Mist curled low around the trees as the party emerged from its ghostly grip, weary from their journey. Before them, just beyond the mist’s reach, stretched the strange, flickering lights of the Carnival. Lanterns swayed in the cold breeze, casting eerie shadows across the tents. Laughter echoed from within—distant and uncertain, like joy rebuilt from sorrow. Silhouettes moved between the canvas walls: scaled shapes, limbless forms, beings whose outlines defied easy understanding.

At the head of the group walked Rainer. Cradled in his arms, wrapped carefully in a traveler’s cloak, was the four-foot porcelain body of Hildy. Her delicate face was painted with care; her joints, intricately hinged and carved from polished wood. Though beautiful, she was unmistakably not human. As they approached the Carnival’s edge, her glassy eyes blinked slowly, taking in the surreal wonder.

Then, with a faint buzz of static, a hidden speaker within her chest came to life.

“Is this… a dream?” Hildy’s voice was small and halting, childlike and distorted by the mechanical filter.

“No, Hildy,” Raven murmured. “But maybe it’s somewhere you can feel safe. People here… they know what it’s like to be changed.”

Suddenly, a figure dropped from the air in a graceful sweep of wings. Amelia, the Carnival’s aerialist, landed in a crouch before them. Her bat-like wings folded behind her like a velvet curtain. Pale makeup still clung to her cheeks, a faint smear of stage blood at the corner of her lips. Gone was the vampiress of the ring; now she was simply Amelia—kind-eyed and vulnerable beneath the smudged eyeliner.

She smiled as she saw the party—then faltered when her gaze fell on the porcelain figure in Rainer’s arms.

“What is this?” she asked, hesitating as she stepped closer.

Hildy’s porcelain head turned toward her. A faint crackle. Then:

“Amelia?”

Amelia froze. Her eyes widened. The name hit like a blow—confusion first, then fear, then the slow creep of recognition.

“…Hildy?”

She stepped back, wings twitching, voice catching in her throat.

“What… what happened to you?”

“She… she said it was a gift. A way to stay forever. She said I’d never grow old… never get sick again.” Hildy’s voice trembled. “I want to wake up. I want my skin. I want to run. I want to cry… but I don’t even breathe anymore.”

Amelia’s heart sank in her chest. She reached out, hand trembling, and gently brushed her fingers against Hildy’s porcelain hand. Knowing the horrors of the realms, she ceased her questioning.

“There are many kinds of life,” she said softly. “We can’t always go back… but we can move forward. If you’ll let us, we’ll help you find a new way to be.”

“A way that’s not alone?” Hildy asked.

“No one is alone here.”

Behind Amelia, the Carnival’s residents began to gather. They said nothing—just watched with calm, quiet presence.

Then a commanding figure approached.

She was tall, her skin gleaming like polished obsidian under the moonlight. Her long, dark hair was braided with mourning ribbons, and a black-bladed greatsword rested across her back, wrapped tightly in silencing cloth. Her cuirass shimmered with sigils older than memory.

Isolde stepped forward and knelt to meet Hildy’s glassy gaze. Her ember-bright eyes studied the girl not with pity, but with recognition.

“Flesh can die. Wood can break. Porcelain can crack. But your will endures,” she said. “You are not what was done to you. You are what you choose next.”

A faint metallic hiss came from the sword on her back—as if scenting guilt or grief. Isolde placed a hand on its hilt to silence it.

“She’s traumatized,” said Tobias. “She needs time. Not judgment.”

“Mercy is not the same as indulgence,” Isolde replied, without turning. “I will not lie to her about the cruelty of the world.”

She looked back to Hildy.

“But you are not alone anymore. If you have strength left—even the smallest flicker—we can help you find a place among us. You will not be coddled. You will be challenged. And you will not be left behind.”

Hildy looked to the other troupers.

“Like them?”

“All of us are broken,” Isolde said. “But none of us are discarded.”

She stood.

“Come. The Carnival is your home—but it is also a crucible. If you endure it… you may yet become something greater than you were.”

And with that, Isolde turned, leading them into the lantern-lit heart of the Carnival.