Page 45 of The Opening Act is Death (The Carnival of The Damned)

Forty Seven

Visha - The Blood-Bound Pact

Power carved from pain. Freedom forged in darkness.

The night is thick with something old and hungry.

The air hums beneath the blood-red moon, heavy with whispers only I can hear.

The Carnival waits, restless, pulsing, a beast craving a new master, or its final breath.

I stand at the edge of the abyss, the old grimoire open before me, its pages stained with the echoes of sacrifices past.

This pact is no mere deal. It is a binding, a blood promise forged in shadows and fire.

The cost is more than flesh and bone. It is my soul laid bare, a sacrifice on the altar of power.

I can feel it tugging, the dark promise of release from pain, the seductive call of control beyond human limits.

But every bargain demands a price. One misstep, and The Carnival and I will burn in chains no magic can break.

My fingers tremble as I trace the ancient runes, the weight of destiny pressing down like iron in my chest.

Am I ready to become more than the queen of knives? Or am I signing my own death warrant?

The flames flicker behind me, casting twisted shadows that dance like ghosts.

I take a breath, steadying the storm inside.

This is the moment where pain becomes power.

Where fear becomes fury. Where I either break free or break forever.

The night swallows me whole. The air is thick with iron and whispers, old voices carried on the wind, voices that know my name and all the darkness I hide beneath my skin.

I stand before the ancient grimoire, its leather cracked and soft like aged flesh.

The pages bleed inked sigils and cruel promises, each word a tether binding me tighter to a fate I both fear and crave.

I trace the runes with trembling fingers, feeling the surge of power ripple beneath my skin.

This pact, a thread weaving me into The Carnival’s ancient heart, the raw pulse beneath the velvet mask.

The price echoes in my bones: sacrifice, pain, loss. But also freedom, a brutal liberation from the fractures I carry, the endless ache of control. Flames dance behind me, licking the shadows with hungry tongues, casting grotesque shapes that twist like twisted memories.

Will I become the monster I’ve always feared? Or will this darkness finally carve me free?

The words come unbidden a chant, half prayer, half curse, I speak them into the night, and The Carnival listens. The blood on my hands is both curse and covenant. I can feel The Carnival’s breath against my skin, hungry, waiting, unforgiving. This is no surrender. This is a reckoning.

The knife’s edge gleams sharp, ready to cut the last thread, to sever the past and bind me forever. I step forward, heart pounding, into the unknown, into power beyond pain.