Chapter 1 — Six Years After the Curtain
The Tent of the Void never showed itself the same way twice. That night it had slipped into the port city like a bloodstain on a white sheet: from above it looked like an ordinary house, up close it was a living den of red canvas, sighing wood, and corridors that sang. The members of the Red Circus spoke of it as a house or a theater depending on their mood; to outsiders, it was a legend, to allies a sanctuary, and to members a chosen prison.
Six years had passed since the night a basement boy picked up a card and heard laughter in his head. The boy was now called Nullis Schiftel; on stage, in files, in whispers, he was The Joker. Twenty-one years old, cracked mask, cutting gaze. The boy who scavenged metal scraps had transformed into a confirmed Actor: troublesome, unpredictable, exceptional.
The troupe gathered in the script room—an old rehearsal hall where the curtains had eyes and instructions were read like plays. The Scarlet Jester sat at the center, red leather and bells that tinkled when he moved his hand. Around him, masked faces: Lysandre the Tightrope Walker, Mireya the Red Dancer, Kairn the Mime, Varo the Fire Eater, Hanz the Puppeteer—each posture a signal, each silence an agreement.
The Jester spoke in a voice like a dry drum.
"The Veyrien House is exhibiting a stabilization mirror at the Dawn Museum. An artifact that reinforces the Sharings."
He let the sentence hang. "They call it the Mirror of Concord. It stabilizes the fragments the nobles grant to their Submitted. If we leave it in place, the Order will gain immunity to our interventions."
He fixed his masked gaze on Nullis. "You, Joker. You and your… particular talent. You'll lead the assault. Lysandre and Mireya will cover the accesses. Kairn will control external sound. Varo will breach if necessary. Hanz will handle extraction. Corven—if you have intel, speak now."
Corven, black pants, crow mask, raised a finger. "Veyrien's Submitted operate in pairs. Two patrols on the east wing. They carry Rank II Sharings—armored against basic illusions. But there's a ritual joint: a shrine in the basement, guarded by four elite Submitted."
The Jester smiled—a painted smile. "Perfect. We don't pick the locks; we burn the keyhole. Mission: steal the mirror, destroy or neutralize the Submitted. No live captures. No witnesses."
Nullis nodded without flourish, sliding his fingers into the pocket where his deck of cards rested: a small grimoire of black and red paper, worn by prayers and lies. He touched Truth and Bluff slid together against his thigh like promises.
They left at night. The troupe exited in silence, stretched into shadows, melted out of the Tent like a theater troupe diving onto the stage. The sleeping city felt nothing—until the performance began.
⸻
The Dawn Museum
The Museum stood proudly in the wealthy district: stone facade, decorated columns. Inside, the halls breathed order; the cases gleamed, protected by sensors and ritual frames. The Circus dispersed into positions like a ballet: Lysandre on the roof, Mireya at the garden-side windows, Kairn at the perimeter, Hanz ready with his occult gear boxes.
Nullis approached the rear glass; he'd always loved reflective surfaces—they tell polymorphic truths. He slid a thin blade between the glass and the frame, murmured a phrase in a dry, precise rhythm, charging the inner strip with his voice: "Here, this window was never closed."
It wasn't a fairground lie. It was a stake: he discreetly took the image of a childhood afternoon—the taste of a fruit, a neighbor's laugh—and placed it on the table of his will. The mark in his palm throbbed, as if the card were demanding interest.
The lock unmade itself as if its memory had been erased; the alarm didn't have time to complete its signal before the glass opened and the troupe slipped inside.
Lysandre joined Nullis in the antiquities room; his gestures were an icy choreography.
"You always play like a reckless fool," he whispered.
"I like it sporting," Nullis replied, voice calm, almost amused. "And you like your symmetry."
One step, two steps. Mireya, from the mezzanine, let invisible threads flow: several guards staggered as if puppeteers were pulling their balance. The first engagements were swift: Kairn imposed his silence—a bubble where even a finger snap became a murmur—and Varo, like a black comet, streaked through the corridors in a rain of ashes to neutralize mechanical defenses.
The Submitted were disciplined. They wore white coats and blank faces—active Sharings that echoed a House's will. They didn't fight for themselves; they obeyed. But obedience doesn't protect against surprise.
One guard sensed the air change; when he raised his hand, he felt he'd already raised it forever. The dissonance worked: Nullis breathed, without much noise, "You didn't fire." The bullet the guard thought he was aiming liquefied from memory; it disintegrated into metal confetti, and the guard's gesture erased itself as if he'd never chosen.
That was the signature: local reality had been forced to accept the version Nullis imposed. But the price hit immediately: Nullis stepped back, a vertigo crossing his mind; a distant image, a known face, lingered for a heartbeat out of reach of a memory that had just blurred. He didn't notice it in the moment. The show pressed on.
