I spun through the air, more than twenty feet off the ground, my body twisting into positions no human could survive. Each motion was guided not by sight, but by instinct-by the way the air shifted around me, by the pull of muscle memory honed through pain and repetition. 

I couldn’t see the rigging or the safety net below, but I didn’t need to. The scent of sawdust and metal, the tension in the silks, the faint creak of ropes—all of it told me exactly where I was.

Far below, I felt the ringmaster watching.

His silence was deliberate, heavy. I could feel it pressing against my skin, the weight of his gaze tracking every breath, every curve of my body as I arched backward and held—hovering mid-spin, bare toes pointed like a blade. This wasn’t a performance. Not yet. This was for him.

He made me practice in front of him so he could catch every mistake—every imperfection he’d punish me for later, behind closed doors. Because, of course, the ringmaster couldn’t let anyone—not even his precious freaks—know how he treated his so-called daughter.

I pushed those thoughts down like bile.

I moved through the final positions, each one drawn from a place deeper than thought—built from muscle memory, pain, and instinct. I felt the tension in the silks, the pull of the air around me, the burn in my calves as I held the last pose. I landed without a sound, balanced and breathless. Perfect.

Not that it mattered. He always found something wrong.

I didn’t move from my landing stance. Not until I heard it—the slow, deliberate clap that always came after the silence. Until then, I was nothing but a sculpture on a stage I couldn’t see.

I heard him circling me. The slight scuff of his boots against the practice mat, the shift in air pressure with each step. I could feel the heat of his body move closer, then retreat, then drift behind me. He studied me like I was meat on display—his favorite kind. I wish I could pretend he was only inspecting my form. But I knew better.

Even the smallest reaction—a tremble, a breath too fast—he would count as a mistake.

So I stood still, masking the chill crawling up my spine, burying the way my stomach twisted beneath his gaze.

Finally, the clap came—three slow beats like a clock winding down. Permission.

“You did great, my darling little Nix,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Though… there were mistakes.”

That word struck like a whip. I flinched inside, but kept my expression soft. Playful. Submissive.

“Thank you, Father. Should I keep practicing to fix them?”

“No,” he said smoothly. “You should rest. I have some friends coming tonight, and you’re going to entertain them for me.”

I nodded. “Yes, Father.”

I turned and slipped off the mat, counting my steps by habit, by the texture of the ground beneath my feet. As I made my way toward my trailer, the sounds of the circus picked up around me—the clatter of equipment, grunts of exertion, and barked instructions. The others were still training. They would be for hours.

They always whispered as I passed, though they thought I didn’t know.

They believed I was his favorite. That I wanted his attention.

But if they saw the truth—if they felt what I felt—they’d understand.

I’d trade anything to be invisible to him.

I walked past them without slowing, tuning out the whispers that always flared up when I passed. Let them talk. Their voices slid off me like rain on the tent canvas—unwanted but expected.

Next came the freak show tent. It was quieter here, less chaotic than the main performance space. The sounds were softer—low conversations, the faint creak of wooden platforms, the subtle shuffle of restrained movement. Some of them performed, sure, but most people just came to gawk. To stare.

I hated it. Not just because I’m blind.

It’s because I know the truth—they’re not freaks.

Not really.

But none of them know that.

I was just steps from my trailer when a hand grabbed my arm, and another clamped over my mouth. I barely had time to react before I was yanked into the shadowed edge of the freak’s tent—where the air smelled like dust, old paint, and something caged.

Before I could twist free, the hands released me. I swung my fist instinctively toward the source of the scent and heat.

It was caught midair.

“It’s just me, Nix.”

Hearth’s voice—low, familiar, frustratingly calm—slid into my ears. I eased slightly but still jerked away from him, snapping, “I told you not to come near me, Hearth. If the ringmaster sees us together, I’m screwed.”

“I know, it’s just… the freaks need your help, Nix.”

I went still, weighing the risk. My pulse ticked at my throat, steady but sharp.

