The tent erupted with Vega's booming voice, cutting through the evening's fatigue. "And thus concludes our grand spectacle, dear friends! We hope you've enjoyed this glimpse into realms beyond your wildest imaginations! We shall be here for the next five nights, so spread the word!" The Melstien workers shuffled out. Their metics clinked and scraped as they shuffled toward the exit—a discordant orchestra of exhaustion and decay.
Daglan sat nursing fresh cuts stinging against his skin. Performing with Azrael was merciless. He'd pushed Daglan beyond limits he hadnt known he had. Each brutal practice had transformed him—his movements coming easier, more fluid. Causing a quiet confidence to now fester within him.
Kento stood nearby, towel in hand, water droplets clinging to his hair from the evening's water-infused-juggling-routine. While Ingrid washed fake blood from her face.
The silence between the teens was thick with unspoken emotions. This was their last week together. The impending departure weighing on Daglan. His heart oscillated between sorrow and excitement. Yet the promise of exploring new cities and potentially finding Rozeree sparked a wild hope that danced just beneath his skin.
"So do you think they liked the show?" Kento asked, dropping down beside him and Ingrid. Daglan's gaze followed the workers shuffling back toward Melstien's towering walls.
Unlike Bolgue, Melstien's factories stood at the city's edge, bordering dark, murky waters of the Sleeping Shallows. Vega had explained they cleaned the shallows, purifying waters poisoned by industrial waste.
"By the looks of it, they'd like anything that got them away from Melstein." Daglan's responded grimly. "This country is wrong. One day when I'm strong enough, and the world knows my name, I want to come back and set this place straight."
Ingrid's gaze was hard with sadness, her dark brown eyes clouded with doubt. "I'm not sure thats possible, Daglan. Do you really think one person could change the whole country?"
"Of course he could!" Kento burst into his dramatic theatrical mode, voice rising with practiced flair. "May I remind you the tale of—"
"We don't care." Ingrid's sharp retort sliced through Kento's performance, her tone venomous and unexpectedly harsh. The sudden outburst shocked both boys into stunned silence.
Ingrid's fingers twisted in the fabric of her costume, as she diverted her eyes.
Kento rubbed the back of his head and faked a light chuckle, "I'm sorry Ingrid."
"No. I'm sorry…" She mumbed before rushing off into the distance.
"You should go talk to her." Kento smirked, nudging Daglan in his ribs.
"Cut it out!" Daglan protested, but it rang hollow, his eyes already betraying him as thet raced Ingrid's retreat with a mix of confusion and concern. "Do you think she is gonna be okay?"
"Of course she will," Kento said, leaning in with a sly grin. "She's upset you're leaving, and she's sweet on you. You'd have to be blind not to notice. Go on—talk to her before it's too late."
"You really think so?" Daglan muttered.
Kento rolled his eyes dramatically. "Think so? I'd bet my best juggling pin on it!" He gave Daglan a playful shove, sending him tumbling off the rotted log they had been perched on.
Daglan found Ingrid laying on her cot, back to him, shaking profusely.
At the sound of his footsteps she stopped moving, still as a statue.
"H–hey Igrid, whats up?" He tried, but she remained silent.
"You know I cant stay… I want to… I just… I'm really sorry…"
"I know…" Her response was a ghost of sound, quiet and sad, barely audible.
"Are you going to be okay?"
"Yeah."
Daglan stood in the suffocating silence, every nerve ending crackling with uncertainty. The space between them felt like a minefield of potential missteps. His mind raced—a frantic symphony of doubt. Should he comfort her with a touch? Could he reassure her with words? Would his presence be enough?
The moment stretched, razor-thin and trembling.
What should he do?
But Ingrid chose for him.
Before Daglan could even react, she shot up with desperate intensity. Her arms locked around his shoulders. Her face buried deep in his nape. Her breath hot and ragged against his skin.
"Just promise you'll come back when youre all big and famous okay?" The question emerged as a broken whisper, tears slowly seeping into Daglan's shirt.
He responded with a hug just as tight, holding her like she might dissolve if he let go.
"I promise."
Ingrid pulled away to meet his eyes—those deep brown eyes he'd come to know so well—brimmed with tears that caught the fading light. They stared at each other, and Daglan saw the way her lower lip trembled slightly, fighting against the tears
"You'll be the strongest in the world," she declared, her voice thick as molasses. "And you'll get Rozeree back. I know it."
The words struck him with their absolute certainty. Daglan could feel the intense belief burning in her eyes. Her gaze fierce, filled with a hope that seemed too large for her small frame.
Despite the tears. Despite the sadness. She looked at him as if he were already the hero he desperately wanted to become.
