I stepped into the main theater feeling instantly on edge, my nerves doing that unpleasant little thing where they decided to vibrate at frequencies usually reserved for tuning forks or very anxious hummingbirds.
The sensation had nothing to do with danger in the obvious sense and everything to do with timing, that subtle awareness that something important had arrived slightly ahead of schedule and was now waiting patiently for me to catch up.
The space felt different somehow—heavier, as though the air itself had thickened with unspoken expectation. It pressed in around me, charged with the kind of anticipation that made breathing feel deliberate, almost laborious, like the suspended heartbeat just before lightning split the sky and static crept across your skin with the promise of something imminent crackling in the silence.
The familiar red velvet seats stretched out before me in tiered rows that climbed toward that impossible artificial moonlight streaming through windows that shouldn’t exist.
At the far end, the stage loomed with quiet authority, its burgundy curtains drawn tight and heavy, folds gathered there like a theatrical secret waiting to be revealed.
I drifted a few steps farther down the center aisle, my boots sinking into the carpet so deeply it swallowed the sound of my movement, and for a brief, irritating moment I wondered if I’d somehow managed to miss Mavus entirely.
And then I heard it.
Clapping. Slow, measured, deliberate—the sort of applause that carried mockery behind its appreciation, echoing across the empty theater with perfect acoustic clarity.
I spun around so fast my dress flared with the motion, instincts snapping into place before conscious thought could catch up. My gaze shot upward, locking onto the source of the sound—and there he was.
Mavus lounged in the second-tier seating as though he’d been there all along, perfectly at ease, one leg crossed over the other in a posture that radiated infuriating comfort, his painted face barely visible in the dim light but that distinctive sad clown makeup unmistakable even from this distance.
"Bravo!" he called out, "A masterful performance tonight. You’ve painted the city’s mid-section in shades of your ambition, redistributed power with casual grace, and managed to keep yourself alive in the process. The Director would be proud—or perhaps deeply concerned. The line between the two grows increasingly blurred when one achieves success through methods that should, by all reasonable metrics, result in spectacular failure."
I planted my hands on my hips again, tilting my head up to address him properly. "Well, you know me—I like to keep people guessing. Predictability is boring, and I’m many things but boring isn’t one of them."
I paused, then added with pointed curiosity, "Speaking of keeping people guessing, are you going to tell me where you’ve been this whole time? You vanished right after we left for the hot springs and now you’re reappearing like some kind of cryptic stage magician who thinks dramatic timing is a personality trait."
Mavus’s smirk deepened just slightly, a barely perceptible shift in his painted features. "Where I’ve been exists in the territory of questions that presuppose answers owe themselves to the asker. Time, as I’ve come to know, is a river that flows in multiple directions simultaneously for those who understand its currents—I’ve been precisely where I needed to be, when I needed to be there, doing what circumstances demanded. The specifics are... let’s call them inconvenient truths that serve no purpose except to satisfy curiosity, and curiosity, while delightful, rarely changes the fundamental nature of what is."
I rolled my eyes. "So that’s a no, then. You’re going to be mysterious and philosophical instead of just saying ’I was doing crime stuff’ like a normal criminal mastermind."
"Normal," Mavus repeated, tasting the word like fine wine. "What an extraordinary concept to apply to anyone operating within our particular sphere of existence. But you’re correct in your assessment—my personal business is of no concern to you, not because I don’t trust you with the information, but because we have more pressing matters to discuss. Matters that directly concern your continued survival and advancement in a city that devours the unprepared with gleeful efficiency."
I was about to protest—had my mouth open and everything, ready to deliver some witty comeback about how his secrecy was both annoying and slightly suspicious—when I sighed instead, shoulders sagging slightly because I knew Mavus was right.
Whatever he’d been up to, whatever mysterious business he conducted in the shadows, it genuinely didn’t matter right now compared to the mountain of problems I was currently navigating.
"Fine," I said at last, "You win this round. What pressing matters did you want to—"
A tap on my shoulder. Light, precise, carrying just enough pressure to be unmistakable.
I shrieked—an embarrassingly high-pitched sound that probably shattered glass somewhere in the building—and spun around to find Mavus standing directly in front of me.
Not in the second tier seating where he’d been literally two seconds ago, but right here, close enough that I could see the intricate details of his clown makeup, the precise lines where white paint met natural skin, the faint scar cutting through one of his painted tears.
"How did you—I just saw you—you were up there!" I stammered, pointing frantically at the now-empty second tier. "That’s not—there’s no way you moved that fast without—without any displacement, any sound, any indication of movement!"
My brain was doing somersaults trying to reconcile what I’d just witnessed, because even with enhancements—especially with enhancements—crossing that distance in the span of a blink should’ve created something—air displacement, a sound, a visual blur—but there had been nothing.
I staggered back on instinct, eyes never leaving Mavus’s painted face, my body desperately attempting to manufacture distance between us and whatever impossible thing he’d just done, before promptly bumping into someone.
Someone solid, warm, definitely human-shaped. I spun again—third time in as many seconds, I was getting dizzy—to find Mavus standing behind me now, his hands clasped casually behind his back as though this were all perfectly normal.
I quickly glanced back to the spot where he’d been standing before, the space directly in front of me where I’d just been staring at him, and found it completely empty.
My head whipped back and forth between the two locations—empty, Mavus, empty, Mavus—my enhanced perception struggling to process just what the hell was going on.
