Luigi Von Vortex's Arc

Chapter 6 of 6

Luigi walked through a different town three days later, his confidence fading with each step. He'd been so certain the boy could handle the curse, so sure his choice had been right. But last night he'd dreamed of the circus burning, screams echoing under collapsing canvas. He stopped at the town square where a deep crimson banner hung from an iron pole. Blackened edges framed the fabric, and muted gold trim lined its borders. A portrait stared out from the center—a young woman in performer's clothes, her face frozen in determination. Circus motifs decorated the corners, ribbons and stars mixed with symbols Luigi recognized from the contract. This was a memorial. The woman had tried to inherit a curse like his and failed. Luigi stepped closer and touched the banner's edge. The fabric felt cold. He'd thought himself the first to search for a successor, but others had tried before him. Others had failed. The boy might be burning right now, consumed by power he couldn't control. Luigi's chest tightened. He'd passed on the curse too soon, chosen wrong, and now another name would need a banner. Behind the square, Luigi found an abandoned workshop with heavy doors hanging open. Inside, a workbench held tools covered in dust. A branding iron rested in the center, its handle wrapped in leather, its tip shaped into a symbol that matched the one on his contract. The metal still held a faint glow, as if someone had heated it recently and walked away. Luigi lifted the iron and felt its weight. This was how they marked successors, how they made the choice permanent. He'd given the boy the contract without this final step, without letting him decide if he truly wanted the burden. The iron grew warmer in his hand. He set it down fast and stepped back. He'd made a mistake. He'd chosen someone without testing their resolve, without giving them a chance to refuse. The boy might not survive what Luigi had forced on him. Luigi left the workshop and started walking back the way he'd came, doubt replacing every bit of freedom he'd felt three days before. He found himself in an empty building at the edge of town. A large mirror stood against the far wall, its gold frame aged and elaborate. Wrought-iron curls decorated the edges. The glass looked strange, smoked and dark like old mercury. Luigi stepped in front of it and stared at his reflection. The mirror showed him, but wrong. His face looked hollow, desperate. Behind his reflection, shadows moved—shapes of people reaching out, trapped. These were the ones he'd considered before the boy, all the lives he'd almost ruined searching for someone to take his place. The mirror showed him what he really was. Not a ringmaster looking for a worthy heir, but a desperate man willing to destroy anyone who might set him free. Luigi turned away from the glass. He couldn't go back to the circus. The boy was either dead or suffering, and Luigi had caused it. His search for a successor had failed, and he'd learned too late that some burdens couldn't be passed on without breaking the one who received them.