Page 7 of The Opening Act is Death (The Carnival of The Damned)

Nine

Corvan — The Petal’s Kiss

The petal was still wet when I found it left on my pillow, like a kiss made of warning.

A splash of crimson on pale silk. I traced its edges, the faint pulse of warmth lingering beneath my fingertips.

Not just a message, but a mark. A promise or maybe a threat.

I knew the hand that left it; deliberate, silent, elegant.

Visha. The shadow ballerina. The blade in silk slippers.

I wanted to scream at her. To curse her.

To rip the petal apart and throw it into the fire.

Instead, I pressed it against my chest and closed my eyes.

I could almost hear the faint rustle of her skirts, the whisper of knives sliding over wood.

The scent of decayed roses and iron. The way her eyes, dark and unreadable, always seemed to see right through me.

Why was she watching? Why was she letting me breathe?

Was it out of pity? Power? Something more dangerous?

I’ve learned The Carnival’s rules are written in blood and shadows.

There is no mercy. Only survival. Yet with Visha, the lines blur.

She is a judge and executioner. But maybe…

maybe she is also the only one who understands.

That night, The Carnival breathed differently.

The air thickened with expectation. Every flickering light, every echo in the halls whispered her name.

I followed the sound, footsteps soft as snowfall.

Her silhouette appeared in the dim glow behind the Hall of Mirrors.

Her eyes caught mine through the fractured glass, sharp and unreadable. A challenge? A greeting? An invitation?

I stepped forward, but the reflection shattered, and she was gone.

The scent of rosewater and rust lingered, and I knew I was already trapped deeper than I could ever imagine.

Later, in my tent, I lit a single candle and let the flame flicker against the cracked mirror.

I touched the petal again, and my mind spun with questions.

Her coldness promised danger. Her watchfulness promised something I couldn’t yet name.

Desire? Fear? Salvation? Or perhaps all three, tangled like the thorny vines that choke The Carnival’s heart.

I want to reach for her. To peel back the layers of shadow and find the girl beneath.

But the cage is closing. The illusions falter.

And The Carnival is hungry. I am running out of tricks.

Running out of time. Yet beneath it all, beneath the fear and the doubt, something burns.

A slow, fierce ember that might just be hope.

And if I’m lucky, if I survive the night we burn together, will change everything…

or destroy me completely. Because wanting her is a sin I can’t afford.

Touching her would be a sentence, but god help me, what I wouldn’t do for the chance.

I close my eyes and see her again; the curve of her spine mid-spin, the flicker of a smile that never quite reaches her mouth, the precision of her violence, beautiful and brutal.

She isn’t soft nor safe, yet neither am I.

Maybe the only way to survive her judgment is to become something just as sharp.

To bare my own teeth, to stop hiding behind illusion and show her the man beneath the mirrors.

I want her to decide if I’m worthy of the blade or the kiss that follows it.

Because if this Carnival is a cage, then I am done pretending not to want the warden.

Let her carve the truth from me. Let her burn, and if she reaches for me in return I will not run, but I will kneel at her altar and beg for ruin.