Later, Daglan and Kento lay sprawled in the dirt, bodies molded into the earth's uneven contours. "So you're really gonna leave?" Kento asked, their gazes locked on the star-studded canvas above. Pinpricks of ancient light that stabbed through the darkness—fragile, distant promises.
"Yeah. Thats the plan ."
The night air hung heavy, thick with the industrial breath of nearby factories. Wisps of smog crept across the sky like ghostly fingers, momentarily veiling the stars.
"And you still don't want me to come?"
"How many times are we gonna talk about this? You remember what happened in Bolgue. It's not safe and my problems aren't yours."
"Sure, sure. And if I wanna come anyways?" Kento asked, his tone light but his eyes sharp with something unspoken.
Daglan groaned, covering his face with a hand. "Kento, don't. I mean it. It's too dangerous."
"Yeah, yeah. But you're not exactly good at stopping me when I've made up my mind." Kento's grin was faint, but the edge in his voice lingered like a challenge. The smog continued its slow march across the sky, each passing cloud echoing the sharp, creeping doubts that threatened to erode Daglan's resolve.
"How'd it go with Ingrid?"
"It went fine. To tell you the truth I think I like her too."
"Well obviously!" Kento laughed, his breath forming a thin cloud in the frigid air. "You're both so weird around each other that everybody knows." Daglan felt heat rise to his cheeks. Embarrassment washed over him, momentarily breaking him from his somber thoughts of departure.
But it was only a moment.
The reprieve dissolved as quickly as it had come. The dark cloud of uncertainty rolled back in, thick and oppressive, settling over Daglan's shoulders like a fur cloak. The vast emptiness of the wastes stretched around them - a canvas of silver starlight and ink-black shadows.
"It is never fun when someone leaves the troup." A voice broke their stargazing, making them jump. Mortis materialized beside them. His pupils dilated so they nearly consumed hid entire eye and seemed to absorb the starry landscape around them.
"You two remind me so much of my best friend Lucio and I." Mortis said quietly, his eyes tracking the boy's movements. A light chuckle escaping his lips.
"Lucio?" Kento piped up, obviously intrigued. "Don't leave us is suspense Mortis!"
A shadow passed over Mortis' face—something between pain and remembrance. For a moment, he was silent, as if weighing his words carefully. Then, almost reluctantly, he said, "he taught me everything I know. He was a bit younger than me, but he was skilled far beyond his years. He disappeared one day to never return." As he spoke, Mortis stared into the stars as if looking far past them. His gaze seemed to pierce through the celestial tapestry, searching for memories long hidden.
"His mother and father left shortly after to track him down but never came back… I still wonder what happened to him…"
Words tumbled out like a desperate confession, raw and unfiltered.
"Do you think I can survive out there?" The words gushed from Daglan's lips before he could even register his speech. "You think I'll come back one day?"
Mortis gave a low, quiet chuckle—a sound that seemed to carry the weight of countless untold stories. When he turned to Daglan, his catlike eyes gleamed with an intensity that cut through the darkness. Within those eyes, Daglan could sense a depth of knowledge that made his own aspirations feel impossibly small.
"I couldn't tell you, Daglan," Mortis said, his voice a gravelly whisper that seemed to rise from the very ground beneath them. Each word measured, weighted with an understanding that comes from years of survival. "We can only hope for the best and keep training. Right?"
"Right."
The next morning, Daglan's mind was a battleground where excitement and dread waged an endless war.
The circus whirled around him like a distant dream, its familiar rhythms suddenly feeling foreign and ephemeral. The day's routine - once so concrete - now seemed to slip through his fingers like grains of sand. Training sessions and performances blurred together, his muscles moving through well-practiced motions while his thoughts and emotions wandered. Even breakfast tasted different, each bite a reminder of numbered meals remaining.
The daily clean-up, once mundane, now felt sacred - each movement a ritual he wouldn't experience much longer. The comfortable groove he'd carved for himself in circus life seemed to mock him. Questions plagued him like persistent shadows. Where would he sleep? How would he train? Would he ever find this sense of belonging again, or would chaos and loneliness become his only companions?
Practice sessions came and went, lunch passed without registration, and afternoon training melted into evening preparations. The circus folk maintained their usual cheer, their smiles unchanged, their routines unfaltering. Their normalcy felt almost cruel - didn't they understand everything was about to change? The question that had started as a whisper grew louder with each passing hour. Why was he leaving this sanctuary?
"Daglan?" The voice came as if through water, distorted and distant. "Daglan!" Kento's sharp call finally pierced through the fog of his thoughts like a blade through silk.
