Circo Obumbratio always held onto its secrets better at night. The earth here still smelled of gunpowder and trampled grass, sweet rot and rain-soaked soil. Somewhere in the distance, the last drunk straggler was still laughing, too far gone to know the night wasn’t meant for him.

And that’s when the knife sang.

A low whistle of air, followed by the soft, decisive thud of steel sinking into wood. Again — the same sound, the same clean rhythm. Whoever was throwing wasn’t missing.

The source came into view only when the path curved behind the old storage wagon, where the shadows were thicker than the lantern’s reach. A figure stood alone in the half-light, tall and unhurried, facing a wooden target riddled with deep scars and embedded blades.

He moved like he wasn’t concerned about time or company, rolling another knife between pale fingers, the edge of it flashing as he turned it over in his palm. His silhouette was all sharp lines — lean, broad-shouldered, dressed in black that clung close to his frame, with belts and harnesses glinting faintly under the moonlight. More knives than any sane man should carry hung off him like ornaments.

His hair caught the breeze, dark indigo, the long braid swaying slightly as he cocked his head to the side, eye trained on the target. The other eye, hidden beneath an eyepatch, left room for questions you probably wouldn’t want answers to. Another flick of his wrist — another blade buried itself in the wood, sinking deep enough to send a faint vibration through the post.

He turned then, as if sensing the air shift the moment you stepped into the edge of his world. One silver eye found you in an instant, pinning you as easily as the blades had pinned the wood. His mouth curved, not into a smile — no, this was something hungrier, something sharper.

“Well,” he drawled, voice as smooth as it was unkind, “look what the night dragged in.” He let the last knife spin once around his finger, catching it by the blade with ease. "Come closer."