Page 25 of The Opening Act is Death
“He left. He burned. And now you share your stage?”
“We danced for you. We bled foryou.”
The whispers aren’t whispers anymore. I hear them behind the curtains.
In the dark under the trapeze. Near the bones of the carousel, where the horses still scream when no one’s listening. They think he’s a danger to my rule. That love makes me blind. That my crown will tip when he kisses my throat.
Let them.
Let themtry.
It happens during the Midnight Procession. The Carnival is half-shadow, half-spotlight, and the velvet is humming underfoot. I am walking the center aisle, knives stitched into my corset, heels soaked in ash. And thenhesteps forward, The Knife-Eater.
A loyal act, once. Loyal to the pain. Loyal to me. Until now.
He bows low.
Deeper than he means. It’s not respect, it’s a dare.
“Madame Noire,” he says, voice syrup-thick with contempt, “some of us are wondering… if the Queen still bleeds for the stage, or only for her ghost.”
The crowd hushes, the tent holds its breath. He stands. Taller than me. Older. Body lined with scars he claims I gave him in training. But he forgets, I remember every wound I’ve ever delivered.
“We only ask,” he continues, “if you’re willing to fight for your throne. Or if you’re content to…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, because I’m already moving. I don’t summon fire, don’t use illusion. I pull the knife from my thigh, the one I keep for endings, and Ithrow.It buries in the wooden beam behind his head, just close enough to tear a thread off his coat.
“You don’t get to ask what I bleed for,” I say.
My voice isn’t loud, it doesn’t have to be. It’s the kind of quiet that makes The Carnival itself lean in to listen.
“You want me to prove I still rule at this stage?” I step forward. Another knife unsheathed. “Then bleed for it. Try me.”
He hesitates, the crowd stirs, and somewhere in the rafters, I know Corvan is watching. Watching not because he doubts me, but because he knows.
Thisis what love with me looks like.
Blood.
Performance.
Dominion.
I never stopped being the Queen of Knives, and tonight, I remind them why mercy was never written in my script. The Knife-Eater takes the bait, of course he does. He steps forward, shrugs off his coat, and draws his twin blades from his belt like it’s still a performance. Like this is still entertainment. He forgets what the knives mean when I’m holding them. The crowd shifts into a circle. No music. No spotlight.
Just breathe. Just a heartbeat. Just me and him, steel and stage.
“This is your stage?” he taunts.
“Then prove it.”
I don’t reply, the first blade I throw misses him on purpose. He flinches.
Weakness.
The second comes close enough to nick his cheek, he growls, lunges, steel flashing toward my ribs. I pivot, drop low, spin on the toe of my heel and catch his ankle with the flat of my blade. His foot slips and he recovers, barely. The crowd gasps, blood sprays from a wound he doesn’t yet feel.
“You taught me to bleed beautifully,” he says, circling.
