Forcing himself to his feet, Azter ignored the screaming protests of his injured body and staggered toward the performer's area. He found a spot near the edge, where the other performers were gathering to watch. None of them acknowledged him; their faces were blank, their eyes tired.
Out in the ring, the announcer was already sending off the previous act with dramatic flair. "Ladies and gentlemen, what an exquisite display of bravery and skill!" he proclaimed, his voice ringing out over the roaring crowd.
As the applause died down, he raised his arms to command silence. "But now, my dear audience, we come to the moment you've all been waiting for. The pinnacle of tonight's entertainment, the act that sets our circus apart from any other!"
He paused, letting the anticipation build before continuing in a lower, conspiratorial tone. "Tell me, friends, how many of you know what a Witch is?"
A murmur ran through the crowd, and the announcer didn't wait for a response. "Ah, of course you do! How could you not? Witches, those vile creatures who twist and destroy the very essence of our beloved Kervaris! The ones who have shattered harmony, who spread ruin wherever they tread!"
His voice grew louder, angrier, as he whipped the crowd into a frenzy. "These monsters—these abominations—are a plague upon our realms! And yet... we are fortunate."
The crowd leaned forward, hanging on his every word.
"Fortunate," he continued, "because we have done what others could only dream of. We have captured one of these creatures. A witch who would dare to destroy the order and peace of the world now brought low before your very eyes!"
A gasp rippled through the audience as a large cage, cloaked in a heavy tarp, was slowly lowered from above. It landed in the center of the ring with a dull thud, the chains rattling ominously.
The announcer strode to the cage, placing a hand dramatically on the tarp. "This young witch," he said, his voice dripping with disdain, "has been in our care for years, carried across the realm to face the justice of the people she's wronged. Tonight, dear friends, you have the honor of delivering that justice yourselves."
With a flourish, he ripped the tarp away, revealing Lucille inside the cage. She sat on the floor, her posture relaxed and her expression one of exaggerated sadness, as though mocking the role she was forced to play.
The crowd erupted into cheers and jeers, their anger stoked to a fever pitch.
"This," the announcer declared, pointing to Lucille, "is the act you've all been waiting for. The only act where you—the noble audience—are allowed to participate! Each time, we bring an assortment of tools for you to choose from, so the punishment may fit the crime. And tonight, one lucky individual with a special ticket will have the honor of carrying out that punishment!"
The audience roared louder than ever, their excitement palpable. The announcer grinned widely, his voice rising above the chaos.
"Prepare yourselves, my friends! The final act of the night is about to begin!"
As the audience settled into a buzzing anticipation, the announcer raised his hands theatrically. "Now, my friends, we come to the moment of fate. Who among you will have the honor of carrying out this glorious punishment?" With a wave of his hand, a swirling wisp of blue Veronic energy materialized in the air, expanding into an ornate whiteboard. The crowd gasped in amazement as the announcer spun it around, revealing a blank surface.
"This," he declared, "is the Board of Judgment! A most enigmatic artifact, crafted by the finest Veronic smiths, capable of divine selection!" His voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper, drawing the audience closer. "Upon its surface will appear a special symbol—one that matches a lucky ticket in the crowd!"
With a dramatic flourish, he waved his hand, and glowing glyphs began to dance across the board. The crowd leaned in, breathless with anticipation, clutching their tickets tightly.
The symbols froze, leaving a bright golden sun in the center of the board. "Search your tickets, friends!" the announcer bellowed. "Who holds the mark of the sun?"
A few seconds of frantic checking passed before a young dryad in the third row jumped up, waving his ticket. "It's me! I have it!" he shouted, his voice brimming with excitement.
Jealous murmurs rippled through the crowd as the announcer beckoned the dryad forward. "Step into the light, young one! And tell us your name so all may know the chosen arbiter of justice!"
The dryad, with bark-like skin etched with intricate floral patterns, stepped forward, his face a mix of nerves and pride. "I... I'm Raelon," he said, bowing slightly.
