Children tug at their parents’ hands, eyes wide with anticipation as they shuffle forward beneath the circus sign: “Cirque Éternel.” The ringleader, Madame Lysandra, sweeps through the crowd in a sequined tailcoat, her white-gloved hands distributing silver tickets to the eager guests. "Tonight, dear friends, you will witness wonders beyond imagining," she croons, her voice velvet-smooth and hypnotic. The crowd, enraptured, barely notices the faint lines beneath her painted smile.
Seraphine, the ageless aerialist, twists and turns high above, her silver hair trailing like a comet’s tail. Viktor the Strongman, with eyes as old as midnight, bends steel with a casual flick of his wrist. Each act is more impossible than the last, the applause growing wild and feverish. Madame Lysandra watches from the shadows, her gaze sharp and predatory.
Young Ellie, a bright-eyed girl, feels a dreamy lightness in her limbs. "Mama, my head feels funny," she whispers, but her mother is too mesmerized by the fire-eaters to notice. All around, laughter and chatter grow sluggish, faces flush with a peculiar glow. Mirrors along the tent walls shimmer, reflecting not the present, but the audience’s younger selves.
"Their youth is sweeter this season," murmurs Seraphine, fingers dancing with sparks of stolen vitality. "Soon, we will be as radiant as the day we first danced beneath these stars," rumbles Viktor, flexing rejuvenated muscles. "Patience. One more act, and the harvest will be complete," intones Madame Lysandra, her eyes glinting like cut glass.
A low hum vibrates through the floorboards, growing until it’s a roar in everyone’s ears. Threads of light arc from the crowd to the performers, weaving around them in a dazzling spectacle. As the immortals glow ever brighter, the audience slumps, their faces slackening, hair paling, wrinkles etching across once-youthful skin. The circus drinks deep, and the immortals are sated.
Young Ellie now clings to her mother, her eyes dulled, her voice weak and uncertain. In the distance, the circus wagon rumbles away, its windows aglow with the fresh vigor of stolen years. Somewhere inside, Madame Lysandra gazes into her mirror, her reflection blooming with youth, as she plots the next stop for her immortal troupe.
