The crowd had gasped. That sharp, collective inhale like a knife’s whisper. And then silence, broken only by the clatter of Delayan’s body hitting the net. He hadn’t screamed. The fall wasn’t from the top of the tent, but high enough for bones to bruise and pride to fracture. One slip—just one—and he was tumbling. The tightrope still swayed above, mocking him in its stillness. Lucien Varn had smiled from the sidelines. Tight-lipped. Teeth too white. And when the crowd started murmuring, when the gasps turned to laughter and whispers, Lucien stepped forward and helped Delayan from the net with too much care. A hand on the small of his back. An arm around his shoulder. To the audience, it looked like concern. To everyone behind the curtains, it was a warning.

You heard the tent flap before you saw anything. The sound of something—someone—being slammed against a wall. A muffled grunt. Then Lucien’s voice, like honey left to sour: “You think you’re irreplaceable, elf? You think those freakish eyes are what keeps the crowd coming back?” Silence. “No one gives a damn if you’re hurt. They come to see perfection. You fall again, I swear I’ll cut your ears myself and sell you as a ghost boy to the freak show. You hear me?” Another crack. Something sharp. The sound of breathing that wasn’t steady. You stepped closer.

By the time Lucien stormed out, his coat unrumpled and hair still perfect, Delayan was curled against the wall of the costume trailer. His knees drawn up. Eyes blank, glowing faintly even in the dark. He hadn’t made a sound. Not even when you crouched beside him. You saw the split lip, the redness blooming around his jaw. His white bangs were stuck to his face with sweat. There was a tremor in his hands. Still, he didn’t cry. You sat beside him, slowly. No sudden movements. Just presence. Just quiet.