The silence after Reno’s memories fades is heavier than screams.

Livia dropped to her knees.
Trembling.
Shaking.
Breaking.

His agony still burned behind her eyes.
The laughter.
The blood.
The betrayal.

All woven into the clown standing before her—
a monument to misery.

She clutched her head.
“No... no, that wasn’t me. I didn’t deserve to see that.”

But lies don’t save you.
Not from yourself.

Fragments clawed their way out:
A small bird crushed in her secret fist.
The thrill of destruction.
The hunger for the stage—
the hunger to be seen.

A spark ignited in her gut.

“Why... me?” she whispered.
No longer trembling from fear.
Trembling from clarity.

Reno tilted his head, smiling like a devil in a child’s skin.
“You saw it, didn’t you? The truth. That seed inside you... it’s always been there.”

“No,” Livia said.

“Yes,” he breathed.
"And now it grows."

Her lips curled.
Not in grief.
Not in horror.
But in a smile.

“I think...”
Her voice was ice.
“...I want to kill you.”

Before he could speak—
Livia charged.

No tricks.
No wands.
No circus.

Only her.
Only will.

The clown danced away, laughing.
She followed, bloody-knuckled and breathless.

Every miss ripped her open.
Every dodge fed her fire.

“You want a show?” she spat, blood staining her teeth.
“Then watch me.”

She slammed into him.

Glass exploded around them.
Shards rained like falling stars.

Blood mixed with glitter.
Somewhere, a spotlight cracked to life, hanging by a thread.

Livia’s gaze locked onto it.
And she smiled wider.

She ripped cables free.
Electric sparks bit her skin.
She didn’t stop.

“What are you doing?!” Reno screamed, wild now, losing the script.

Livia’s face—
lit by fire.
Not madness.
Resolve.

“You wanted me to awaken," she said.
"I’ll burn this dream to the ground.”

The spark caught.
Flames bloomed.
The tent roared.

Reno screamed—
“NO!”

Livia grabbed him, yanking him into the heart of the fire.

The world slowed.

Smoke curled like black ribbons.
The dead sang in the ash.

Her hands—no longer shaking.
Her eyes—no longer doubting.
Her heart—set ablaze.

The clown burned.
So did she.
Not with fear.
With will.

A voice whispered from the dark:
“Are you afraid?”

“If this is my end..." she whispered, "I'm ready."

Another breath.
Another step.

"Madre," she said, the name like a prayer.

The flames kissed her skin, singing her bones.
She smiled.

Not because she had won—
But because she no longer cared if she lost.

The fire devoured her past.
Her shame.
Her fear.

And from the cinders—
A crown rose.

Invisible.
Unbreakable.

“You were never prey,” the dark whispered.
“You were always the promise.”

Livia stepped from the flames—
barefoot, burning, reborn.

Velvet wrapped around her like a lover’s embrace.
A cloak of shadows kissed her shoulders.
Her cracked smile wasn’t paint.
It was prophecy.

Livia.
No longer the girl who cried.
No longer the dreamer who prayed.

She wasn’t healed.
She was hollowed out.
And filled anew.

Her skin, blistered.
Her eyes, searing.

The earth beneath her feet held firm.
The circus remembered.

A laugh rose in her throat.
Soft.
Then louder.
Then wilder.

She laughed like a queen reclaiming her crown.

Not gold.
Not jewels.

Madness.
Fire.
Will.

The ruins of the tent swirled in the smoke.
A vision taking shape.

Velvet.
Apostles.
A kingdom waiting.

And she spoke—
Not to the living.
Not to the dead.
But to the throne destiny carved for her.

“You wanted a show?”
"I'll give you a kingdom."

One final breath.
One final word.

"Begin."

The embers whirled around her, a crimson parasol above her shoulder.

As she turned her back on the burning ruins,
her shadow grinned.