Rain slicked the cobblestone streets as we stepped into the night, the gothic spires of the city clawing at a bruised sky. Astoria clung to my arm like an affectionate vine, her floral perfume cutting cleanly through the damp air—sweet at first, thorned beneath. Ariis followed a step behind, his trench coat shedding water in quiet rivulets, the scent of rain and musk clinging to him like a second skin.
I pulled Leonard's black coat tighter around myself. The fabric was heavy, soaked, luxurious. It felt like armor. I needed it to.
Circus tickets, I thought, sarcasm rising to blunt the unease gnawing at my spine. In a world where goddesses toyed with riddles and mirrors tried to evict my soul, this was apparently what passed for family bonding. Sure. A night out. Nothing could go wrong. Poisoned popcorn, perhaps. Or clowns with existential crises sharp enough to kill.
Astoria giggled and squeezed my arm. The sound carried an echo of Midnight—too light, too knowing.
"Isn't this exciting, Leonard? We haven't done something fun in ages."
Fun. Her idea of it probably involved shattered minds and summoned monstrosities.
Ariis's eyes scanned the alleys and rooftops. "Necessary distraction," he said flatly.
Whether it was reassurance or warning, I couldn't tell.
The big top rose ahead at the city's ragged edge, massive canvas striped in blood-red and black. Gold trim flaked from its edges, bells dangling from the peaks and chiming erratically in the wind. Posters curled and peeled, promising marvels that felt less like invitations and more like dares.
Crowds gathered thick around the entrance—masked nobles in silks brushing shoulders with commoners clutching cheap seats. Performers slipped between them in bright motley, smiles painted wide, eyes hollow.
Our tickets carried us upward, away from the press, into a private box draped in velvet and shadow. Whispers followed us in. Midnight's heirs. The blood heir, the fallen prince… and me. The wrong soul wearing the right face.
The smell struck first. Incense—heavy and cloying—layered over false sweetness and the sharp tang of magic. It clawed at old fear, too close to the memory of red smoke. Bells chimed constantly now, their innocence wearing thin.
The show began gently enough.
The ringmaster appeared in a tall hat, voice amplified by illusion, cracking a whip that split into light and color. Acrobats followed, soaring higher than physics allowed, bodies arcing gracefully through the air. One twisted wrong—bones cracking audibly—only to be reset by magic, limbs snapping back into place, smile never faltering.
The crowd cheered.
I shifted uneasily.
Fire-eaters took the ring next, flames blooming in controlled arcs. Some burned a striking azure hue. Ariis stiffened beside me, fingers tightening in his gloves.
"Amateurs," he said, though his gaze sharpened.
Beast tamers summoned shadowy tyrants, creatures of fang and smoke leashed by voice alone. Astoria hummed softly, her melody threading through the performance. A nearby noble laughed too hard, hysteria creeping into the sound. Ariis nudged her sharply, and she pouted.
"Just joining in," she said sweetly, clinging closer to me.
Then the jesters arrived.
Harlequin masks grinned wide, bells chiming sharper now, insistent. The lead jester called for volunteers, voice warped and playful. Riddles followed, easy at first, laughter rolling through the tent.
"What has keys but opens no doors?"
A piano. The answer came quickly, applause erupting.
The loser's smile lingered a moment too long. His eyes glazed, whispers crawling into his posture. My stomach tightened. I recognized that look. I had heard those whispers before.
As the act continued, my gaze caught symbols stitched subtly into costumes—marks from the old Bright Castle. Survivors. Or remnants. Or something worse.
Intermission was called. The crowd buzzed with restless excitement.
Astoria excused herself, giggling about powder and mirrors. Ariis leaned closer, ice-blue eyes boring into me.
"You're off," he said quietly. "Fighting earlier—wrong instincts. Or has it always been that way?"
Before I could answer, a shadow filled the entrance to our box.
He stood there like a cutout from a nightmare.
Zion.
Raven-black hair whipped by the wind that somehow reached this high. A massive black cape flowed like living darkness behind him. His white shirt hung half-tucked into dark trousers, casual and deliberate. Ornate white boots, laced with blue ribbons, caught the light. A skeletal-gloved hand rested on an elegant, massive sword whose presence hummed low, promising mercy or annihilation.
He bowed, mocking.
"Heirs of Midnight," he said. "Or what remains."
Ariis half-rose, azure fire flickering to life around his fingers. Astoria returned at that moment, eyes narrowing, a dangerous melody humming under her breath.
Zion's attention fixed on me.
"Leonard," he said softly. "Or the soul wearing his skin."
My heart slammed.
He knows.
I kept my voice level. "What do you want?"
The sword's hum deepened. "Solace. For the stolen. The Treasured Sword seeks its due. Your mother's sins still echo."
Vendetta, then. Another bloodline crushed beneath Midnight's rise.
Astoria laughed, sharp and bright. "Such pretty words. Such a pretty sword. Care to play?"
Zion ignored her, stepping closer.
The show resumed with a thunderous flourish.
The grand finale erupted across the ring—an illusion of the Terror of '49. Madness spiraled outward, whispers threading through the tent, visions blurring. Red smoke curled at the edges of my thoughts. A hallway. A ringing phone. The crowd stirred uneasily.
Then the illusion shattered.
The jesters tore off their masks.
Steel flashed. Bells became blades.
Assassins.
They lunged for our box.
Chaos broke loose.
Ariis surged forward, azure flames roaring to life. They didn't just burn flesh—they erased illusions, melted blades mid-flight, reduced magic to nothing.
"Stay behind," he ordered.
Astoria sang.
Her voice was beauty and horror entwined. Beasts answered, tyrant forms tearing through attackers. Minds shattered. Assassins turned on themselves, screaming, begging.
Shadows answered my call.
They coiled instinctively, stronger than before, slamming bodies into velvet and canvas. Power surged—and pain followed. Warmth trickled from my nose. A price. Always a price.
Zion moved.
His sword cleaved space cleanly, assassins falling in perfect halves. He passed close, blade grazing my coat deliberately.
"Not yet," he murmured. "The outsider must prove himself."
The lead jester collapsed, blood bubbling on his lips.
"The transmigrated soul disrupts the game," he croaked. "Midnight watches."
The tent tore as panic spread. Canvas split. Rain poured through in icy sheets, bells clanging in frantic chorus.
We fled into the alleys, breath ragged, rain washing blood into the gutters. Astoria clung tighter, her giggle cutting through the chaos. Ariis guarded our rear, flames lighting the dark.
At a sharp turn, he spun on me.
"You fight like someone who forgot his basics."
Suspicion burned in his eyes.
Astoria laughed lightly. "He's fine. Our Leonard."
But the scrutiny lingered.
Far behind us, a bell chimed once more.
I didn't know if it marked pursuit—
—or if it was simply her laughter, carried on the wind.