Selene

SELENE

The circus tent looks even bigger here on the edge of Liiandor, battling the trees for the greatest height. The stars are the perfect backdrop, outlining the bright colors of the fabric, and I know it will draw the eyes of anyone within a few miles.

A thrill of excitement shoots through me. This is supposed to be our biggest show yet. We've been growing in our fame, and after weeks of peppering the city with flyers and spreading the world—with Nielmor's protection, of course; humans can't wander the streets of Liiandor and not expect to be snatched by new masters—the night is finally here.

Maybe I shouldn't love a life of being allowed to eat because I'm interesting enough to sneer at, but there are worse things a woman could do on this planet.

Much worse.

So, I hum under my breath as I sit before my mirror, brushing out my hair and pinning it back so that the long strands don't fall in my face but cascade down my back. I've become quite adept at using the makeup Nielmor procured for me, and I twist under the soft lights of my tent, looking at my face from every angle.

I've never considered myself pretty. Maybe that's the way of growing up around dark elves, but I know that the point is not to make others fawn over my beauty.

No, I enjoy being striking. All the makeup and costuming highlights my 'alien-like' features as Nielmor calls them, especially under the harsh lights of the big tent. I use the rogue and shimmer powder to draw out my high cheekbones, slender nose, and brighten my eyes.

By the time I'm done, I look just as intended: like a literal fallen star.

That's what Nielmor calls me. I am his fallen star, bright and white and shimmering. I don't mind it. It keeps me in his good graces, and we all know what happens when we fall out of those.

While I'm not free under the circus, I do have more freedom than most humans do. The threat is still there, working beneath a dark elf, but he seems to be taken with me. And he probably doesn't want to do anything that would threaten to damage my voice. That would really put a damper on his show.

But I do everything to keep him happy, and he rewards me for that. I even get my own tent—and the privacy of getting dressed alone! That's practically unheard of, at least here on Liiandor, for humans.

In fact, I have a lot of luxuries in my life that others don't. I own clothes, different outfits for the show and even in my daily life. There's jewelry, though it's reserved for my act, and I've even collected small trinkets that Nielmor bought out of my show allowance—another perk that I exclusively have—as we've traveled around Liiandor.

I've even visited the big continent of Oshta one or two times on business trips with Nielmor.

My favorite pieces of my collection are my books, though. I can't read them; most humans never learn to. It's being able to have them, being able to purchase items that aren't bare necessities that make me feel special, almost like I am not a slave struggling to survive under the constant scrutiny of the dark elves.

But I never truly forget that I am just that.

It's all worth it, though, because I get to live out my dreams. I've heard humans talk about how they are from a long line of bakers or cooks or sculptors or painters, but none of that is really possible for them to achieve here on Protheka.

I always thought that my hope to sing, to perform for large crowds—and not like they do at the underground clubs—was foolish. But my act is one of the biggest, and Nielmor constantly tells me that my reputation pulls in over half the crowd.

Even a race as cruel as dark elves can appreciate the beauty of song.

While I thank him for all that he has made me, I hope deep down that he will let me continue to grow. I sing the songs he tells me to, fan favorites of the audience, but I want to sing my own. I have written several, melodies that need no accompaniment, and I think they'd be a big hit.

I even hope to have my own show one day—one without the gut-wrenching acts that Nielmor's does. I hear that things are changing in Oshta, at least enough so that I could run my own show. There are rumors that some of the royalty there have taken human lovers, and I am certain that I could garner the right audience.

But I can't just walk away from Nielmor. He'd flay me open, flip me inside out so that he'd have better access to my nerve endings just to make my punishment more painful—and that is not an exaggeration.

So, I have to wait until I can be bought off or at least spoken for by another dark elf, one who sees my potential and would want to help me out of this circus.

Laughing to myself, I shake my head. Those are in short supply on Protheka, and I should let that kind of dream go.

