The circus loomed in the valley below like a sleeping creature—its tents stretched wide across the
grasslands, flaps fluttering in the wind like breath through fangs. The bright pennants and festive lights
were no different from any other circus John Shorn had seen in his long years.
But something in the air felt wrong.
The moment he stepped down from his horse, the air grew heavier. Not in temperature or scent, but in
pressure. As if the very ground strained under the weight of something unseen.
He passed under the banner in silence, his travel cloak draped low over his shoulders, the silver clasp
marked with faint sigils that pulsed once as he crossed the outer ring.
Children laughed. Merchants barked offers. A juggler dropped a pin and cursed quietly in French.
But in the quiet between breaths, John heard it:
Something low. Something alive beneath the joy.
Not a voice. A tension.
He approached the main tent, where workers bustled to prepare the evening's performance. Morrow was
near the center, barking orders with that same clipped authority John remembered.
"Morrow," John said simply.
The ringmaster turned, startled. Recognition flickered—and then something close to relief.
"You came."
"You sent the letter," John replied. "And you rarely lie."
Morrow hesitated. Then motioned for him to follow.
They walked beyond the tents, past the painted wagons and tool carts, until they reached a weather-worn
carriage with black curtains drawn tightly. Morrow stopped beside it, his voice low.
"It's worse than I said."
"I assumed it would be."
"He's still just a boy," Morrow said, almost pleading. "But when he looks at you... it's like you're not there."
John didn't respond. He reached into his cloak and retrieved a silver thread—a thin, glimmering filament
that caught no light. He wrapped it once around his fingers. It warmed. Tugged.
"Where is he?"
Morrow swallowed. "Center tent. Preparing for tonight."
John nodded. "Let him perform."
"What?"
"I need to see it. With my own eyes."
Jack stood in front of the cracked mirror backstage, applying his greasepaint in slow, precise strokes. Each
curve of black, each twist of red, was ritual now. Not a costume—an invocation.
He paused.
Someone had entered the circus.
He felt it. Not as sound or sight—but as pressure. Like the first crack of thunder behind a mountain. His
fingers trembled briefly. Then he steadied them.
Eluna flickered in the corner of the mirror.
"You should run," she said.
"I'm done running."
"He's not like the others. He'll see you."
Jack smiled thinly. "Then let him look."
When he stepped out into the firelight, the crowd erupted. The children chanted. The performers bowed
their heads as he passed. Even Morrow, standing near the outer ring with a pale man in a gray cloak, looked
briefly transfixed.
John's eyes met Jack's across the torch-lit distance.
And the air between them snapped.
Not visibly. Not audibly.
But something ancient and broken remembered.
Jack twirled once, bowed, and the performance began.
He was magnificent. Terrifying. His act bent time. The crowd roared and gasped. But every motion was
aimed at John.
And John never blinked.
He watched the boy twist and contort, watched the shadows cling too long to his limbs, watched the crowd
writhe with glee—and knew.
This wasn't just possession.
It was fusion. An unholy balance.
He stepped back, murmuring into the silver thread. "Confirmed."
The Light pulsed once behind his ribs.
And in the ring, Jack bowed deeply.
But when he rose, his eyes were not his own.
They were Eluna's.
And something else.
And they were smiling.