Something shifted in Jack.
He didn't notice it the night it happened, not fully. But from then on, the world reacted to him differently.
His footsteps felt louder, heavier—not in weight, but in consequence. When he stepped onto the stage, the
audience didn't just cheer. They leaned forward, compelled.
They needed him.
And he fed on that.
At first, he chalked it up to pride. The thrill of success. His painted smile widened, his movements grew
bolder. The slapstick grew more twisted. He'd pretend to choke on a scarf, only to pull a fake heart from his
mouth. He'd chase an imaginary rat through the stands, snapping his jaw at patrons.
The people laughed.
The people screamed.
He drank their reactions like wine. Each night he felt taller, faster, sharper. His aches faded quicker. His
balance never wavered. His eyes, once a dull brown, shimmered faintly in torchlight.
By the end of each show, he was buzzing. A hum beneath his skin. A pressure behind his teeth.
But sleep became harder. His nights were filled with heat, gnawing hunger, and images that didn't belong to
him: pale corridors, red moons, twisting silhouettes behind torn canvas.
Then, one night, he followed her.
She was a woman in the crowd. Middle-aged. Alone. She had laughed so loudly at his performance,
clapping harder than anyone. He watched her leave the camp, winding back toward the quiet edge of town.
He wasn't planning anything.
He told himself that.
But his feet moved of their own accord.
He caught up with her near the orchard road. She turned when she heard him, startled but not afraid.
"Oh," she laughed, "you gave me quite the scare, young man! You were magnificent tonight. What was that
bit with the hat and the chicken? I nearly—"
He didn't remember touching her.
He only remembered the sound. A soft sucking. Like breath pulled through cloth.
Her smile faded. Her eyes widened. Her lips trembled—but no scream came. Only silence as her body slowly
crumpled, folding in on itself like paper kissed by fire.
And Jack… Jack felt it.
Something entered him. Warm. Electric. Intoxicating.
A rush of memories. Her childhood. A brother lost to fever. A wedding she regretted. The joy of apples in
autumn. All of it passed through him in a blink.
And then she was nothing.
He stood in the dark orchard, panting, staring at the wilted remains at his feet. Not blood. Not flesh. Just
husk.
He wiped his mouth. There was no stain.
His hands trembled.
He went back to the circus as dawn approached. No one saw him return. Or if they did, they said nothing.
Eluna appeared at the water barrel that morning. Her reflection stared from the surface, but her eyes were
distant.
"You fed," she said, voice hollow.
He looked away. "It was an accident."
"No," she whispered. "It was a choice."
That day, his act was... otherworldly.
Even Morrow watched with quiet awe. Jack no longer tripped or juggled just to amuse. Now he performed
with terrifying grace. His pratfalls landed inches from terrified patrons, never miscalculated. His voice hit
registers no human throat should mimic.
The crowd roared. And Jack glowed beneath it.
Rosy came to him afterward, unsettled.
"You're different," she said. "They love you, but it's not the same. They're scared. I'm scared."
He tried to say something.
But she left.
That night, a dog disappeared from camp. No blood. Just a collar on the edge of the woods.
Then came the whispers.
Some said the bearded chicken-woman had nightmares. Others claimed Helena saw Jack speaking to
someone who wasn't there. Morrow dismissed them all—until he caught Jack standing in the center ring
long after everyone had gone to bed, whispering into the empty seats.
Morrow didn't confront him.
He returned to his wagon, lit a candle, and pulled out a worn leather case. Inside: paper, ink, and a seal with
a symbol rarely used.
He began writing.
"To the learned man at the southern cloister. Urgent," he scribbled.
Then, carefully:
"There is a boy here. A clown. He's not right. I fear what he is becoming. Please come at once.
Signed, Reeve Morrow."