Page 20 of The Opening Act is Death
Always waiting.
But tonight…
My knife hesitates.
Twenty Six
Corvan - Not All Illusions End
I’m still here, still performing the roles The Carnival forces on me. But I’m not pretending anymore. The moment Visha let her knife fall, everything changed. The fragile hope between us ignited something fierce in my chest; a fire that won’t be snuffed out by shadows or fear. The enforcers circle like vultures, ready to tear us apart.
But I won’t let them.
Not this time.
I draw a deep breath, feeling the weight of every secret I’ve carried, every lie I’ve told myself. Tonight, the illusions end, I step forward, voice steady, heart pounding like thunder.
“We don’t have to be prisoners of this place.”
The crowd tightens, eyes flashing with suspicion and hunger. But Visha meets my gaze, stronger now, fierce with unspoken promises. Together, we stand against the storm The Carnival tries to swallow us with. Because sometimes, the hardest truth is that not all illusions end in darkness. Some become the light we need to fight. The moment I step forward, The Carnival reacts.The tent breathes in, a sharp inhale that draws every candle’s flame backward. Shadows convulse along the velvet walls. The stage groans beneath us like it’s alive and angry that we’ve broken the choreography.
Visha hasn’t moved yet. Her knife still lies at her feet, gleaming like a question neither of us is ready to answer. But I am. The enforcers close in. Six of them. Their eyes glassy with devotion, their mouths curled into obedient sneers. I know what they are; once performers, like us. Now hollow. Emptied out by The Carnival and filled with something worse.
“Step back, Escapist,” one of them growls. “This isn’t your part.”
“No,” I say, low and calm, my fingers twitching at my side. “It never was.” I flick my hand, and the illusion shatters. The velvet around us bursts into a bloom of black rose petals, soft, falling, endless. The stage vanishes beneath a veil of smoke. The crowd gasps as they vanish into the haze, trapped in a moment they can’t see butfeelin their bones. It’s just us now. Visha turns to me slowly, eyes like twin blades, sharp but questioning.
“You’re not hiding anymore,” she murmurs.
I move closer.
“Neither are you.”
The enforcers rush forward, slicing through the fog. Visha bends, retrieves her knife, and spins toward them like a black flame reawakened. Her movements are lethal, still the ringmaster of death, but something’s changed. She’s not performing for them anymore. She’s moving forme. I follow, knives of my own hidden beneath my sleeves. Illusions flicker around us, mirror duplicates, smoke shells, ghost limbs that confuse and taunt the attackers. They slice through air, but we strike with purpose, and between each heartbeat of battle, welookat each other. Not just to calculate, but tosee.
A flicker of her hand meets mine.
A silent breath, shared in passing.
The curve of her waist brushes my arm as she turns, slicing low through one of the enforcers legs. I move to cover her blind side, my body pressed to hers for a half-second too long. She doesn’t pull away and The Carnival snarls. We don’t listen. We move like a duet written in blood and fire. Her body, sharp and fluid. Mine, shadow-wrapped and reckless. Together, we are something ancient and dangerous. A force The Carnival didn’t write into its script.
“You’re bleeding,” I say, breathless.
“So are you,” she replies, voice husky.
I grin, wild and alive. “First time I’ve felt real in years.”
Visha pins an enforcer to the floor with a twist of her knife, then whirls on me, eyes fierce, pupils blown wide.
“You feel real?” she spits, fire curling at the corners of her lips. “This… this isreal?” I grab her wrist before she can turn away. The fight dies for a second around us. Just a second. Our breath mixes. Her chest rises fast, heart hammering like mine. Her lips are inches away, parted and red from battle.
“Yes,” I say. “You’re the only thing that ever was.” And then her hand curls into my shirt. She yanks me forward, not kissing me, not yet. Just enough to say:you’re mine, whether we survive this or not.And I don’t flinch, because I am. Around us, the illusion fades and the fog dropping, the petals turning to ash.
The Carnival roars in anger, but it’s too late. Something’s shifted and the crowd is watching now. They’re not cheering, they’rewaiting. The performers watch us like we’re the match about to hit the powder. Visha releases me and turns to the last enforcer, blade already drawn.
“This is where the old script ends,” she says as she lunges and the curtain catches fire.
Twenty Seven
