Leo’s hand was empty. But his mind wasn’t. He could still feel the grey drizzle. He could still hear the single, warped note. And in the corner of his vision, just for a second, he saw a porcelain mask smiling from the reflection in a dusty mirror.

“This one is ‘The Labyrinth of Regret’,” Elara whispered. “A merchant prince wears it. He dreams of the deal he didn’t make, the fork in the road he didn’t take, and walks its endless, sorrowful corridors until dawn. He wakes wiser, but hollow.”

“Ah,” the Ringmaster said, its voice the rustle of dead leaves. “A volunteer. Not a borrower. A reader . And such a lively, un-lived soul. Perfect for the main attraction.”

In the distance, a carnival waited. But it was a carnival of bones. The Ferris wheel was made of rib cages. The calliope played a single, warped note over and over. The ticket booth was a grinning skull.

He didn’t fall asleep. He was ripped out of his body and dropped into a place that had no sky, no ground, only a ceaseless, grey drizzle falling on an infinite field of cracked asphalt. The air smelled of ozone and old tears.

“This one is new,” she said, holding up a simple iron ring. “Found it in a sunken chest last week. Haven’t dared to test it. The resonance is… strange. It feels hungry.”