And so, one by one, they followed the Shepherd’s call into his shadow, and the flock rejoiced, for it loomed ever deeper.

The city streets were bustling with activity that evening; masses of people were following the mountains of advertisements plastered on each street corner, and promoters were pointing them towards the marketplace.

“Come one, come all!” one yelled energetically. Another called “Magnificence awaits!” with enormous enthusiasm.

Each of the posters was wickedly vibrant and colourful, showing the greatest acts or beloved performers of the newest entertainment the capital had to offer and promising everyone who entered the black and red-striped tent a bewitching time. People who only recently moved to the metropolis had asked older residents what all the fuss was about and had swiftly received their answer—the greatest and most beloved wandering circus in all of Vyrethia, “The Three M’s”, had returned to the city. “Mirko’s Magnificent Madness”, or the “Three M’s”, for short, as some had come to rather creatively call it, was a wondrous and magical place, taking the worries and fears of everyone attending the show far, far away, even if just for one more night. Gods knew many—if not most—needed it in these bleak times. Inside the ginormous tent, the mood couldn’t have been better. The crowd was exceptionally loud that day, cheering at all the acts on display. Each and every visitor, young and old, rich and poor alike, was amazed by the artists who gave their all to entertain the audience. In one corner, jesters delighted the children, while in another, they spooked them. Sword swallowers demonstrating their bravery. Knife jugglers were either snatching their thrown, now falling, blades out of the air or hurling them towards one or multiple of their partners with all their might – in short, it was chaos, beautiful and entertaining chaos. Exactly the kind of chaos the wandering circus was known for. Exactly the kind Vora lived for. Nothing gave her more joy in life than the countless ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ their audience spoke in amazement – completely enraptured, as always, by the capabilities of Mirko’s troupe. The enormous tent was full to the brim, bursting at the seams, yet it didn’t look like the continuous stream of people would stop anytime soon. The promoters outside the circus had their most charming faces on, coaxing and beckoning everyone even mildly interested closer. Drums pounded, and flutes spun bright and playful notes into the air, only to be eclipsed by the ringmaster’s loud voice, announcing the beginning of their most beloved act – her.

“Ladies and gentlemen, most esteemed audience! Now to our most adored performer in all the madness! I give you the one and only, the girl who laughs at gravity – VORA!”

The crowd roared. Vora stood on a narrow platform high in the tent, her bare feet balancing on the worn wood; the world below her was a blur of faces and colours. She took a deep breath and felt the glowing thrum of anticipation inside her. For her, the present was the only place the world ever truly made sense, only seconds away from plunging downward. She leaned into a bow so exaggerated that the platform creaked as if in protest.

“Don’t worry!” she yelled down, her voice bright and clear while starting to wave energetically at the people below. “If I fall, Mirko’s just gonna catch me!” Laughter erupted from the ranks of the crowd, and even the ringmaster in question couldn’t hide his amusement.

“Stop waving like an idiot and grab the damn bar,” hissed her partner from the other platform. His hands were already white with chalk, his dark curly hair damp with fraying nerves.

“Oh, you’re no fun! You should start enjoying our shows more, Talion; you frown way too much for a circus performer!” Vora snickered at him.

Talion only scoffed and rolled his eyes at her. The drums shifted, quickening into the familiar triple beat she knew to be her cue. She stepped off the platform, and for one suspended moment she hung in the air, nothing keeping her from falling but sheer momentum. Then the swing caught her. Her first passes were simple warm-up flourishes for her, yet the crowd cheered anyway. Her legs carved crescents through the lantern light. She released the swing into another position, straight as a blade, then caught the bar again, making the tent gasp. She rose in a tight tuck that spun her twice before opening into a split at its peak – her body framed by the artistry of her craft. Children mimicked her posture with their hands, not succeeding at all. Adults were trying not to stare too openly, but they were failing completely. Across from her, Talion launched, hooking his knees on the bar. Their arcs found each other with unprecedented precision. His voice cracked like a whip as he yelled her cue to release the swing.

“Hep!”

Vora felt the rush of adrenaline again as she answered.

“Ha!”

