Lea returned to her apartment, the streets of Lacrosa quieting behind her as the sun dipped low. She pced the shopping bags carefully on the table and stepped into the open space of her room, mirrors catching her reflection from every angle.

  For a moment, the thrill of the dressing room came back— then it crashed down. The poses she had tried, the subtle tilts, the imagined command of her presence, all felt suddenly… cringe.

  "Urghh...", she groaned.

  Her cheeks warmed as she stared at herself directly, no mask to hide behind. She could almost hear her own inner voice sneering at her for pretending so theatrically.

  She tugged off the coat and gloves, folding them neatly, trying to regain the calm composure she normally carried.

  Malediction hummed faintly inside her, a subtle pulse at the edges of her perception, reminding her that power wasn’t about fir or pyfulness, it was about influence, subtlety, control.

  The pose of the child-like wonder had no pce here, at least not yet. Lea let out a soft, self-deprecating sigh, running a hand through her hair.

  She looked at her reflection one st time, half amused, half irritated at herself. Next time, she thought, less theatrics, more precision.

  The city outside moved on, oblivious, while she quietly acknowledged the lesson... even the smallest indulgence in performance could hit harder than any curse.

  A tug at her mind made the situation even worse, a target of her ritual was progressing... only the target was herself...

  After a shower and a quick change of clothes, also washing her clothes and putting them up to dry. It took her an hour to do all of that.

  She has to carefully check the instructions, which were somehow transted into Lounese when she got back. Good clothes need good maintenance. It would be simpler to bring it to a undromat, but she can't trust people with such expensive clothes.

  Done with the work of today, Lea headed outside when the sun is going down, opening her parasol to hide in the darkness.

  Today, she would not mess with Dan; her destination was the fairground.

  =0=0=

  Lea leaned herself right beside the gates, looking at the fairground just right outside the city. The sun was dipping behind the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and golds, and the flickering nterns of the fairground cast long, trembling shadows across the streets below.

  From here, she could see the tents and wagons sprawling across the open lot, performers moving about with rexed precision, and children running ahead of their parents in bursts of ughter.

  The smell of roasted nuts, sugar, and dust wafted up to her perch, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to appreciate the simple spectacle before the edge of her caution returned.

  Her eyes scanned the crowd, noting the figures moving just a fraction too gracefully, the ones whose movements held the unmistakable precision of Pathstriders. Unlike normal people, they feel more... complete.

  Some carried themselves like hunters, others like observers, blending in with casual townsfolk but impossible to miss if you were paying attention.

  Lea’s mind ticked over the possibilities... How many had come? Were there watchers here specifically targeting her, or was this just a gathering of curious Pathstriders drawn by the circus' reputation?

  Her grip tightened on the handle of her parasol, the familiar weight comforting as she calcuted distance, escape routes, and the line of sight.

  Even though the fairground was still open freely to the public, she knew that for someone like her, the real performance hadn’t yet begun.

  And the presence of other Pathstriders, unknown, silent, possibly dangerous, meant that her observations had to be careful, patient, and precise.

  She tilted her head slightly, letting the shadows of the tents shift across her eyes, and whispered under her breath, almost to herself...

  "How many of you came to watch… and how many came to watch me?"

  Leaning back slightly, she allowed herself one more gnce at the unfolding chaos below, a subtle thrill threading through her nerves.

  =0=0=

  The circus grounds were alive with noise. Children ughed as the strongmen tested their weights; fire-breathers spat sparks into the cooling night; the animals stirred restlessly in their cages.

  "Mr. Dickenson, where should I move this?", an employee held up a wooden box with no bel on it.

  The man in a fancy red tuxedo, the owner of this circus, Dickenson, twirls his mustache with a smile, "Oh, that? Pce it near the entrance, it's a gift for the guests!"

  "Yes, sir!", the employee cheerfully replied.

  Inside, the air was thick with incense and old perfume, cloying enough to sting the eyes. Its paint fked in the mplight, its velvet curtains drawn, its door bolted shut. Candles lined the cramped walls, their fmes bent unnaturally, swaying to a rhythm no wind carried.

