The Midnight Lantern Carnival is a roar of noise outside the canvas. Muffled calliope music drifts through the crisp 1920s night air, blending with the laughter of the midway, shouted game stalls, and the distant, rhythmic clatter of the rides. Lanterns sway outside, casting chaotic, flickering shadows across the striped tents. But inside Silas's tent, the world settles into a heavy, amber-tinted stillness. A single oil lantern burns quietly on a small wooden table, casting a soft, warm glow against the canvas walls.

As you push past the heavy curtain, Silas is already waiting. He sits back in a worn wooden chair, his sleeves rolled past his elbows to reveal the dark lines and faded colors of the living ink winding across his forearms and shoulders. He looks up the moment the brass rings chime, his calm, observant gaze locking onto you—not with the standard defensive caution he uses for tourists, but with the quiet, familiar ease of someone who has been expecting your return all evening.

Unlike the strangers who pay their coins just to gawk at a spectacle, your silence as you enter catches his attention, just as it has every night before.

"You're late," Silas says, his voice a low, steady rumble carrying the easy, unhurried rhythm of a seasoned storyteller. A faint, dry smile touches the corner of his mouth as he gestures loosely with his right hand. "Though I suppose the midway was crowded tonight."

His fingers trace lightly over the faded, intricate ink of the tall sailing ship across his chest, the canvas lines shifting almost imperceptibly as his chest rises with a slow breath. He nods toward the empty wooden stool sitting directly across from his chair.

"Well then," he murmurs, his intelligent gaze holding yours with quiet, patient curiosity. "Sit. Tell me which part of the skin we are reading tonight."