She let go. Talion caught her wrists cleanly, and she swung like a pendulum. “Turn.” He flung her through the air. She twisted and found the blind bar and turned the recovery into a spectacle of flourishes that made the audience cheer and stomp their feet in excitement. Their voices rose with her to the heights, praising and giving her little nicknames the audience bestowed upon her.

“Soaring comet!”

“Laughing bird!”

“Circus cat!”

The drums ceased, and the flutes died down. Hushes of silence covered the tent, the crowd first confused, then excited for what would happen next. Her audience thrummed with unbridled anticipation, and Vora wouldn’t have it any other way. The ringmaster’s voice could be heard booming through the ranks, cutting through the stillness and tension.

“Now! The act none dare, besides her! The trick that no sane acrobat calls their own! My beloved audience, behold – The Fool’s Crown!”

A ripple of emotion passed through the tent. An intoxicating mixture of awe and fear, dread and delight. The bar swept low, then climbed higher and higher, flying towards the top. Vora shifted her hands on the bar, preparing for the insanity she had invented and later disguised as a trick. Across the gap, Talion swung into position. With his knees hooked and arms ready, Talion looked like a frayed bundle of nerves, even more so than usual, which amused his partner far more than it should have. He shouted her cue again, a faint tremble in his voice.

“Hep!”

She answered instinctively, not hesitating for one moment.

“Ha!” Then she let go of the swing.

Her body stretched into a perfect line before snapping backward into rotation. She turned in the sky, as if no longer bound by the idea of gravity. At its apex, she opened her arms wide, arched her back, and lifted her chin. The crowd gasped as one. The trick seemed impossible—both in terms of difficulty and danger—but Vora didn’t care. All of Grand Vyrethia would adore her at this moment. She closed her eyes, trusting only her instinct and the swing’s mercy. The bar rose toward her unseen, and her hands opened in anticipation of the catch. She let out a triumphant laugh, sure that she would succeed. Then the world ended. It didn’t explode; it folded into itself. A shockwave rolled through the capital, through every stone and foundation, even bone. The sound reached Vora first. It felt like a thousand mirrors were breaking in her skull all at once. The lanterns flared in bright lights before bursting open violently. The full force of the blast hit the poles of the tent, causing them to shudder. Its canvas caved in, coming down towards her. Her trapeze jolted; the rope at its far end snapped with a sound akin to a neck breaking, making the bar jerk sideways as its momentum betrayed her. For the first time in her whole acrobatic career, Vora missed her grip. She had thought about falling a thousand times and even joked about it on the trapeze and the wooden beam. Never like this. Never once had she imagined her fall to be this violent. The ground rushed up as she plunged downward to meet it at catastrophic speed. The crowd’s panicked screams rose to her ears. The tent’s central pole splintered into a thousand fragments. The canvas tore to shreds, falling down. Far beyond the painted waggons that Mirko had insisted on purchasing, the city outside shattered and collapsed as it was hit by the full might of elf magic. No one had thought an attack on the capital possible this far from the raging frontline, and yet it would mark the downfall of the Grand Vyrethian Empire. But Vora didn’t see any of that. All she saw was the chaos of the crowd trying to flee and the collapsing tent swallowing them whole. She followed the plummeting lanterns down. For one last breath, she was certain someone would catch her. The ground did.

The ruin of the tent was a slow collapse; anything that didn’t burn down that day slowly rotted away, first over decades and then the following centuries. In time, the world forgot there had ever been a place where someone laughed at gravity. The night did not forget. It remembered every amused giggle and insane cackle. A man stepped through the ruins of the old city square, which had seemingly collapsed after being hit by the shockwave and subsequently burnt to the ground. Little pebbles crunched beneath his heavy boots, seemingly opposing each step he took. A hot breeze let his coat flutter. Prince Ástilliar had his calculating, one-eyed gaze fixed on the rubble, looking for something very specific. He had heard a playful melody, unfit for an accursed place like the one he was standing in, and took it upon himself to investigate the matter. The ground blackened beneath him as shadows distorted the light at his feet, lapping at his boots like loyal hounds with every step he took.

“You hear it too, do you not? That old circus tune?”

A few of the figures rose from his shadow and nodded absentmindedly as one. A small smile crept slowly onto his face—rarely had he seen them so distracted.