"Raelon!" the announcer repeated grandly, rolling the name across his tongue as though it were sacred. "A name that will echo through the annals of this circus's history!"
He motioned to a nearby pedestal where three grim tools rested under glinting spotlights: a barbed whip, a skewer glowing red-hot inside a crucible, and a heavy mallet embedded with crude iron nails. The announcer gestured to the instruments with a reverence that bordered on worship.
"Behold, the tools of retribution! The instruments by which you, noble Raelon, shall mete out punishment to the witch!" He turned back to the crowd. "But first, the rules! The witch wears a most ingenious collar, attuned to her life force. It will glow blue when she approaches death, ensuring our chosen arbiter does not go too far. For if she were to perish too soon, would that not rob us of her proper suffering?"
The crowd, momentarily displeased, erupted into cheers when the announcer framed it as a mercy for their entertainment. Raelon nodded, gripping the first tool—the glowing skewer—with trembling hands.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
The announcer's voice boomed once more as the crowd leaned in, their excitement palpable. "Choose well, Raelon! Let your hand be guided by the will of the people and the justice they demand!"
Raelon's trembling hands hovered over the instruments of punishment before he finally seized the glowing skewer. The crowd erupted in cheers, chanting, "The leg! The leg!"
Lucille sat still in her cage, her violet eyes locked on Azter standing in the shadows. Her face betrayed no emotion, but a faint twitch in her jaw told him all he needed to know.
Raelon hesitated only for a moment before plunging the red-hot skewer into her thigh. A sickening hiss filled the air as the iron burned her flesh. Lucille's body jolted reflexively, and a sharp cry escaped her lips. The crowd roared with delight, their collective bloodlust reaching new heights.
"Again! Again!" the crowd chanted.
Encouraged by their cries, Raelon struck again, this time twisting the skewer as he pulled it free. Blood flowed freely down her leg, staining the floor of the cage, but Lucille gritted her teeth, her defiance still shining through her pain.
"Marvelous! A show of bravery from our young arbiter!" the announcer declared, whipping the audience into a frenzy.
Raelon, emboldened by their cheers, stabbed the skewer into her side, then into her arm. Each strike drew more blood, and each pained gasp from Lucille brought the crowd closer to ecstasy.
Azter's hands trembled, his nails digging into his palms until blood seeped from the crescent-shaped marks. His chest heaved as he struggled to keep his composure. How can they cheer for this?
Finally, Raelon set down the skewer and reached for the barbed whip. The crowd chanted louder, "The back! The back!"
The whip lashed through the air with a sickening crack, tearing through Lucille's cloak and into her flesh. She arched her back instinctively, biting down on her lip to keep from screaming. The barbs caught her skin, dragging fresh trails of blood with each pull.
Once wasn't enough. Raelon struck again and again, his initial hesitance replaced by a grim determination as he fed off the crowd's energy. By the fifth lash, Lucille's back was a mess of torn skin and blood, her once-pristine hair matted and clinging to her sweat-soaked face.
Azter felt his rage bubbling over. His breaths were shallow and quick, his muscles tense to the point of pain. One day, he thought, his mind repeating it like a mantra. One day, I'll rip this place apart.
The final act came when Raelon hefted the mallet. Its sheer weight made his arms tremble, but he approached the cage with resolve. "The head! The head!" the crowd screamed, baying for more violence.
Raelon swung the mallet down with all his might, striking Lucille's head. Her body crumpled under the force, blood pouring from a gash on her temple. The Veronic collar around her neck flared with blue energy, but the crowd didn't care.
"Keep going!" someone shouted, and Raelon obliged. The mallet came down again, this time on her shoulder, then again on her legs. Each strike left Lucille a more broken and bloodied heap.
Azter's breath hitched as he watched, every fiber of his being screaming to act, to do something. But the chains of fear and helplessness held him fast. The world around him blurred, his vision tunneling as rage clouded his mind.
