Page 64 of The Opening Act is Death (The Carnival of The Damned)

The lights never really go out. The show simply changes.

The velvet curtain hangs in stillness, blood-washed and heavy with memory.

Visha stands center stage. Her silhouette is shadow and steel, the blades at her hips sheathed but not forgotten. Power hums beneath her skin. Her gaze carves silence into obedience. She doesn’t need an audience. She owns them.

From the hush, Corvan emerges, not in a flourish of illusion, but in truth.

No mirrors. No smoke.

Only him.

He steps beside her, his coat dusted in ash, the last traces of who he was falling away with each breath. The Carnival watches, tense and alive. Something ancient stirs beneath the floorboards. Even the damned hold their breath.

Visha extends a hand. It’s not a question. It’s not mercy, its sovereignty shared. Corvan takes it with the reverence of a man who knows what it cost her to offer it. They stand, side by side, looking out at their kingdom of ghosts and ruin, and The Carnival bows.

Not with applause, with surrender.

The curtain doesn’t fall.

Because this time;

The show is only just beginning.