⸻
The basement—where the Mirror was kept
The corridors leading to the shrine were like veins: heavy, ritual. The four elite Submitted were there, formed in a circle, linked by bluish seals. Their Sharing power reverberated: resistance to illusions, immunity to basic manipulations. That was the real challenge.
The plan unfolded: Lysandre and Mireya would draw attention upstairs—a dance of silhouettes and ropes—while Nullis, Kairn, and Varo passed through the rear. Hanz, perched near the ducts, activated his boxes: mechanisms that caught magical waves and twisted them.
The first encounter was brutal. The Submitted charged, cold, efficient. Varo turned into a rain of sparks to cross their lines and tear superficial seals; Hanz launched devices that jammed ritual bindings. But the arc of battle closed around the shrine: the Sharings held firm.
Nullis waited for the moment logic could waver. He drew Truth from its holster and aimed it at the floor before the Submitted. His voice was just an instrument: "Here, you can no longer ignore your own forgetting. You remember being human."
He placed the stake—a memory of a morning when he'd cried hiding behind a carton—and threw it into the theater of his mind. The scene stirred. The Submitted faltered, not because they felt pain, but because an image they'd never had birthed a hole in certainty: the Sharing showed them a reflection of humanity. In that hole, flesh could unlock.
Hands that had been weapons grew hesitant. One of them, the captain, stepped back, eyes blurring with new light. Varo seized that sliver of hesitation and turned it into an opening: an ash blade severed ties, Mireya dropped a rope like a waltz, Lysandre countered a spell. In less than a breath, the four were neutralized.
But Nullis paid for the break. The memory he'd used was no longer fully inside: when the dust settled, he searched in vain for a word he knew he'd known—the name of a childhood street. A syllable had vanished. A hole had formed. He kept his calm; they had to move.
Hanz found the Mirror in an alcove, surrounded by glyphs and a liquid that reflected like another sky. He wrapped it in sealed cloth and, with one of his pincers, placed it in a case. "We're out," he murmured.
⸻
The extraction and the price
The troupe flowed out like a current. Kairn maintained silence so external communications stayed blind; Lysandre and Mireya made an elegant, deadly screen to slow reinforcements. Corven, watching from the roofs, signaled an approaching patrol. Nullis invented a rule: "Here, these men already believe it's over." He paid—this time with a bitter taste, a sensation of lost warmth he associated with a lullaby voice. The men passed without seeing. Then, as always, reality made its small correction; the illusion crumbled a bit later, when a witness woke screaming from a dream too precise.
They escaped. No civilian truly understood what had happened. The Consortium's reports noted: "Incident at the Museum; losses." But the documents were already altered: the Mirror had been marked, the stele tampered. At Veyrien, Submitted fell—bodies whose files were erased.
Back at the Tent, there was a brief celebration. The Jester clapped; the Circus's laughter bounced off the drapes. They uncorked bitter wine, sang, the troupe rewound the evening like a satisfied herd. Nullis, however, withdrew to Hanz's workshop: he needed an adjustment. Hanz looked at the mark in the palm, felt the vibration.
"You pulled hard, kid," Hanz said, pragmatic. "You made two heavy stakes."
Nullis placed his hand on the table, still searching for the word that was gone. "What did I lose?" he asked without showing anguish.
Hanz shrugged. "Crumbs. A name. Sometimes it's a dream, sometimes a whole hour. You patch the holes with something else; that's why you stay lucid. But the stitching doesn't always hold."
Later, in the night, the Tent's Silence seemed to thicken. Nullis sat on the edge of a platform; he felt Zarkhael like a breath behind his neck, curious and distant.
The demon's voice wasn't human—it was more a placid observation. You played well, Nullis. You did what I wanted to see. But you pay, as agreed. Would you like to trade more often?
The young man looked at his fingers. He gathered the sensation then murmured, mute narrator of his own life: "I chose to pay. As long as it works." A silence, then: "But each time, the piece costs me a bit more fabric."
⸻
Epilogue of the night
The troupe celebrated its victory; in the Tent, masks were held high, old masks whispered their advice. The Mirror of Concord was placed in a sealed chamber—for now their trophy. But the artifact vibrated with faint light, as if, even wrapped, it resisted the darkness.
Nullis lay down afterward, without sure dreams. He searched, in the sad clarity of dawn, for the syllable he lacked. He recalled the silent promise he'd made to the boy he'd been: keep a name, keep a trace. Memory didn't return the piece. He let his hand fall. The mark burned like a forgotten contact.
Far away, the city awoke. The Circus, for its part, closed its curtain. Versions of the night were already circulating: that a band of vigilantes had struck, that a fire had spiraled, that a cult had raided. The Consortium's nobles woke more vexed than wounded; Submitted fell like broken pawns and certain files kept blanks the archivists would never understand.
And Nullis—actor with stained hands, possessor of a power that warped the world—felt, more than ever, the gap between the person he was and the roles he played. He knew winning cost dearly. He also knew tomorrow the troupe would have another play to perform. The Tent awaited its cues, and Zarkhael smiled in the dark.