Page 30 of The Opening Act is Death (The Carnival of The Damned)

Thirty Two

Visha -The Queen of Knives

They try to dethrone me. They learn what mercy never meant.

The Carnival shifts beneath my feet, not trembles. Not recoils. No, she leans . As if waiting to see what I’ll do when the blood hits the velvet. As if she’s eager for it, someone left the wrong flowers in my dressing tent.

White roses. Fresh. Unwilted.

Not mine.

I haven’t seen white roses since the garden where I died. Their meaning is obvious.

Innocence.

Forgiveness.

Peace.

A threat, in lace, someone is calling me soft. Someone thinks I’ve forgotten what I am.

“You make us bleed for a ghost?”

“He left. He burned. And now you share your stage?”

“We danced for you. We bled for you. ”

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 them try.

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 then he steps 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 I throw. 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.

This is 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.

“You learned wrong,” I hiss, “if you think I taught you everything.”

He lunges again, aiming for my shoulder. I let him land the blow just enough to slice through fabric. The crowd stirs, then I smile, and I dance. The knives in my hands are extensions of my rage, my control, my right . This is not violence. This is choreography.

This is art.

The air sings with each slash. The Carnival purrs . Until finally, he stumbles, and I don’t hesitate. I place my heel on his chest, knock him to the boards, and press the point of my blade against his throat.

“Still think I’m not fit to rule?”

He doesn’t answer, he can’t, but The Carnival isn’t satisfied with blood. She wants the truth .

“Enough.”

His voice cuts through the tent like lightning. Corvan steps into the ring, he’s still wearing the black from tonight’s performance, illusion-smoke clinging to his sleeves. But his mask is gone. And the truth behind his eyes is raw. The crowd parts for him like water.

“You challenged her throne,” he says, looking at the Knife-Eater, then the crowd. “But you forget, this Carnival doesn’t just belong to her anymore.”

A hush, even the fire-eaters pause as Corvan steps closer.

“If you want to question her loyalty, her power, her love …” his voice lowers, darkens, “…then you should be ready to question mine. ”

He looks at me, not to ask permission, not to interrupt, but to stand beside me. To be seen, and in his eyes, I see it.

He’s ready to be torn apart if that’s what it takes.

The Carnival shifts, the stage groans, The Ringmaster in the Shadows exhales behind the curtains of this world.

Because now he’s next.