  Dickenson stood at the center. No sequins, no painted grin—only a worn suit, threadbare at the cuffs, as if he had stripped away the mask of 'owner' to reveal something raw beneath.

  On the floor, drawn in ink that shimmered like wet tar, spread a circle. And within it - two masks, joined at the temple, one frozen in wild ughter, the other dripping eternal tears. Comedy and Tragedy.

  The symbol of The Maker.

  Dickenson’s voice was steady, but it carried the cadence of a man reciting lines he had practiced countless times.

  “Maker of Roles;Weaver of Lies;Lord of Curtain and Script!"

  "Hear me!!"

  He pced his offerings carefully, like props on a stage... a puppet’s cracked head, a silver bell with no tongue, feathers from a dove, still warm from flight. And finally, a rolled program from the st performance, the ink already smudged by too many hands.

  "The city believes it is the audience...!" he whispered, bowing to the masks in fervent madness, "But you and I know the truth. There are no spectators. Only actors, and the py has already begun!!"

  The bck ink rippled. The painted mouths moved. The smiling mask stretched wider, revealing white teeth where there had been only paint. The tragic mask’s hollow eyes sank deeper, its lips curling into a soundless cry.

  The candles fred, their fmes bending outward, as if the room itself had become a theater and the air the stage curtain.

  Dickenson pressed his hand into the circle. The ink crawled up his arm like threads being stitched into his flesh. He did not flinch.

  "Yes..." he breathed, almost trembling now. "I accept the role. Ringmaster, fool, herald— whatever mask you choose, I will wear...!! Give me the lines, and I will speak them!! Give me the stage, and I will set it afme!!!"

  He straightened, eyes gleaming with fervor, "The fairgrounds will open at dusk. The crowd will come for lions, for jugglers, for doves. They will ugh, they will cry, they will believe. And they will never realize they are already bound in your script...!!!"

  In the suffocating dark, only the two masks glowed— faces peering through the curtain, eager for the py to begin.

  Dickenson’s final whisper rang out like a benediction, sharp with fevered joy.

  "Absolute Cinema!!"

  But something interrupts his prayers, from the darkness behind him— footsteps.

  He whipped his head around, instantly commanding the puppets to restrain the intruder.

  But it was all futile, hair as white as snow, stale and short. Eyes that seem like voids themselves, bck and lightless.

  Like a dancer, she spun and stepped around the incoming puppets. Lightly tapping them to move out of the way.

  She merely smiled wickedly, standing in front of Dickenson, "Greetings, follower of The Maker."

  "Wh-Who are you?!", he stamered, almost falling over.

  "Sincir Apocrypha, a pleasure to meet you.", she repeated her greetings.

  That name rang a bell in his head, not only the most wanted woman in the mystical and mundane world, but the most dangerous creature in this world. Died several times, but always came back as if nothing had happened.

  Dickenson knew he was no match— but his god took priority!!

  "Rex~ I'm here to help you.", she stopped him as he was about to attack, "Here."

  She gave him a talisman with a sigil on it, a book with an eye in the middle, and a booklet, which seemed to be an instruction book. Cautiously, he read the first page...

  "!!!", his eyes widen in shock.

  "Have fun~!", casually, she stepped out of the caravan.

  Dickenson chased after her, but when he opened the door... no trace of Sincir was here...

  A clown came over, "Is there something wrong, Mr. Dickenson?"

  Quickly putting on his mask of the affable owner, Dickenson shook his head, "Nothing, I feel like I saw my wife, must've been a mistake."

  The clown nodded in understanding, "I see, you should drink your medicine, our lives depend on you, Mr. Dickenson."

  The employees knew he had hallucinations about his te wife, the co-owner of the circus, after her tragic death due to an illness; he had been taking medicines to alleviate those hallucinations.

  "I will.", he nodded, going back inside.

  With a swipe of his hand, the prayer room transformed into an office-cum-bedroom.