As the twins and I stepped back into the big tent, the smell of sawdust and oil paint hit me—home and hell wrapped into one. The air hummed with tension, the kind that lived behind every velvet curtain and whispered through every performer’s sigh. A thousand ghosts of applause still clung to the wooden beams above, their echoes rattling the rafters.

Before I could make it more than a few steps inside, a heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder.

“Where the hell have you been?” the Ringmaster barked, his voice cracking through the murmur of rehearsals like a whip.

Before I could answer, the twins moved as one—Phyx stepping in front of me, Blaze taking the other side. Both stood tall enough to block me from view, their presence a wall of muscle and heat. The gesture was protective, instinctive, but it only stoked the Ringmaster’s irritation.

“It was our fault,” Phyx said evenly. “Nix was working herself too hard, so we took her somewhere to relax. That’s the only reason she wasn’t practicing her performance.”

“I don’t care about that,” the Ringmaster snapped, his tone sharp as glass. “Your new investor doesn’t want anyone touching you but him. And you go off with two males—alone.” His voice dropped to a hiss. “If he finds out and pulls his funding, that’s on you.”

The accusation coiled in my stomach like a serpent. My jaw tightened. “Nothing happened,” I said flatly.

He exhaled through his nose, the sound thick with disbelief, but after a pause, he waved one jeweled hand dismissively. The scent of his cologne—a heavy, musky thing that clung to power and sweat—filled the air between us.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll choose to believe you… for now.” His tone softened just enough to make it worse. “Actually, I was looking for you three. None of you will be performing today.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“I believe depriving the audience of your act will make them hungry for you. By the time the final show arrives—four days from now—they’ll be desperate for your return. Consider it a strategy.” He smirked, the kind of smile that made my skin crawl. “You have four days to make your performance perfect.”

******

The days blurred together in a rhythm of exhaustion and bruises. The twins and I worked ourselves to the bone, running the routine until my palms split and the silks burned against the raw skin. The scent of sweat, chalk, and smoke filled the tent, heavy as fog. My muscles trembled with each climb, each twist of fabric that caught around my legs like a lover’s grip.

By the last night before our performance, the pressure felt unbearable. Every breath tasted like failure. Every drop of sweat that rolled down my spine reminded me of what was at stake—Hearth’s life, bound in the Ringmaster’s deal.

The twins tried to help—offering teasing remarks, stolen moments of rest, small distractions that never lasted long enough. But every joke, every laugh, every brush of skin only reminded me of how fast time was slipping through my fingers.

We sat in their tent—a wide, open space filled with warmth and faint golden light that smelled of smoke and fur. The heat inside the twins’ habitat wrapped around me like a blanket. I could feel it pulsing through the floorboards, humming beneath my bare feet.

The Ringmaster would have lost his mind if he had known I was here alone with them, but after the week we’d had, I didn’t care. Besides, until recently, the twins had hated me—or at least, they’d pretended to. I still didn’t understand what had changed. Maybe they finally saw me as something more than the Ringmaster’s favorite pet. Maybe they pitied me. Maybe both.

I stretched, trying to shake off the heavy fatigue weighing down my limbs. The air shimmered with warmth, lulling me into that fragile place between wake and sleep. Before I could ask if they wanted to run the routine again, Phyx’s voice cut through the haze.

“Blaze and I have been thinking about taking you somewhere.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to walk me into the forest again,” I said, stifling a snort of laughter.

Blaze chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating like a purr. “No, not the forest this time. But you can’t tell anyone where we’re taking you.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” I said, arching a brow. “It’s not like I can see where you’re taking me, anyway.”

Their laughter filled the tent—rich, twin echoes that carried the same teasing undertone.

“Joking aside,” I continued, brushing my damp hair back, “should I change, or is this okay?”

I gestured toward the thin, close-fitting outfit I always trained in—performance silks dyed in shades of red and gold that clung to me like liquid fire.

Phyx’s voice softened. “Your performance clothes are fine, but… you could wear what you want.”

Those words stopped me cold. Wear what I want. The phrase felt foreign, almost dangerous. The Ringmaster had always chosen what I wore—on stage, in camp, even to sleep. If he didn’t say otherwise, I simply defaulted to my silks.

The thought of choosing something for myself was strange—and a little thrilling.

“I’ll change then,” I said quietly. “When is it?”

“Meet us at the front of the Freaks’ Tent when the sun goes down,” Blaze said.

I nodded and slipped out of their habitat, the humid air giving way to the cool night outside. My thoughts immediately went to my closet, tucked away behind a curtain in the corner of my trailer. It was filled with clothes the Ringmaster forced me to wear—too tight, too sheer, too his. None of them ever felt like mine.

Which meant I was going to need help.

From Stych.

Stych was one of the oldest beings in the circus—or at least, the most assembled. A patchwork creation of mismatched skin and seams, stitched together from the bodies of the dead and the mind of a long-forgotten fashion designer. His fingers were delicate and trembling, but his craftsmanship was flawless.

He wasn’t a performer. The Ringmaster kept him hidden away, buried deep in the back of the prop tent, surrounded by piles of half-finished garments and the steady hum of an old sewing machine. The air there always smelled like waxed thread and rose oil—a cruel joke of beauty over decay.

He sewed everything: tents, costumes, props, even the occasional skin graft when a performer tore too much flesh during a stunt. Stych didn’t speak much, but when he did, his voice was soft and oddly melodic, like he’d been born to whisper secrets through lace.

And he liked me—or at least, I thought he did. He’d once said I was “made of silk and shadow,” which I chose to take as a compliment.

The prop tent was the logical place to go. Finding it wasn’t hard—it always sat tucked behind the freaks’ tent, the air thick with the mingled smells of dust, dye, and the faint tang of mothballs. The hard part was getting through it.

Navigating that chaos blind wasn’t the challenge—it was the clutter itself. The tent was a labyrinth of forgotten creations. Mountains of torn silks, broken hoops, half-painted props, and rotting wood filled the space like a graveyard of discarded performances. That was why no one came to Stych unless they absolutely had to. The path to him was a maze only fools, or the desperate dared to walk.

What most of the performers didn’t know, however, was that there was a shortcut—a slit in the back of the tent, a hidden entrance the Ringmaster had made for himself. I felt along the familiar seam of fabric and slipped through, ducking into the dim pocket of quiet that marked Stych’s workspace.

“Ah, if it isn’t silk and shadow,” he drawled, his voice rich with sarcasm. “Though there seems to be a little less shadow these days.”

I snorted. “So I guess you heard too.”

“Of course not. Gossip doesn’t reach my tent,” he said smoothly. “You just don’t have as much shadow clinging to you as you used to.”

I shook my head. “I’m not even going to ask what the hell that means. I came to ask a favor.”

“Let me guess—you need another one of those distasteful little dresses the Ringmaster insists I make for you?”

“No,” I said quickly. “Actually, you can have those back.”

That got his attention. I could almost hear his eyebrows rise. “Well, that should be an interesting story. You’ll have to come back and tell me how that happened. Now—what do you want from me?”

I hesitated, fidgeting with the hem of my sleeve. “The twins want to take me somewhere, and they told me to dress as myself, but…”

He finished for me, a faint amusement in his voice. “You don’t know how to do that.”

“Something like that,” I admitted.

He gave a soft snort. “And what makes you think I can help, if you don’t even know what ‘yourself’ looks like?”