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But it’s Luna I watch—her hand resting near her thigh, her gaze darting down to the audience, trying not to smile again.She’s glowing tonight, even in this cursed lighting. The kind of glow that makes even the shadows pause to stare.
And maybe I’m a joke most of the time.
Maybe I play the fool on purpose.
But when she looks at me—reallylooks—I feel like I’ve won.
She leans in, lips barely parting. “What’s the cloaked woman near the stage saying then, master lip-reader?”
I squint, squint harder. Then whisper, grave and serious, “She’s saying…'That Silas Veyd is unreasonably handsome and probably very good with his tongue.'”
Luna gives methelook. The one that says she’s this close to stabbing me with her fan and this close to kissing me afterward.
Gods, I love her.
I lean closer, whisper just for her, “I love you, you know.”
And when she glances at me, the smallest, softest curve of her lips is all the proof I need.
She loves me back.
Even if my powers of lip reading are a complete fabrication.
But hey—every artist takes liberties with their craft.
And then I see him. Gods above and chaos below, I seehim.Down in the third row, center-left. Front and bold as sin.
This man—thismonument—moves like a tidal wave wrapped in velvet. His robe swallows three seats just by existing, and hisbelly—gods, hisbelly—it’s a kingdom of its own. Round, glistening like it’s been oiled to perfection, glinting beneath candlelight like a polished weapon of mass destruction.
I lurch forward, elbows on the velvet rail of the box, eyes wide.
“Luna,” I whisper, stabbing my finger downward like I’ve spotted a cryptid. “Luna, look. Look at that stomach. That stomachdemands reverence.”
She doesn't look at first. Which is cruel. Cold. Wounding.
“Luna,” I hiss again, more desperate. “His belly isbattlingthat seat. It’s awar.I am witnessing thesiegeof theater furniture in real time.”
Finally—finally—she peeks.
And her face—
Priceless.
She slaps a hand over her mouth, but I hear it. The snort. The muffled laugh. And I swear my soul ascends just a little.
Elias leans forward on my other side, squinting. “Holy hell. That man is defying physics.”
I nod solemnly. “It’s not a belly. It’s aliving entity.I think it blinked at me.”
“Do you think it has a name?” Elias asks.
I tap my chin, then gasp. “Sir Bouncesworth the Third. Of the Royal Order of Crushed Upholstery.”
Luna wheezes beside me now, shoulders shaking. She tries to hide it, but she can’t. She’s laughing so hard her eyes are starting to water.
Mission:Bring Light to the Binder—complete.
But I’m not done.