Still, I can't help but hope that my knight in shining armor will be at the show tonight, ready to whisk me off my feet. It's the same useless dream I have every night I perform, and yet, it won't die.

"!" Nielmor waltzes right into my tent, reminding me of how fragile my sense of privacy truly is. He's grinning from ear to ear, bouncing on his toes. He looks giddy. "It's the biggest crowd yet." He cackles wildly. "You have drawn elves from deep in the city!"

Again, another fit of laughter takes him as he rushes up behind me, gripping the back of my chair to observe me in the mirror. "My, my, look at my fallen star." His smile stretches impossibly wider, to the point it looks painful. "She looks good enough to eat." His jaw snaps uncomfortably close to my ear.

But I don't let that show on my face. I smile back at his reflection, and his fingers tug through my hair, careful not to disturb the pins. "You better behave tonight," he coos as if I've ever caused any problems. "I need good reviews after the show."

His hands caress down my shoulders, and I don't even stiffen. I know that Nielmor doesn't see as sex objects like the rest of the world. No, his ideas are much worse.

"If you so much as hit the wrong note," he whispers in my ear, grinning still as he makes eye contact with me in the mirror. "I will turn you into a harp."

I pat his hand, offering him a bright smile. "I know. And you know that I won't mess tonight up."

The others tend to fear Nielmor, but I don't need to. I'm one of his favorites, and I know that if I did mess up, he would actually turn me into a harp, but I'm not going to. I have nothing to worry about.

He could hurt me. I mean, the guy is totally unhinged. We've spread rumors about all that happened to Nielmor to make him this way, even more twisted than the average dark elf, but at the end of the day, we don't know what really happened to him.

All I know is he gets off on public humiliation and mutilation, and I do everything I can to stay on his good side.

I can't say the same for everyone at the circus, though. We all learned firsthand how easily Nielmor loses his temper. And when he flies off the handle, there is no stopping him.

Like with the poor guy that I met my second week here. He was part of the beginner acts, nothing major. Honestly, I can't even remember what he used to do, but I do know that we all saw him trip as he was coming out of the spotlight.

And that night, Nielmor gathered us all around to berate him. I cringed when he hit and yelled and threatened him. But when he said that he would turn the man into a footstool since he clearly couldn't stay steady on his own two feet and would be a better use as a prop for Nielmor, I didn't truly believe him.

I don't think anyone did, really. But then, with the flick of his fingers, Nielmor snapped the man in half. We all watched as his body cracked and bent, crumpling down until it was impossibly small.

Those sounds have never left me. Not the screams or the sounds of ripping skin and snapping bones. It still makes me nauseous to this day no matter how many times I witness it.

He did make that guy into a footstool. He twisted him down into a small one with four legs, no eyes or mouth or anything. Though, anyone can tell it isn't an ordinary footstool.

For one, it is still made of skin. His flesh is stretched over his newly configured bones.

And I'm pretty sure that poor guy is still sentient in there. The footstool moves and wobbles on its own, like Nielmor has somehow managed to keep him alive without food and water.

Thirteen help us when the other dark elves learn that secret. There will be no escape through death then.

So, when Nielmor says he will turn me into a harp, I have no doubt of his capabilities. I don't question if he has the motives or the sick imagination for it. I just have to lean into the hope that my act and all that it provides is enough to keep me safe.

So far, it has been.

HIs hands fall off of me as he starts to mutter to himself, and I turn to watch him pace the tent, muttering beneath his breath.

"...oddities…the numbers…no, no…but star…" And he keeps on like that for a few minutes, withdrawn into his mind.

Like I said, something's not right about that guy.

But then he stops, turning to look at me as his grin stretches across his face. "Don't forget. Big night. Harp."

And then he turns on his heel and leaves, and I laugh under my breath, even though my heart is pounding. As safe as I think I am, I can never be sure around him.

On Protheka, we never know what someone is going to do.

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