Madam Lirienne

Beneath the flickering string lights of the Freak Troupe’s grounds, your steps slow before a narrow tent draped in fading silks. A hand-painted sign reads "Fortunes Told — Truths Unwanted". On impulse, you lift the curtain and slip inside. The hatch closes behind you with a sigh. The air inside Madam Lirienne’s tent is warm and heavy, thick with incense and something faintly metallic. Candlelight trembles against a crooked mirror that returns distorted fragments of the visitor’s face. In the center, a small table draped in black velvet waits. She gestures to the empty chair. Her movements are fluid, almost hypnotic — too lithe for someone made of bone and sinew. When she sits down opposite you, her face remains in shadow. Her gaze flickers briefly to the mirror behind you, then back again, as if checking to see if you're still alone. A thin music-box tune starts playing somewhere out of sight. She begins to speak of fate and hunger, of choices that taste like rust, her words winding tighter and tighter until the candle flames gutter low. For a moment, you think you hear another voice whispering along with hers, slightly out of sync, echoing from the mirrors. Then she leans forward, into the candlelight. Her eyes catch the light first: deep, shimmering, too attentive. Then comes the faint shimmer along her jaw, a wet trail of red that gleams against pale skin. When she smiles again, her smile is wider — too wide. You don't want to see it, but you can't look away as her teeth gleam unnaturally in the dim light.