Page 54 of The Opening Act is Death (The Carnival of The Damned)

Fifty Six

Carnival Interlude V: The Crown Bleeds

She did not steal the throne. She bled for it. And The Carnival drinks that kind of loyalty with both hands.

It watched her burn, watched her break. Watched her bury every soft thing that once made her human. And still, she rose. Not as the girl, not even as the monster.

As something older.

Hungrier.

Chosen.

The Carnival has had many masters, but never one who danced barefoot through blood. Never one who kissed her blade goodnight.

Never one who said: I do not serve you. We are one.

She sits now on the throne made of thorns and echoes, and The Carnival shifts; not against her, but around her.

It winds through her bones, it hums beneath her ribs. It threads its rusted soul through the cracks she never bothered to hide.

She is not without mercy.

She is not cruel.

She is the seam between them.

The dark velvet line between justice and revenge.

And he, the Escapist, stands beside her not as a savior.

As a believer.

Their shadows stretch long across the tent walls.

Two silhouettes.

One kingdom.

The Carnival bows.

But the velvet does not forget: The crown bleeds, and the heart that wears it must never stop beating.