahead. Skin bright with sweat, circling the fire again and again, yelling in unison between the beats, sharp calls that cut the air, each cry landing like a strike, urging the rhythm forward. The old one raises a gnarled hand, and suddenly it stops. Then the women emerge, carved bones swinging from their necks. They stomp their feet, heads thrown back, spines arching, every movement honed and deliberate. Shake. Stamp. Turn. Crouch. Leap.

Their shadows undulate in a wild procession across the cave wall, massive, distorted, sliding over the great charcoal buffalo. The beasts captured in the middle of a charge, great curved horns sweeping forward, every sinew etched with care. A man kneels in the corner, his fingers blackened with coal. He leans close, his nose almost touching the stone, his eyes narrowing. He cranes his head and studies the dancers, then turns around and traces their shapes below the great beasts. He's deepening the lines, smoothing the curves. His breath is steady, every stroke thoughtful and exacting. But something catches his eye and breaks his concentration.

A dancer with feathers in her hair breaks from the circle. Her feet strike the ground in the same spot, over and over, carving a shallow dent into the earth. Her arms swing in wide arcs, each movement mirroring the last. Drums quicken. Feet pound. The voices rise in chants that climb and fall with the flames, the fire blazing wild in their eyes, a hunger flickering from face to face. The rhythm doesn't stop, they dance until their bodies remember what their minds cannot explain. This is how they hold the hunt in their bones. This is how they honor what feeds them. This is how they become more than flesh, how they become one.

The cave breathes.

The fire dims and fades to black—

A spotlight carves Anna Pavlova out of the infinite darkness; the violins surge, their aetherial notes climbing higher and higher; weightless, she rises onto the very tips of her toes, barely touching the floor at all.

Spin.

Her arms form a perfect circle above her head, unwavering.

Spin.

Thirty-two fouettés, each one mathematically identical to the last.

Spin.

Her final revolution completes. She freezes. For one breath, absolute silence—

And the theater detonates in an explosion of roaring throats and striking hands, a shockwave rippling through thousands of bodies as they surge to their feet, a thunderous cascade crashing against the stage and washing over her perfectly still form.