Azter pushed through the chaotic backstage area, ignoring the wary glances of other performers and workers as he searched frantically for Lucille. The dim lanterns hanging from the wooden beams above cast a weak light over the grimy surroundings, and the air reeked of sweat, blood, and stale alcohol.

“Lucille,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow, his pulse hammering in his ears. “Where are you?”

He stumbled through a narrow passage between stacks of props and discarded costumes until he finally spotted her crumpled figure in a dark corner. His breath hitched as he rushed to her side.

Lucille lay on the cold ground, her body a broken, bloodied mess. Her dark hair was matted with blood, and her bruised face was pale under the flickering light. She turned her head weakly at the sound of his footsteps, her lips curling into a faint, bitter smile.

“At least… they didn’t blind me this time,” she rasped, her voice barely audible over the din of the backstage commotion.

Azter dropped to his knees beside her, his hands trembling with rage as he struggled to find words. Her attempt at humor only made his anger burn hotter, the edges of his vision tinged with red.

“Lucille…” His voice cracked, his jaw tightening. “This isn’t right. None of this is.”

“Don’t…” she whispered, her hand weakly gripping his arm. “Don’t do anything stupid, Azter. If they think you’re a threat, they might actually kill you this time. And then I’d be… alone here.”

Her words stabbed at his chest, but his anger didn’t waver. He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms.

He knew the truth, the bitter reality they lived in. The announcer—no, the ringmaster, the owner of this wretched circus—knew Lucille wasn’t a Witch. He had crafted the lie to create the ultimate spectacle, feeding off the hatred and bloodlust of the crowds. And Azter knew that the same applied to himself.

The “unkillable warrior” wasn’t unkillable because of some miracle or his own resilience. The ringmaster made sure of that. Whether it was drugging the wolves to make them sluggish and disoriented or tampering with the props of other acts, it was all part of his grotesque business plan.

And the worst part, it worked.

“Bastard,” Azter muttered, his voice dripping with venom.

Lucille gave a weak chuckle that turned into a cough. “Yeah, he is. But we’re stuck with this… so don’t make it worse.”

Before Azter could respond, a shadow loomed over them. He looked up to see one of the performers, a lanky woman with a sneer plastered across her face. The woman held a green bottle, the faint glow of Veronic energy swirling inside it.

“Here,” the performer said with disdain, tossing the bottle toward Lucille.

Azter moved on instinct, snatching the bottle out of the air before it could shatter against her. His glare could have melted steel, but the woman just smirked and walked away without another word.

Azter’s hands trembled as he uncorked the bottle and knelt beside Lucille. She looked at him with a mixture of gratitude and sadness, her purple eyes dulled by pain.

“Don’t waste it all on me,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Use some on yourself.”

“Stop talking,” Azter muttered, his tone firm. He gently tipped the bottle to her lips, helping her drink some of the glowing liquid before pouring the rest over her worst wounds.

The Veronic-infused concoction worked quickly, the deep gashes on her body knitting themselves together before his eyes. Her mangled arm straightened, and the bruising faded to a dull discoloration. The transformation was astounding, leaving only faint traces of her earlier injuries.

When she tried to push herself up, Azter gently but firmly pressed her back down.

“You’re too stubborn,” she said, her voice tinged with frustration. “You should’ve used some on yourself.”

Azter gave her a faint smile, the anger in his eyes momentarily replaced by a flicker of warmth. “I’m tougher than I look, Lucille. You worry too much.”

She scoffed, her lips twitching into a weak smile of her own. “And you’re reckless. One of these days, that tough act of yours is going to get you killed.”

“Maybe,” Azter said, his gaze hardening as he looked toward the stage. “But not today.”

A soft, haunting chime echoed through the backstage area, piercing through the murmur of the other performers and workers. Azter and Lucille both froze for a moment, their eyes meeting in a shared understanding.

The ringmaster was summoning them.

Lucille tried to sit up on her own, but her body still trembled from the ordeal she had endured. Before she could protest, Azter knelt down and gently lifted her onto his back. Her arms looped weakly around his shoulders, and she rested her head against his neck.

“You don’t have to carry me,” she muttered.

“I’m not giving you a choice,” Azter replied, his voice steady but filled with an undertone of defiance.

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He trudged through the dimly lit backstage corridors, weaving past stacks of equipment and the occasional gawking worker. The air grew colder as they neared the gathering point, the muted voices of the other performers growing louder.

When they arrived, the performers were already assembled in a loose semicircle, facing the ringmaster. The man stood at the center of the group, his crimson suit immaculate, his presence radiating a sinister charm. His top hat and silver-tipped cane glinted under the dim lanterns, and his polished smile oozed mockery as he surveyed his circus troupe.

“Ah, my magnificent performers,” the ringmaster began, his voice smooth and theatrical, dripping with self-satisfaction. “Tonight, you have outdone yourselves yet again!”

He paced slowly, addressing the performers one by one, each word carefully tailored to stroke their egos. To the fire breather, he lavished praise on the daring display of flames. To the acrobat, he complimented their “death-defying elegance.” Each performer basked in his empty words, their weary expressions momentarily brightened by his approval.

When his gaze passed over Azter and Lucille, his expression didn’t falter, but he didn’t spare them a single word.

Azter was already prepared for the slight. Unlike the other performers, who had chosen to be here through contracts and were paid for their talents, he and Lucille were different. They had no contracts, no freedom, no choice.

They were slaves.

