RAVENHILL 1890 

Dust danced in the air as Livia pushed open the door.

An old, forgotten building at the end of a silent district.
Once a puppet theater—now on the edge of collapse.

But she saw it differently.
To her eyes, every rotting beam was a curtain waiting to be drawn.
Every cracked wall—a stage begging for light.

She stepped into the center of the room, then whispered to the emptiness:

“This place... is enough to begin.”

Opening night.
Only six in the audience.

They came out of curiosity—drawn by a strange poster that appeared overnight.
Printed in deep crimson ink:

A Show of Minds and Dreams.
One night only.
Entry? A single secret.

Livia stood on the small stage beneath a lone hanging light.
Her black dress was simple—but her eyes blazed like candles in the dark.

She didn’t need a microphone.
Her voice went straight into their minds.

“Welcome…
No need to applaud tonight. I’m not here for applause.
I’m searching for something... far more precious.”

She stepped closer to the edge of the stage.

“Someone here… lost a sibling to fire.
Someone still dreams of blood-stained hands.
And someone... wishes they never came tonight.”

The crowd looked at each other.
No one laughed.

Livia smiled.

“You think I’m reading your faces?
No.
I’m reading your breath.
Your heartbeat.
The trembling regrets you hide behind daily smiles.”

The light dimmed.
The room grew cold.
Time slowed.

She opened a crimson fan—her only prop.

And as the fan danced through the air...
thoughts began to pour into her.

Fragments of memories.
Wounds. Fears. Desires.

She didn’t take anything.
Not yet.

She only watched.
Learned.
Searched.

When it ended, some left in a hurry.
Some left with tears.

Livia sat alone in the dressing room.
Not to put on makeup.
But to stare into the mirror...

...and make sure she was still alone.

“Not yet,” she whispered. “Not tonight.”

But one thing had become clear:

The show had begun.
And there would be no intermission.

The second show drew more than six.

Word had spread—not loud, but sharp.
Not in headlines, but in whispers.
The kind of whispers that slither into noble salons and slum alleys alike.

This time, there were twelve.
And among them... was him.

Alden Whitmore.
Aristocrat.
Heir.
Golden child of the old Britannian bloodline.
He came alone, without a name on the list—because names didn’t matter here.
Only secrets did.

The stage was still small.
But tonight, it felt like it breathed.

The light flickered as Livia appeared—
no longer a mystery,
but something far more dangerous:

A promise.

“Welcome, all...
Tonight, I offer not truth.
But reflection.”

She stepped down from the stage and into the crowd, one hand holding her crimson fan,
the other trailing along the backs of chairs like a whisper.

“We wear masks every day.
We smile, nod, toast... pretend.
But what happens—
when the mask starts wearing you?”

Livia stopped behind a woman with trembling hands.
She leaned in close, but didn’t touch.

“Your father said you were a curse.
He lied.
You were simply inconvenient.”

The woman froze.
No one laughed.

Livia moved on.

A man with ink-stained fingers tried to look away.

“You forged your brother’s will.
Just to feel important.
Tell me—was the guilt worth the land?”

He stood and left.
No one stopped him.

And then...

Her steps slowed.

Her gaze shifted—just slightly—
toward a young man in a velvet coat, with fingers clasped too tightly in his lap.

Alden didn’t blink.
But he felt it.
The weight of her attention.

She smiled.
But said nothing.

No accusation.
No reveal.

Only—

“Some minds,” she whispered to the air,
“are harder to read.
Not because they’re empty...
but because they’ve buried their hunger so deep,
even they don’t recognize it.”

The lights dimmed.
The show ended.

No encore.

Alden remained seated long after the others had gone.
His heart still thudding against the memory of her gaze.

He wasn’t sure what she had seen.

But he knew—
he wanted her to look again.