“Not very talkative today, are we? Too enamoured by her voice, I take it. But you do have a point; it is rather beautiful.”

They ventured further in the remains of the plaza. Many of the older members of his flock knew of “The Three Ms”—either from stories or from their previous lives—and had told him of the wandering circus’s greatness and its downfall. He had only meant to indulge them, as he always did, but curiosity had got the better of him when he first heard the voice humming. He was in the centre of the city now, with desolate ruins atop smouldering patches of fire and brimstone. The circus tune was getting ever louder as he marched into the general direction he suspected it to come from. The sound of his staff hitting the ground almost matched the rhythm of the humming. It took a few minutes of him searching when he noticed the melody start to echo unusually. It sounded as though it came from all directions, as if unsure where to play next, and rather than choosing one place, it instead decided to start everywhere at once. Ástilliar, who had relied on his hearing until now, stilled, uncertain where to turn to now. He lowered his gaze to the inky blackness pooling at his boots. He saw the movement in the puddle – not real faces per se, but rather ideas of them, suggestions.

“You like her song as well, do you not?” Something akin to frantic nodding came from the shadows. “Be so kind as to help me find her then.”

The darkness moved instantaneously, smoky shapes with faint outlines bursting forth from his shadow and scattering in every direction to help find whom he sought. He was lightly amused at how eagerly they participated, at how seriously they took the mission their shepherd had bestowed upon them. The shadows lifted every rock and scouted every crevice, however small. It didn’t take long until a smaller one pulled at his coat urgently. A slow smile spread on his face. “What is it, little one? Found something, have we?” He followed the creature made of impatient smoke until it came to an abrupt halt and started pointing at one specific point in the near distance. The melody came from there, no doubt about it now.

"My beloved flock. Thank all of you, truly,” he told them, sincerely. All of them folded themselves back into his shadow at once, seemingly content they could be of assistance.

Ástilliar steadied himself, bracing his mind for what was to come. Each and every one of his flock reacted differently to being raised from their graves – some completely devoted their entire existence from the first second, and others answered his call in whispered prayers to a supposed holiness, that, he was sure, had no business being credited to him. He stepped closer to what he deduced was the long-rotting remains of a performer, based on the upbeat circus tune that the prince had heard her hum. It was half buried by all the debris. As he got within reaching distance, the humming came to a sudden end, as if confused why anyone would venture into such a forsaken place, let alone dare come this close. He raised his open hand towards the corpse, while the other clutched his staff, both clad in white leather gloves.

“I am certain you delighted your audience with your performance, but the show has to go on. What ended your life doesn’t have to be your final act, merely an intermission before the next one.”

He sensed something that felt like hearing a breath hitch.

“If you could return, if you could perform again…would you want to?”

He didn’t see a reaction – he felt it. He sensed a sudden shift in the air, a giddiness at the prospect of another opportunity to entertain. Ástilliar sensed a playful presence step directly into his personal space, seemingly without dignity, then soar around him in circles.

“A most unusual way to show one’s agreement,” he chuckled. “As you wish, then.”

He willed the darkness to hear him once more and bade it to return what the elves took away nearly 400 years ago. It heard his pleas and, as always, carried out his wish. A dark shroud appeared where he thought she was standing, the figure within slowly being reformed bone by bone, tendon by tendon. It didn’t take too long until she stepped out and the black cloud disappeared into the shadow again. A young woman, looking barely twenty, if even that, wearing what was undoubtedly the outfit of a performer made to inspire joy and amaze others. Her eyelids were still closed as they carefully readjusted to seeing the sun for the first time in centuries again. Slowly she opened them and looked straight into his one visible eye. Her eyes were amber in colour, huge in size and full of curiosity about who had brought her back home. Then she looked at her hands and noticed how her new form was just like her old body, yet decidedly different in a way she couldn’t yet name. Ástilliar stooped down a little to meet her at eye level.

“Do you remember your name?”

She tried answering, but her vocal cords seemed to protest the strain after the last few hundred years of inactivity, letting only a hoarse croak through. After a few tries – and him giving her his water flask, which she was very grateful for – she finally managed a quiet whisper:

“Vora.”

“Do you recall what happened to you, Vora?”