"Hey you're almost up, are you ready?" His friend's eyes were searching, knowing. Daglan felt exposed under that gaze. Lately Kento had developed an uncanny ability to read him, as if his emotions were letters written boldly across his face. Still, he attempted to deflect, knowing full well his friend wouldn't be fooled.
Sweat trickled down Daglan's neck as he moved through the familiar routine with Azrael, but his movements lacked their usual precision. Each gesture felt disconnected, mechanical, his mind a battlefield of conflicting loyalties. The razor-sharp whistle of Azrael's blades pierced the air, finding flesh where they should have met empty space. Fresh cuts bloomed across Daglan's skin, each one a testament to his fractured focus.
The crowd roared their approval at the performance's end, oblivious to the imperfections that made Azrael's presence beside him radiate frigid disapproval. They bowed in unison, the applause washing over them like waves against stone.
The moment they cleared the stage, Azrael's hand shot out like a viper, fingers twisting in Daglan's collar. He lifted the boy effortlessly, bringing their faces close enough that Daglan could see the individual fibers in his mentor's bandages.
"What was that?!" The words carried heat enough to scorch, Azrael's eyes blazing with an intensity that threatened to reduce Daglan to ash.
"I...I don't know. I can't..." The words crumbled in Daglan's throat as the weight of his choices crashed over him. Tears welled, each one carrying the image of faces he'd have to leave behind. Shadowy memories of Rozeree. The burning need for vengeance.
CRACK!
The slap exploded across Daglan's cheek, the pain slicing clean through his spiral of emotion. Through the stinging haze, he met Azrael's gaze again. The fury still burned there, but underneath, flowed a current of understanding, like cool water beneath winter ice.
"Pull yourself together!" Azrael's voice rose like thunder in the confined space. "Do you think this is some kind of game?! You almost died in Bolgue! You think you can take on this world with that half-assed attitude you just showed?! You think you could save anyone with that pitiful resolve broken simply by leaving safety behind?! You're weak!"
The impact knocked the air from Daglan's lungs as Azrael hurled him to the ground, following through with a boot planted firmly on his chest. The cold kiss of steel found Daglan's neck as Azrael pressed his kukri against the tender flesh of his throat.
"I'm going to kill you right here and now," the blade bit deeper, "what are you going to do about it?" Terror and confusion warred in Daglan's mind, his muscles frozen between fight and flight.
"Okay... I get it, I'm sorry. I won't let it happen again." The desperate plea only stoked Azrael's fury. His second kukri appeared like a silver flash, the paired blades forming a lethal cross at Daglan's throat. They bit into his flesh with practiced precision—deep enough to draw blood but not to kill. The warm trickle down his neck sent ice through Daglan's veins as the full weight of his situation revealed itself.
"I think that's quite enough, Azrael." Vega's words slipped through the shadows, his delicate fingers slithering onto Azrael's shoulder.
Azrael remained motionless, a statue carved from malice. "Take your hand off me, Vega," Azrael commanded. Darkness erupted from him—a palpable wave of bloodlust that drenched Daglan in cold sweat.
But Vega's response was immediate and equally terrifying. That familiar arctic chill from the Bolgue incident crystallized the air around them. Though Vega stood hidden behind Azrael's form, his presence pressed down like a mountain of ice. Two monstrous auras clashed in the confined space—one a maelstrom of violence, the other an ancient, calculating cold. The sheer force of their opposing wills made Daglan's vision swim, his consciousness threatening to flee.
After what felt like an eternity, Azrael broke first. He rose with a contemptuous huff, turning away from Daglan.
"Fine. But don't bother me when you fail."
The next night, Daglan did not perform. From the back of the crowd, he watched the show in silence. The familiar buzz of wonder and awe surrounded him. The same sounds he'd made himself, though it felt like a lifetime ago. Strange to think it had only been a few weeks since he'd first sat here, jaw slack with amazement at the feats before him.
His chest swelled with pride as Kento stepped into the spotlight, juggling more knives than Daglan cared to count. He was proud to have called this place home while he could. Proud of the family he had made.
When the final act ended and the crowd began to shuffle out, Daglan moved with them. His steps matched their tired cadence as the bitter stench of the Sleeping Shallows crept into his lungs and made his eyes water. At least, that's what he told himself as his vision blurred.
His feet carried him forward while his heart pulled him back, each step a battle between what he wanted and what he needed. The circus lights grew dimmer behind him, like stars being swallowed by Melstien's perpetual smog. But he forced himself to keep walking, one foot in front of the other, pretending his shoulders slumped from factory fatigue rather than the crushing weight of goodbye.
The night air tasted of ash and endings as he disappeared into the anonymous mass of workers, just another shadow in a city of shadows. Behind him, the circus glowed like a jewel in the darkness - his home for the last time.