Page 30 of The Opening Act is Death
I dance.
Each movement is a story of pain folded into grace, grief etched in steel. I twist, blades singing a hymn of loss and rage. My fingers tighten around the handles; steady, unyielding. The fire bends closer. Its warmth draws me in, threatens to burn away the parts I’d rather keep hidden. And then a shadow shifts at the ring’s edge.
Corvan.
No words. No announcements. Just him. Dark smoke clinging to his sleeves, eyes like embers…watching. He steps forward, the heat between us snapping tight like a wire stretched too far. Our eyes lock, not as queen and subject. Not as ringmaster and illusionist. But as two fractured souls orbiting the same flame.
He moves closer, slow, deliberate. His hands find my waist, grounding me, steadying the storm of fire and fury inside.The knives don’t leave my skin. But his touch burns hotter than any blade ever could. Our dance begins… no music, no crowd.
Just breath and heat and the pulse of The Carnival itself. His fingers trace the curve of my ribs, mapping the stories beneath the scars, the unspoken promises hidden in bone.
My breath catches as he leans down, lips ghosting over the delicate skin of my neck. A silent claim, a whispered promise.
I falter.
Let go of the queen of knives, the warden of pain. Here, in this circle of fire and ash, I am just Visha.
Broken. Burning. Real.
Our bodies press closer, heat sparking between us a slow burn igniting into wild flame. He dips his head lower, tasting thesalt on my skin. My hands rise, trembling, to cradle his face, the rough edges, the shadows in his eyes.
His hands slide beneath my corset, fingers warm, sure, seeking the scars he never touched before. I shiver, steel in my veins and fire on my skin. One knife slips from my hip, a deliberate offering. He catches it like a sacred gift, eyes never leaving mine.
The fire flickers, The Carnival holding its breath.
I reach for him, fingers tracing the lines of his jaw, the pulse beneath his skin. His breath hitches as I draw him closer, lips crashing together, fierce, desperate, needing. We fall back into the circle of flames, bodies tangled and raw. Every touch, every kiss, every breath burns away the past, the lies, the pain, the silence. My knives lie forgotten at the fire’s edge. But between us, the blade still sings, sharp, dangerous, and real.
Our hearts beat in unison with The Carnival’s ancient pulse — alive, reborn, and burning.
No audience.
No applause.
Just us.
And the fire.
The smoke curls around us like a lover’s breath, thick and sweet and suffocating. It seeps into my hair, tangling with the sweat that beads along my neck and spine. The heat presses into my skin, a living thing, hungry and relentless. I feel the coarse grain of the wood beneath my bare feet, grounding me even as the flames threaten to consume everything I am. Corvan’s hands are warm, steady, tracing slow, reverent patterns over scars that still sting beneath his touch. His lips trail fire along my collarbone, breath uneven, mingling with mine. The taste of smoke and salt and something darker, longing, maybe, fills my mouth as we press together, every nerve alive and screaming. The flicker of flames casts dancing shadows that stretch andtwist with us, The Carnival itself bending close, watching, breathing.
My knives lie forgotten at the edge of the circle, cold and silent now. Here, in this moment, the only edge is between us, sharp and dangerous and real.
Thirty Eight
Torn Page — Visha
I remember dying, but it wasn’t flames. Not really. It was when he ran. When he left me behind in that burning city, a girl with ash in her lungs and knives in her hands, and no one left to use them on but herself. Elena died there.
And The Carnival offered me something new. Power, silence, control a stage carved from everything I lost. But it asked one thing in return:
Don’t feel.
So I didn’t, not when I killed for applause. Not when I carved beauty from bone.
Not even when I saw him again, older, colder, wearing a mask made of guilt and silk. I wanted to hurt him. I built this Carnival to hurt him. Every act, every illusion, every scream in the dark, all for him. A curse wearing fishnet gloves and ballet slippers.
But he surprised me. He bled, not for show. Not for escape. But because he wanted me to see the raw thing underneath, and I hate him for it. Because that’s the part I fell in love with. Theugly truth. The broken boy who never stopped looking for me, even when I’d become someone else. I am not Elena anymore. But she still lives inside me, the part that wanted love to be enough. The part that still wants to forgive him, and that part is going to get me killed.
Thirty Nine
