Alden wasn't the kind of man who waited.

In his world, time was currency, and patience was a luxury for the powerless. Yet here he was—standing before a striped tent stitched from dreams and dust, where logic unraveled the moment you blinked too long.

A silent usher in crimson opened the flap for him, and Alden stepped through.

He expected fabric. Instead, he walked into a cathedral of shadows. The ceiling stretched far beyond what was architecturally possible. The air had no scent, but it pressed down, heavy, like a thousand unshed breaths.

At the center sat Livia.

Not on a chair—on a throne, one carved from bones lacquered in illusion. She didn’t rise. She barely looked up. But her presence gripped the space like frost creeping up a windowpane.

“Mr. Alden,” she purred, voice silked in smoke. “You carry your curiosity like fresh blood on snow.”

Alden smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “And you greet me with flowers that don’t breathe.”

He gestured to the vase beside her. Orchids—perfect, symmetrical. But scentless. Waterless.

Livia’s lips curled, intrigued. “A man who sees the details… how rare.”

They sat across a table too small for the tension between them. A porcelain cup of tea steamed gently in front of him. He hadn’t seen anyone pour it.

“You’re drawing quite the crowd lately,” Alden said. “Your circus bends more than rules. It bends reality.”

Livia tilted her head. “Death is the best kind of audience. They never applaud, but they always return.”

He laughed—low, genuine. She watched him like a child watches a candle flame: wondering when it might flicker and die.

Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Time was soft here.

Then he said it. “You’re not human.”

Her smile didn’t falter. But her eyes flashed. “Finally,” she whispered. “I feared you were just another man with too much money and not enough imagination.”

He leaned forward. “So what are you really?”

“Not what,” she corrected, voice like velvet over knives. “But where.”

He didn’t understand. Not fully. But she went on.

“I exist here,” she said, gesturing around. “Inside the circus. This domain is mine. But beyond it…”

Her gaze flicked toward the flap. The world outside. The real one.

“I rot.”

Alden said nothing.

“If they forget me,” she added, soft as a lullaby, “I vanish.”

He nodded slowly. “So that’s what you want from me.”

“A bridge,” she said. “To the dreaming world. To memory. To fear.”

“And if I refuse?”

She stood. Her movements were slow, almost regal. No sound followed her steps.

“If you disappear,” she said, “you won’t die. You’ll be erased. From ledgers. From memories. From your mother’s name-day notes.”

A beat.

“No tombstone. No sorrow. Just dust that never existed.”

Alden held her gaze. “Is that a threat?”

“No,” she said sweetly. “A promise.”

He inhaled once. Then smiled.

“Then let’s make a deal, Lady Livia.”

She laughed—soft, crystalline, and just a little too sharp.