Astrid had never seen so many colours in one place.

The traveling carnival had arrived at the edge of her village at dawn, its wagons painted in dizzying swirls of gold and crimson, its banners snapping like restless birds in the spring wind. By noon, the meadow was transformed: lanterns strung between poles, music drifting like perfume, and crowds gathering from every farmstead for miles. Astrid clutched her brother Elias’s hand as they approached the entrance archway. He was older by six years, tall and sun-browned from long days in the fields, and he wore the patient expression of someone who had promised their mother to keep a close eye on a sibling with the energy of a firecracker.

“Stay near me,” he murmured, though he was smiling. “Carnivals are full of tricks.”

Astrid nodded, but her eyes were already wandering to the jugglers tossing knives that flashed like lightning, to the acrobats twisting through the air like ribbons, to the fortune-teller’s tent where incense curled in blue spirals.

Astrid tugged Elias’s sleeve. “Do you see--”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Don’t stare.”

But it was impossible not to. The knife-juggler had the same face as the fire-breather. The acrobat swinging from the silks had the same face as the woman selling candied apples. Even the man at the ticket booth had worn that same unsettling smile. Still, the carnival was dazzling, and she was young, and curiosity tugged Astrid forward like a string. Elias bought them each a paper cone of sugared almonds, and for a while they wandered between tents, watching performances, listening to music, letting the strangeness fade into the background hum of excitement.

That was until the ringmaster appeared. He stepped onto a small stage near the center of the grounds, dressed in a long coat of midnight blue. His top hat was decorated with a single white feather. But when he looked at Astrid, something changed. He lifted a gloved hand and beckoned.

Elias placed a protective arm in front of her. “We’re not interested,” he called.

The ringmaster ignored him. His gaze stayed fixed on Astrid. “You’ve come home at last,” he said, voice smooth as velvet. “Our child.”

Astrid’s heart thudded. “I--I don’t know you.”

“Oh, but I know you,” the ringmaster replied. “You belong to us.”

Elias stepped forward, jaw tight. “Astrid, get up. We're going home.”

The ringmaster tilted his head, amused. “Home? Is that what you call the ones who found her in the barley field? Wrapped in a blanket that wasn’t theirs? Crying for a mother who never came?”

Elias stiffened. “How do you know about that?” he demanded.

The ringmaster’s smile sharpened. “Because she is one of us. A child of the Carnival of One Thousand Faces. And now that she has returned, she will stay.”

The music around them faltered. Performers turned in eerie unison, their identical faces all swiveling toward Astrid.

Elias grabbed her hand. “Run.”