The Carnival of Collapse pulsed.
Not from light. Not from sound. Not from mirrors or floating stages.
It pulsed from him.
Lorien Vale walked down a spiral of fractured marble, each step echoing faintly, unevenly. The chime of his bells was off, a subtle tremor in the air that no one but him could perceive.
Seris Vael's violet eyes were wide. Master… the realm it's… unstable.
Lorien stopped. Tilted his head. The crack in his mask ran deep now, veins of red pulsing faintly beneath the porcelain. His hand hovered over it, as if touching his own heart.
Unstable he murmured softly, almost human. Or alive
The Carnival shifted beneath his feet. Platforms twitched like nervous dancers. Stages rose and fell hesitantly. Mirrors warped, reflecting possibilities that had never existed: pain, betrayal, endings yet to come.
Gravemire leaned forward, teeth clicking. Sir… you feel it too, don't you The cracks
Lorien's smile widened but it did not reach his eyes. Yes. I feel the hurt of every step every failure every betrayal that built me.
Eidryn's whisper floated from a nearby platform: The audience is reacting to you, not the performance.
He turned to them slowly, voice low, bitter, almost heavy with truth. "Exactly. They do not laugh at the show. They laugh at the fool who bled before the stage existed. They fear him or they mourn him or both. And I..I am all of those things.
The Carnival reacted violently. Colors bled into one another. Mirrors shattered and reformed as jagged, floating shards. Platforms spun unpredictably, forcing Seris, Gravemire, and Eidryn to scramble just to maintain their balance.
For the first time, his own performers were at risk.
He paused mid-step. A flicker of doubt trembled across his movements not weakness, but calculation. Pain turned to control. Every fragment of the Carnival became weapon, shield, and message.
Then he spoke aloud. His voice rang across all planes:
Do you see it Do you see how fragile everything becomes when the core is broken
The mirrors pulsed violently, showing scenes from Arenthia's execution, Kaelen's Third Ascension, even Lyssara's silent judgment. Each reflection showed a different Lorien: laughing, crying, screaming, pleading… surviving.
A ripple of long-buried tears flickered across the eyes behind his mask. He pressed a hand to his chest. One bell rang. Sharp. Painful.
The Carnival froze for a heartbeat.
And then he smiled again. Not theatrical. Not amused. Cruel. Jagged. Terrifyingly honest.
If I am broken, he said softly, then everything I touch breaks too. And yet the world still expects me to entertain it.
His voice softened, a whisper only Lyssara or perhaps the universe itself could hear:
I will never heal.
I will never forgive.
And I will never stop smiling.
He laughed.
The sound rippled across dimensions. Platforms warped into blades. Mirrors reflected attacking versions of Kaelen Dorne. Shadows of the gods swirled at the edges of the Carnival.
But Lorien's eyes… the eyes behind the cracked mask burned with something colder than fury.
Focus. Calculation. Pain. Perfection.
Every gesture. Every jest. Every mockery from this moment forward was no longer entertainment.
It was a weapon forged from his broken core.
And for the first time, even his own performers realized:
The Sovereign of the Final Act wasn't just dangerous.
He was inevitable.