Finally, the collar glowed so brightly that the announcer had to step in. "Halt, noble Raelon!" he called, raising a hand. "You have done your duty! Behold, my friends, the spectacle of punishment wrought by your own hands!"
The crowd cheered wildly, tossing flowers and coins into the ring. Raelon stepped back, his face a mix of pride and exhaustion. The announcer placed a hand on his shoulder, raising his arm high. "Let us celebrate our chosen hero, Raelon! A name to be remembered!"
The dryad returned to the audience, where he was lifted onto the shoulders of other attendees, praised, and lauded as a hero.
Meanwhile, Lucille lay in a bloody heap in the cage, her breath shallow but steady. Her violet eyes remained open, glancing briefly at Azter as if to say, I'm still here.
Azter's heart pounded in his chest, his nails now digging deep into his palms. Blood trickled from his fists as he shook with silent fury. He watched the cheering crowd, the grinning announcer, and the discarded figure of his only friend in the world. Monsters, he thought bitterly. All of them. One day, I'll destroy this circus and every single one of you.
The announcer, still basking in the thunderous applause, raised his arms high, silencing the crowd with a dramatic flourish. "Ladies and gentlemen! What you have witnessed tonight is a performance unparalleled, a spectacle unmatched across the realms! But let me assure you—this is merely the beginning!"
The crowd erupted into cheers again, the sound grating on Azter's ears like nails on glass. His jaw tightened as he forced himself to remain still, his trembling hands still clenched into fists.
The announcer paced the center of the ring, his voice booming like a preacher delivering a sermon. "This circus, your circus, has brought you the most daring acts, the most unbelievable feats of bravery and skill! But we are not content to rest on our laurels! No, we raise the stakes with every show, pushing beyond limits, creating legends before your very eyes!"
Azter's gaze flicked to Lucille, her broken form being hauled out of the cage by two workers as if she were just another prop to be tidied away. He wanted to move, to fight, to tear apart the chains that held them both in this nightmare. But his legs wouldn't obey, his body frozen by the weight of reality.
"And where, you ask, will the greatest performance of all take place?" The announcer paused dramatically, scanning the crowd as if awaiting their response. "The Royal Human Capital!"
A collective gasp rippled through the audience, followed by whispers of awe and excitement.
"Yes, my friends!" the announcer bellowed, his arms wide open in theatrical jubilation. "In the heart of civilization, under the gaze of kings and nobles, we will deliver a performance that will shake the very foundations of Kervaris!"
Coins rained down onto the stage from the audience, their eagerness almost tangible.
Azter's teeth ground together, his nails biting deeper into his palms. The same people who cheered for suffering, who paid for cruelty and called it entertainment, were the ones being celebrated. His anger simmered beneath the surface, threatening to boil over.
"And you, my dear friends," the announcer continued, "have the chance to be part of history. Tickets will go on sale starting tomorrow! Secure your place among the privileged few who will witness the pinnacle of our artistry!"
The crowd roared in approval, many already shouting their intentions to buy tickets. Azter's stomach churned. These people were already eager to see more pain, more suffering. How could they call themselves civilized?
The announcer's grin widened, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "And rest assured, dear patrons, we will not disappoint. More danger, more drama, and more acts of unparalleled daring await you. Each show greater than the last, each performance a masterpiece of spectacle and skill!"
Azter's vision blurred with rage. More danger, more drama? He thought of the next child they would throw into the ring, the next innocent who would bleed for the amusement of these monsters. He thought of Lucille, dragged away like garbage after enduring unspeakable pain.
The announcer's voice grew softer but no less fervent. "Ladies and gentlemen, remember this night, for it is but a glimpse of the wonders we bring. Go home, spread the word, and prepare yourselves. The Circus of Eternus will reign supreme in the Royal Human Capital!"
The audience leapt to their feet, their cheers echoing through the tent. Azter forced himself to stand, his body weak but his anger stronger than ever. He looked at the cheering crowd, at the announcer basking in their adoration, and made a silent promise.