Mavus gestured with one hand toward the stage curtains, the motion fluid and economical, and I followed his indication to see a hand waving enthusiastically from the gap between burgundy fabric, beckoning me to follow with exaggerated enthusiasm. I tilted my head directly behind me—where Mavus had been standing a heartbeat ago—and found that space empty too.
With a long-suffering sigh that carried all my frustration and confusion, I strolled toward the stage with deliberately casual steps that suggested I was absolutely not bothered by any of this impossible nonsense.
I climbed the stairs at the side, crossed the wooden boards that creaked slightly under my weight, and pushed past the curtains into that familiar backstage area with its scattered props and dim lighting provided by a handful of candles positioned at random intervals.
Mavus stood there among the chaos of theater equipment—painted wooden trees leaning at tired angles, costume racks sagging under the weight of discarded roles, broken furniture waiting patiently to be repaired—with his hands clasped behind his back and that same faint smirk playing across his sad clown features.
"You’ve come far with your basic understanding of Excarnic magic," he began without preamble, his voice carrying that measured quality of a professor addressing a particularly interesting student. "Much farther than I expected you to progress in such a short span of time, actually. It speaks to either natural talent or desperate necessity driving rapid adaptation—likely both, in your case. This progression acknowledges, finally, that you weren’t lying when you claimed to be a Concarnic mage. The evidence has become... undeniable."
I lit up immediately, excitement flooding through me so intensely I actually bounced on my toes. "Does this mean you’ll finally teach me?"
Mavus nodded once, a single dip of his head. "Yes. But first..." He paused, his painted eyes tracking across the cluttered backstage area with visible distaste. "We should change the scenery. This space lacks the appropriate atmosphere for what I intend to demonstrate."He snapped his fingers—a sharp, crisp sound that echoed with more weight than it should have.
I blinked once.
And then it was gone. All of it. The props, the lighting, the very walls themselves, the wooden boards beneath my feet—everything had simply... vanished.
In their place stood the inside of a circus tent, vast and impossible, the curved ceiling stretching overhead in striped canvas that alternated between deep lapis and gold so vibrant it seemed to glow from within.
We stood in a pit of sand—actual sand, pale and fine, covering the ground in a perfect circle maybe thirty meters across—and overhead a spotlight shone down from no discernible source, just pure illumination hanging in midair like captured moonlight.
The colors were vivid, almost painfully so, each shade saturated beyond what seemed natural, creating an aesthetic that hovered somewhere between beautiful and slightly nauseating. I was awestruck, completely baffled, my mouth hanging open as realization crashed over me in waves.
It was an illusion.
All of it was illusionary magic—but on this level, with this degree of sensory detail, creating entire environments that felt tangibly real... I stomped my boot in the sand experimentally, watching it shift and displace exactly how actual sand should, individual grains catching the spotlight and throwing back tiny reflections.
I could feel it through my boots, the texture different from the wooden stage, could hear the soft whisper of movement, could even smell something faintly dusty and mineral that suggested genuine earth.
"I didn’t think something like this was possible," I breathed, my voice barely above a whisper. "Illusions are supposed to be visual tricks, maybe auditory if you’re skilled, but this—tactile feedback, olfactory elements, complete environmental replacement..." I glanced up at Mavus with genuine awe. "This is incredible. How are you even—the magical resources required to maintain something this complex must be—"
Mavus was already peeling off his button-up shirt, the motion smooth and practiced. My breath hitched slightly—not because of theatrics, but because the man beneath the paint was built. Not massive like Brutus, not brutally imposing like Grisha, but compact and lethal, muscle layered dense and defined, every line speaking of restraint rather than excess.
Faint scars crisscrossed his torso in patterns that told stories I couldn’t quite read, pale marks against skin that looked almost too perfect beneath the painted face.
"I won’t be going easy on you this time," he said calmly, throwing the shirt aside with casual ease, "What I’m about to demonstrate is the most basic application of Concarnic magic."
I protested immediately, holding up the bandaged stump of my left hand with pointed emphasis. "Wait, I’m at a disadvantage though. I just lost my fingers playing a rigged gambling game! Maybe we could postpone the intense magical training until I’m not, you know, actively maimed?"
His painted eyes tracked to my hand, studied it with clinical interest, then returned to my face. "Disadvantage," he said slowly, "is merely advantage viewed from an angle of pessimism and insufficient creativity. You have one functional hand remaining—that limitation forces efficiency, demands precision, eliminates the luxury of sloppy technique that two-handed practitioners often indulge in. Pain sharpens focus. Injury teaches caution. Loss breeds innovation. These are not weaknesses to be accommodated but tools to be wielded."
He settled into a fighting stance, his body shifting with predatory grace. "So the question becomes... will you allow circumstance to define your limitations, or will you transform circumstance into methodology?"
I stared at him for a long moment, weighing his words with the careful scrutiny of someone trying to determine whether they’d just been handed genuine wisdom or an exquisitely articulated excuse to get beaten up while injured.
"Is this truly necessary," I asked slowly, "or are you just doing this for your own amusement because you like watching me struggle?"
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then that faint smirk returned—so subtle it might’ve been imagined if I didn’t know him better. Just the slightest upward curl at the corners of his mouth beneath the painted sadness, the expression of someone who’d just been handed confirmation that the question itself was irrelevant.
And then he lunged.