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Chapter 1 – The Starry-Eyed Acrobat
The air inside the circus tent is thick with anticipation. The audience—families, travelers, and wide-eyed children—watch with hushed excitement as Ailbhe (Ail) steps onto the tightrope. Their bare feet press lightly against the rope, toes curling for balance, bodies poised in perfect stillness before the act begins.
The tent's glow is dim, the only source of light coming from the burning gas lamps and flickering torches surrounding the stage. Ail inhales, blocking out the sounds—the restless crowd's rustling, vendors' murmur outside, the soft exhale of Shenqi, waiting in the wings.
And then—movement.
Ail steps forward, each motion precise and controlled. Their body is a study of grace, every tilt and shift measured to perfection. They perform a series of careful steps before launching into a slow backflip, their silhouette momentarily cutting against the dim light. No wasted effort. No hesitation.
The audience gasps. Not because the trick is grand, but because it is effortless.
Ail doesn't smile. Their face remains neutral, almost detached as if they are performing not for the people watching, but for themselves. Their movements are beautiful—too beautiful for a place like this.
A final flourish—a daring, weightless aerial twist, a perfect landing. The act ends. Applause erupts, but Ail is already thinking of something else.
Backstage, the air is filled with the warm, chaotic energy of the performers.
Bāgha, the beast tamer, hums as he brushes a tiger's fur, his large hands moving with surprising gentleness.
Zabavnyy and Skorbnyy, the eerie Russian jesters, dart between performers, their laughter sharp as knives as they flick playing cards at passing acrobats.
Avik, the rival acrobat, leans against a post with his arms crossed, watching Ail with narrowed eyes.
"Not bad," Avik mutters, his voice dripping with reluctant admiration. "Still boring, though."
Ail ignores him.
They pass through the lively crowd, weaving between fire eaters, jugglers, and dancers, heading straight for their tent.
Once inside, Ail crouches beside their bed and pulls up a loose wooden plank.
Beneath it lies a carefully guarded collection of magazines. Glossy, crisp pages filled with images of film stars, golden premieres, red carpets stretching for miles. The name "Aoife-Clíodhna" is printed in gold lettering on multiple covers.
Ail pulls out a magazine, fingers grazing over a photograph.
Aoife-Clíodhna, draped in gold and diamonds, her lips just barely curled in a smirk, eyes sharp and unreadable.
She is untouchable.
Ail stares.
Their breath is steady, their chest rising and falling in slow contemplation.
They whisper, so softly that only the stars outside might hear:
"I will be like you."