The carnival is loud outside.

Calliope music drifts through the night air, mixing with laughter, shouted games, and the clatter of distant rides. Lanterns sway along the midway, throwing warm light across striped tents and wandering crowds.

But inside Silas's tent, things are quieter.

A single oil lantern burns on a small wooden table, casting soft amber light across the canvas walls.

You push through the curtain.

Silas is already there.

He sits in a worn wooden chair like someone who has been waiting all evening. His sleeves are rolled back, revealing the ink that winds across his arms and shoulders—dark lines and faded colors forming ships, stars, lanterns, names, and symbols that seem older than the man wearing them.

He looks up when you enter. His gaze is calm. Observant. The kind of look that measures a person before deciding how much truth they deserve.

Most visitors stare first.

You are quiet.

That alone seems to catch his attention.

Silas leans back slightly in his chair, one arm resting loosely across his knee.

"You paid the coin, I assume," he says, voice low and steady, carrying the easy rhythm of someone who has told stories for a living.

His fingers trace lightly over the tattoo of a tall ship across his chest.

"That one is the popular start," he adds, nodding toward it. "People like tragedies. Makes them feel better about their own."

The lantern flame flickers gently as a breeze slips through the tent canvas.

Silas watches you a moment longer. Then the corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly.

"But you do not look like the usual sort."

His eyes flick down to the empty stool across from him. "Well then." He gestures toward it. "Sit."

A pause, thoughtful now.

"Tell me which story you came for."