The woman tried remembering briefly, then answered, “Didn’t stick the landing, I think.”

Afterwards, she took the time to really look at her Saviour. The young man was probably not much older than her when she died, but it was his unusual appearance that fascinated her. He had a weird-looking black disc above his left eye, a small chain connected to it disappearing beneath a richly adorned greatcoat. Her eyes drifted slowly upward to the pale hair that clad his head and the black crown sitting atop it.

“Who the hells are you?” she asked him, curiosity now fully piqued.

“Prince Ástilliar of Obscurir, charmed to make your acquaintance,” he told her while bowing politely.

When his head rose again, he saw her pupils dilate even further – almost comically large at this point.

“Obscurir as in…?” She drawled, her tone hopeful, not needing to complete the sentence to bring her question across. When he slowly nodded once, she could barely hide her excitement.

“I had dreamt one of you escaped, but I didn’t dare hope for your return!”

“This crown does not forget who was left behind.” Vora crossed the little space between them instantly and hugged him tightly without ceremony.

He froze in shock, as he had been expecting many possible reactions, but hugging was most definitely not among them. Not even Akiri had started seeking physical closeness so soon after her resurrection; she only gradually realised she wasn't forbidden from wanting or needing his warmth when she felt cold. After a few seconds he brought his arms around her, returning the gesture.

“What you told me about my next act, your highness,” she began, whispering faintly. “I want that. More than anything.”

A lopsided smirk climbed his features.

“Then join my flock, and I shall ensure you will perform again in front of an undying audience, cheering at your every move.”

Vora released the hug, stepped back to look him in the eye, and raised her brow.

“Your ‘Flock’? Should I call you Shepherd then, instead of Prince?"

A small grin formed on her face.

“Bleat instead of bow?”

“You may call me whatever you wish, Vora.”

The honesty in his words surprised her. This one was decidedly different from the royals in her time—they’d probably have reacted much less calmly to her hugging them than Ástilliar did.

“Alright. Lead the way then, my ringmaster.”

The prince huffed quietly in response, amused by the new nickname, but started walking in the direction he came from anyway. He had walked not even five meters before Vora stopped him again. She turned sharply to the place where it all ended and made a final, long, and theatrical bow.

“You were a wonderful audience, truly. Thank you all, and goodnight!”

Then she whirled around and matched his pace again, this time actually following him. The silence that settled between them didn’t hold long, as Vora couldn’t stand not doing or saying anything chaotic. So she decided to ask the most random of questions she could muster to steer them away from all-consuming quiet.

“What’s your coat made of?”

Before he could even formulate a polite response, she had already skipped to the next topic.

“Why do you have that round thingy in your face?”

Ástilliar tried to string a coherent sentence together before she jumped to the next question again and failed miserably. He had barely got to the third word before she did it again. She looked him up and down appraisingly.

“You’re really tall.”

An amused smile crept onto his face.

“So I’m told,” he replied dryly.

Vora was silent, considering his answer carefully – for maybe seven seconds – before starting her relentless questioning again.

“Alright, most important question! Have you ever been to a circus show?”

This time she actually waited for him to answer.

“No, I don’t think I ever did. I attended a few theatre performances; surely they count?”

Her face dropped instantly; apparently they did indeed not count.

“Ooh, we’ll need to fix that really soon! Don’t worry, I’m already on it. With my planning skills, it will be great!”

By the time they had been travelling for half an hour, she had already started her scheming and did a cartwheel whenever she got bored of "thinking too good"—which, as it turned out, happened surprisingly often. Vora had also proudly presented him with at least fourteen different rocks she had found while doing a handstand a few metres in front of him, which she classified as interesting.

She generally seemed not to want to stop talking unless Ástilliar spoke, and the prince realised then that if this amazingly colourful personality were ever to collide with Varragoth, who valued silence greatly, he would probably try to hang her for heresy—if he didn’t suffer an epileptic shock from the girl's brightness first.

And yet, when she started humming that circus tune again, now even more upbeat and bright-sounding, the pale prince knew his search was worth it. Someone like Vora should have never had to fall, and he would ensure that if she ever did so again, he would be there to catch her.

And so Vora answered the Shepherd's call, and the flock rejoiced, for they were happier for it.