Rowe’s usual animalistic smile returns as he’s given a purpose—to dazzle, enchant, and enamor the crowd. A contrast to what we do when they’re all asleep. Then we tell our story in blood.
“You know I am,” he confirms with a low growl. I resist the urge to slap him on his back—sometimes I push him, try to desensitize him, but I don’t think the touch would do any good right now.
“Here we go,” I say quietly, then step into the limelight with my arms raised. I soak in the thunderous applause, the vibration of the music and cheers, the adoration.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say over the din. “Are you ready to sin?”
The lights dim until the tent is nothing but breath and shadow.
I stand in the center of the ring, arms still raised, cane balanced loosely in my palm as the applause crests and breaks over me like a wave. This—this—is where I belong. Here, where hundreds of eyes wait for my permission to look.
“Good,” I murmur, smiling slowly. “Because sin is best enjoyed together.”
A low drumbeat rolls through the tent, deep and steady, vibrating up through the soles of my boots. I lower my arms, tapping my cane once against the ring. The crack echoes, sharp and final.
“Tonight,” I continue, pacing the circle, “you will witness strength that defies reason. Grace that defies fear. And temptation that defies good sense.”
The lights snap to the edge of the ring.
Jonah steps forward, and the crowd gasps.
He’s bare-armed, muscles carved and gleaming under the lights, chains wrapped around his torso like macabre decorations. He plants his feet, calm and unassuming, as if he’s about to lift nothing heavier than a child. A crew member hooks the chains to a weighted sled behind him.
“Some men,” I say, watching the audience lean forward, “are born to carry burdens.”
Jonah nods once. Then he moves.
The chains go taut. Metal screams against metal. The sled lurches, then drags forward inch by brutal inch as Jonah pulls it across the ring, veins standing out, breath controlled, expression almost serene. The crowd erupts—cheers, shouts, disbelief—but Jonah never looks at them.
Smoke floods the ring, thick and rolling, swallowing Jonah as if he were never there at all.
“Others,” I murmur, my voice dropping, “are born to deceive.”
Silas’s laughter carries out of the haze—soft, delighted—before his shape flickers into view. One moment he’s there, the next he’s gone, reappearing behind a shrieking teenager from the front row, bowing theatrically as the crowd howls.
A rose blooms in his hand and wilts to ash before it hits the ground.
Misdirection. Control. Belief… I feel it settle over the audience like a spell.
Good.
The lights blaze suddenly, heat washing over the front rows as Logan steps into view, fire blooming from his mouth in a controlled arc that paints the tent in gold and crimson. The crowd screams—fear and delight tangled together—and I smile wider.
This is how you own them.
Not by force.
By making them want what you give.
As the applause crashes again, I lift my cane and bring it down once more.
Silence falls instantly.
I scan the crowd, slow and deliberate, until I find her: blue hair, steady gaze, watching me like she’s already halfway under.
My smile sharpens.
“Welcome,” I say softly, eyes locked on hers, “to the Seven Sins Carnival.”