Sold to the ringmaster when he was five and she was four years old, their fate had been sealed by greedy hands and cruel smiles. Within a year of their arrival, they had been shaped—broken—into two of the circus’s most valuable acts. Azter, the "unkillable warrior," and Lucille, the "evil witch."

Seven years. Seven years of torment and near-death experiences, of walking a tightrope between survival and oblivion for the amusement of bloodthirsty crowds. The pain and fear had long since dulled, but the scars remained, etched into their bodies and souls.

Azter stood silently as the ringmaster continued his self-indulgent speech, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. He adjusted his grip on Lucille, her weight a reminder of everything they had endured—and everything they had yet to escape.

As the ringmaster concluded his round of praise, his smile widened. “Rest well, my stars! In three days, we perform in the heart of the Royal Human Capital. The stakes will be higher than ever, and the audience will be the most prestigious we’ve ever faced. Let us ensure this will be a show they will never forget.”

The performers cheered weakly, the ringmaster’s words a hollow comfort to those who knew better. Azter remained silent, his gaze locked on the man who held their chains, his mind racing with thoughts he dared not speak aloud.

Three days. It felt both far away and impossibly close. He tightened his grip on Lucille, her faint breathing grounding him in the moment. For now, all he could do was endure.

The ringmaster tapped his cane against the ground, the sharp sound cutting through the murmurs of the performers. "That’s enough for tonight," he said, his voice slick with feigned benevolence. "Rest up. Tomorrow we pack and prepare for the grandest journey yet—to the Royal Human Capital! Every single one of you must be at your best."

With that, he waved them off, his gaze briefly flicking over Azter and Lucille as though they were no more significant than the dirt under his boots.

The performers began to disperse, murmuring among themselves. Azter adjusted Lucille’s weight on his back and turned to leave, but the crowd jostled him as if he were invisible.

A shoulder slammed into him hard enough to make him stagger. Before he could react, another performer pushed past him, muttering something under their breath. His anger flared, and he began to turn, his free hand clenching into a fist.

Lucille, sensing his frustration, tapped his shoulder lightly and pointed to the metal collar wrapped around his neck. Unlike her own collar, which monitored her vital signs and limited how close she could come to death, his served a crueler purpose: to deliver excruciating electric shocks at the ringmaster’s whim.

Azter’s lips pressed into a thin line as his anger simmered. He knew why the collar existed—he had earned it with his rebellious nature in his early years of captivity. Back then, he had fought against everything, his rebellion fierce and unrelenting. It hadn’t changed his situation, but he didn’t regret it. Even now, he would rather bear the collar’s punishment than feel as though he had completely surrendered.

His eyes locked with the ringmaster’s across the room. The man’s gaze was cold, uninterested. To him, Azter and Lucille were nothing more than tools—pawns in his game of profit and spectacle.

Azter turned away, carrying Lucille through the backstage maze until they reached a neglected corner of the circus grounds. It was a space long abandoned, littered with scraps of wood and ragged cloth that had once been part of forgotten props. It was the only place they could claim as their own.

He gently set Lucille down on a bundle of rags, arranging them to make her as comfortable as possible. She gave him a tired but grateful smile. Azter sat down beside her on a broken piece of wood, his body still aching from his own wounds.

Before they could speak, another performer approached them, holding two chipped bowls of food. The smell hit Azter before he saw it—something sour and rancid, but edible enough to keep them alive. The performer tossed the bowls toward them with a sneer, the contents sloshing dangerously close to spilling.

Azter caught them and placed one beside Lucille, who remained silent. The performer glared at her with undisguised disdain before turning and walking away.

Azter’s jaw tightened as he handed Lucille her bowl. He knew why they were treated like this. The ringmaster had spun a convincing lie, convincing the other performers that Lucille was truly a witch. Her unnatural violet eyes which glowed in the dark, were his strongest evidence, a trait he had twisted into a mark of supposed evil.

There were other things the ringmaster used to back up his lie, but Azter didn’t want to think about them. He didn’t need to—he saw the results every day in the way the performers avoided Lucille like she was a plague.

Lucille took her bowl and began eating without complaint, the corners of her lips quirking upward in a faint smile.

“I saw some interesting outfits today,” she said between bites, her voice light and casual.

Azter raised an eyebrow, his own bowl untouched in his hands. “You’re really talking about fashion after what happened out there?”

Her smile widened slightly. “What else am I supposed to talk about? The crowd’s screams? The dryad’s aim? The whip leaving stripes on my back?”

Azter scowled. “I hate how happy they were about it. All of them, cheering and throwing coins like it was a damn festival.”

Lucille reached over and poked his arm. “And that’s why I talk about other things. If I focused on them, I’d lose my mind.”

He shook his head, finally taking a reluctant bite of the gruel in his bowl. “I don’t know how you do it. Pretend it doesn’t bother you.”

“It does,” she said softly, her tone losing its teasing edge. “But if I don’t find something to laugh about, something to focus on, I’ll fall apart. And if I fall apart, who’s going to keep you sane?”

He glanced at her, his frown softening. “Fair point.”

They talked quietly for a while longer, their voices blending with the distant sounds of the circus. Lucille’s optimism, though fragile, seemed to lighten the weight pressing on Azter’s chest.

When the conversation finally dwindled, they lay down on the rags, the hard ground beneath them a harsh reminder of their reality. Azter stayed close to Lucille, his body still tense with anger and exhaustion.

As sleep began to claim him, he thought about the next three days, the journey to the Royal Human Capital, and the horrors that awaited them there.