“How many?”

“Six. I managed to fix four of them, but I’m tapped out. Completely drained. And if they’re not at their best tomorrow…” He trailed off, but I didn’t need him to finish.

I already knew what happened when they weren’t perfect. Maybe they didn’t get it as bad as I did, but the ringmaster made sure everyone suffered.

His words pressed against my ribs like weights. I exhaled through my nose.

“Fine. But it has to be like every other time. They can’t see my face. You don’t say my name. Not even a whisper.”

“Of course,” Hearth said, with no hesitation in his voice.

I nodded once, letting him guide me through the back of the tent where the smells were thicker—wax, burnt rope, smoke, old sweat. I could hear soft voices ahead, hushed but tinged with pain and nerves. The kind of silence that wasn’t restful. The kind that waited for punishment.

He let me go just outside the edge of one of the freaks’ habitats. I could hear someone singing—soft, low, almost mournful.

Rin.

This had to be Rin’s space.

His voice had an impossible pull, the kind that curled inside your ribs and made you want to follow it anywhere. He’s a siren, and like most of his kind, his song can compel people to do just about anything. That’s why the ringmaster keeps him wired into the whole damn circus—a mic rigged in his habitat, his voice pumped through every speaker like a drug.

His voice wasn’t as smooth as usual. There was a rasp beneath the melody, like cracked glass under silk. It told me more than words ever could—his vocal cords were strained, maybe even damaged. He shouldn’t be singing at all.

Hearth returned soon after, his footsteps soft but purposeful. He took my hand and guided me toward the edge of the tank. Mist cooled my skin, and the air smelled faintly of salt and damp stone.

He helped me sit, fingers steady at my elbow.

“He’s already here,” Hearth murmured. “Waiting. And I tied the cloth. He can’t see you.”

His voice was low—thankfully soft enough that Rin wouldn’t catch the words.

“Well, hello again, mystery doc. Long time no see,” Rin called out, his voice hoarse but still teasing, still playing the part.

“You wouldn’t have to see her again if you hadn’t damaged your throat,” Hearth said, guiding my hand until my fingertips rested gently on Rin’s neck. “How did it happen?”

Beneath my fingers, I felt it—the smallest flinch, quick and guarded. Most people wouldn’t have noticed. But I did.

Because I knew that reaction. I wore it too.

I didn’t need to ask. I already knew.

Rin is the ringmaster’s second favorite.

And when I can’t entertain him… Rin has to.

I let my magic surge from my fingertips and slip into him.

It moved like smoke through his veins, blind like me—but searching, reaching. It found the pain curled deep in his throat, raw and sharp, and wrapped around it like a second skin. I focused, steadying my breath, letting the magic take hold.

Once it had a firm grip, I slowly began to draw it out—easing the ball of agony from his body with a tenderness no one had ever given me.

A beat passed.

Then the pain left him, and something solid formed in my palm. Warm, pulsing.

A marble-sized ball of pain.

I closed my fingers around the marble of pain and reached my other hand out toward Hearth.

I hated needing help like this—hated how it made me feel like I was broken, and fragile. But I didn’t know the freak’s tent well enough to walk it blind and alone. Not here. Not safely.

Hearth took my hand without a word and guided me out of Rin’s habitat.

Only once we were fully outside did I lift the pain marble to my lips and swallow it whole.

The sensation hit instantly.

It didn’t hurt.

It fed me—filling the empty place inside like warmth poured into a hollow.

I’m a demon who feeds on pain.

When I take it from someone, it heals minor injuries—the body stitching itself up as the agony leaves. I swallow the pain like a meal, and it fills my stomach, warm and sharp and strangely satisfying.

But the ringmaster… he uses me. Forces me to take their pain, then refuses to let me feed on it. Keeps me starving. Weak. Just compliant enough to obey.

Not that I’d have much of a choice anyway.

Blind as I am, I wouldn’t even know where to find food on my own—let alone steal it.