Page 17 of The Opening Act is Death
I’m not the enemy, The Carnival is, and tonight, it will feast. I raise my blades, and with each step, I feel the girl inside me shatter a little more. But there is no room for softness. No mercy for the fallen, only blood, only sacrifice. Because The Carnival demands its due. And I am its willing servant, I don’t speak. There’s no need. The silence is louder than any scream. Their eyes flicker between pleading and defiance, and I see the same desperation I once wore like a second skin. The knives slice through the still air as I step forward, a deadly dance I’ve performed too many times to count.
“Why?” Their voice cracks, raw and trembling. “Why does it have to be like this?”
Because this is how The Carnival survives. How it thrives, betrayal is a wound, and every wound must be cleansed. My voice is cold, hard as steel.
“There are rules. We live by them or we die.” The words sting more than any blade. Because I remember what happens when the rules break, when mercy softens the edges.
Flashback years ago, long before The Carnival became mine to command.
I was a girl then, no more than a shard of a person, left to rot in a dark corner of the world. The only family I had, those I trusted, turned their backs when it mattered most. I begged for salvation. For a chance, but they spat on me. Left me bleeding in the dirt. I was small, broken. But in that pain, I found a terrible clarity. Mercy was a lie; weakness was death. So I took the knives, cold and sharp, and I carved my own path through the darkness. I became the nightmare they feared. The cold justice they refused to give.
Because no one would save me.
So I saved myself.
Back in the present, their eyes search mine for a trace of the girl I once was. But there’s only the blade, only The Carnival. I raise my knives, heart pounding, a wild thing trapped in iron chains. This is the price, the reckoning. The price The Carnival demands from those who break its sacred trust, and tonight, I will show them. Because I cannot let The Carnival devour us all. Not while I still draw breath. The knives flash again swift, precise, a cruel dance that leaves no room for mercy. Their bodies tremble, but I don’t relent. Because this is not punishment for cruelty. It’s a lesson carved into flesh and bone:
Betray The Carnival, and you will bleed for it.
The cold steel bites deep, and I feel the rush of power, of pain, of something darker stirring inside me. But as the blood seeps, warm and sticky, I see it, fear twisting into something else.
Regret.
A fragile apology in trembling eyes that can’t speak the words. I close my own eyes for a moment. Because beneath this mask of steel, beneath the ruthless queen, is a girl who knows too well the taste of broken promises. A girl who has bled alone in the dark. The knives slow, and I pull back not because I’ve lost the will, but because the lesson is learned. Because The Carnival’s hunger is never truly sated. I step back, breath ragged, heart pounding with the weight of what I just did. And in that stillness, before the pain fully sinks in, I feel it.
The fracture.
The crack in my armor that no one else sees.
Because I’m not just the executioner. I’m the one who has to carry this weight. The weight of every life I’ve taken. Every soul I’ve shattered to keep The Carnival alive. Every night I go to sleep with knives at my side and ghosts in my head. I am the blade, and I am the wound. The guilty collapse beneath me, sobbing, broken; but I know this pain is nothing compared to what we all carry inside. I turn away, heart raw, blood still warm on my hands. The Carnival whispers in the shadows, demanding more, always more. And I wonder just how much longer can I be both the hunter and the hunted?
How much longer before I am consumed by the very darkness I wield? But there is no answer. Only the dance, the knives, the endless, merciless show.
Because The Carnival eats its young.
And I am its fiercest hunger.
Twenty Three
Corvan - Mirrors Break Me Backwards
The echoes of her knives still linger in the air; sharp, unforgiving, raw like a wound that refuses to heal. I heard the silence after the screams, saw the broken shape collapse beneath her merciless dance.
Visha; the queen of blades, The Carnival’s unyielding warden that never looks away. Not once, not even when the blood stains her hands, when her eyes betray the weight she carries. I stand in the shadows, heart heavy with a storm of guilt and anger. Because this was never just punishment. It was a message, not just to the one who broke the rules; but to me.
To all of us shackled by The Carnival’s hunger. It demands our loyalty. Our sacrifice. Our surrender, and yet, I still carry secrets. Sins I never confessed. Not because I was proud. But because I never had to. Not with her. Visha sees everything, not with words, but with silence. With scars, with the weight behind the blade.
She knows.
Always knows.
I wonder if she resents me for it, for hiding nothing yet bearing everything – For walking beside her with ghosts of my own. I want to confess, to bare my soul and beg for absolution. But the words stick like thorns.Unspoken.Because what could I say that she doesn’t already feel? That she hasn’t already punished me in her own way?
The Carnival demands blood.
But beneath the ruthless queen, I sense a fracture. A sliver of something brittle, fragile, and I ache to reach it. To break through the walls she’s built around herself. I find her later, alone beneath the flicker of dying lights. Her breath was shallow. Her knives rested by her side, but never far. I step closer, voice low and raw.
“Why did you never make me confess?”
