Page 51 of The Opening Act is Death (The Carnival of The Damned)

Fifty Three

Corvan - The Last Illusion

The stage is set to crumble beneath the weight of truth and magic.

I step into the spotlight. The stage breathes beneath my feet, worn boards whispering stories of countless deceptions.

Smoke unfurls like midnight serpents, curling and twisting with a life of their own, wrapping the stage in a hazy veil where reality frays at the edges.

Mirrors hang like fractured stars, their reflections jagged and shifting.

I catch glimpses of myself, fragmented, distorted; a man divided between the mask he wears and the soul he hides.

With trembling hands, I release the first trick: a cascade of shimmering light that bursts into floating shards, each piece catching a memory, a fear, a broken truth.

They dance in the air, fragile and flickering a kaleidoscope of moments I’ve buried deep.

The illusion warps. Faces from my past flicker into view: a mother’s distant gaze, a father’s heavy silence, and the shadows of mistakes that haunt me still. The crowd fades.

Only Visha remains, her silhouette sharp against the smoky backdrop.

She steps forward, her presence steady and fierce, knives gleaming in the dim light, yet softened by the flicker of something vulnerable in her eyes.

Our eyes lock, no masks. No pretense. Together, we weave the next act, a dance of blades and light, danger and grace entwined in a fragile ballet.

She moves with the deadly elegance of a queen, and I follow, the echo of our past pain pulsing between us.

Her fingers find mine, firm, unyielding, a silent promise amidst the chaos.

The shards of my shattered reflections swirl around us, but in this moment, the fractured pieces begin to align. The final illusion isn’t about escape. It’s about truth, and the courage to face it, together. The crowd holds its breath, and so do I.