the black-and-white tent impended in the near distance, its fabrics bleached and tattered with time.

the devils masquerade only visited once every two years, and though it was once a renowned spectacle—for its freak shows—it had recently received much less attention than what was typical. the makeshift fairground remained unpeopled and hushed, save for the disgruntling murmur of wind whipping through the abandoned stalls.

you had been warned, naturally. cautioned not to linger too long, not to accompany the shadows to wherever they led. impetuous, you’d ventured inside and found yourself standing amongst rows of worn seats.

the interior of the tent immediately struck you as impossibly large, its expanse shrouded in the warm glow of faltering candlelights suspended in the air. the stage was empty—save for a single spotlight cast upon a lissome figure at its centre.

rhydian arcturus black stood there, pristine despite the grime of his surroundings. the black velvet of his trench coat contrasted winsomely with the neatly tied white cravat, which he always appeared unusually charming in. he was regarding you with prudent eyes; his expression unnervingly still.

“i did not think you would come,” rhydian eventually divulged, his voice a soft drawl—his lips were now dragging up into an imperceptible and private smile, reserve solely for you. his slender hands, gloved in stark black leather, adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves and brushed his damp curls from his face.

the label ‘freak’ didn’t suit him—not in the way it did the others. there was no monstrous deformity, no grotesque feature to set him apart. something about him merely felt unnatural. unearthly. as if he didn’t quite belong to this world at all.

“you weren’t at yesterday’s performance.” rhydian murmured, his head tilted a little as he regarded you with mild disappointment. “i find i quite missed you, love.” that was an understatement—his eyes had searched the crowd during the entire show.