Chapter 33: The Ringleader’s Final Act
The interior of the tent smelled like damp velvet and forgotten dreams. You know the scent—old liquor, older regrets, and something floral trying very hard to convince you it was once perfume. The kind of place where ghosts smoked cigars and shame played piano in a corner.
It was quieter than expected.
Quieter than it should have been, considering I’d just finished pirouetting my way through an apocalyptic brawl with twin clowns built like rejected opera houses. But inside this sagging carnival tent, the chaos stopped at the flap. No screaming. No snapping bones. Just the low sound of a man drinking alone.
Mavus Grey.
Slouched in a once-lavish armchair that had clearly seen more sin than a confessional booth in a pirate port. His legs were crossed, one boot tapping absently to a rhythm I couldn’t hear. His face was painted like a sad clown—white base, smeared red mouth, and black diamonds under each eye—but time had turned the colors into something more...elegiac. Less circus, more funeral.
In one hand he held a glass of something dark and viscous. The other lay limp over the armrest, his fingers twitching slightly—like a puppet waiting for its strings to be pulled again.
"Cecil Valen," he said, and the way he said it felt like a toast and a eulogy at once. "You made quite the entrance."
I dusted ash off my shoulders and stepped inside fully, letting the flap fall shut behind me. "You know my name. Either I’m very famous or you’re very bored."
"A bit of both," he murmured, swirling his drink. "I keep my eyes on the decadent. The divine. The damned. You check all three boxes and underline them with lipstick."
"I do aim to be thorough."
He chuckled, low and dry. "You’re different in person."