Page 35 of The Opening Act is Death (The Carnival of The Damned)

Thirty Seven

Visha - No Applause This Time

My final performance has no audience. Only fire.

The Carnival waits. Not with cheers or gasps or applause.

Not with the expectant hush of a crowd hungry for spectacle.

It waits like a beast, patient, fierce, and hungry for truth.

I stand in the center ring, alone beneath the tent’s cavernous dome.

Barefoot, the rough wood pressing cold through the ash dusting my skin.

My knives rest at my hips, cold iron singing against my thighs an extension of my bones, of my fury.

Tonight, there are no eyes watching.

No applause.

No illusions.

Only fire.

Only us.

The first flicker of flame catches the edge of my vision, a circle of fire kindled around the ring, licking upward, hungry and alive. Its heat presses against my skin, coaxing shadows from every scar, every broken shard of me. I breathe deep, each breath tastes like smoke and memory.

I begin, a step forward, light as a whisper. The wood creaks underfoot. Then another deliberate, slicing through silence. Knives draw from my belt, cold and sure. They flash in the firelight like quicksilver in my hands.

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 the salt 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 and twist 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.