Shadow Of Grace

Chapter 3: The Spark In The Ring

The Diego Circus Arena was bathed in lights, glittering like a wonder kingdom. Golden light bulbs outlined each tent and scaffolding, their glow reflected in the shiny railings and brass hardware. Currents of faces flowed into the entrance, a tide of expectation and hilarity flowing into the evening. Laughter and euphoric chatter rang off the walls. Drums pulsed in time, their beat resonating through the air, drawing the crowd into the heartbeat of the show. Each step into the arena was a step into another realm.

Edward remained outside. His red shirt clung to him with sweat, a patchwork of dampness from the relentless sun and toil of lifting cages earlier in the day. His hands throbbed from the labour of lifting rough metal, from pushing and pulling and securing creatures who reeked of hay, sweat, and musk. Around him, performers sparkled in vibrant attire—sequins catching light, feathers caressing shoulders, costumes embroidered with care. He could not mingle. Why should he? He was no performer, no guest, no party member. He was an animal man, no more. His place was in the background, behind the roar and glitter, behind masks and sequins.

But his eyes weren’t drawn to the pens, where lions rose and tigers stretched. His eyes were fixed upon the gates at the front, where the real show was just coming to town.

The steel gates groaned open. Into the grounds of the arena poured a train of spit-shined black Cadillacs. Their engines hummed like predators lying in ambush, dark and slender under the light of the lanterns. The crowd was still, the buzz of enthusiasm muted to a joyful inhalation. These were not merely automobiles—these were statements, testaments to money, to power, to dominance.

Men in sharp tuxedos appeared from the first car. Their strides were measured, practised, with each step bearing the weight of expectancy. The door of the second car opened, and a man got out. Tall, measured, covered in a charcoal coat that reflected the lights like liquid smoke. His hair was combed back, and his step was deliberate, each step sounding authoritative. There was power in his silence, a command in his stillness.

For a moment, the crowd assumed him to be the great sponsor, the one who had made the night possible. But no. He was her chosen voice.

“Mr. Carter,” he said, almost bending his knee as he came close. His grin stretched unnaturally, each movement vibrating with a respect bordering on hilarity.

Edward's chest constricted. So Marcus could bow? This same man who snarled at him every day, who growled out orders and grimaced like the world was a misstep? Now he was almost grovelling. Edward's face twisted into a bitter smile. Just great. And me? I received the bark of a dog.

The entourage processed to the grandstand, borne upon a tide of applause and muted whispers. Marcus hovered, a servant, buffing each gesture, each nod. Edward watched from the shadows, half-envying, half-bitter. He ached to belong, to walk unhampered in the world of applause and praise, not outside iron bars and the smell of hay.

The show started.

Drums rolled more and more loudly, pounding in the chest as acrobats soared into the air, whirling, somersaulting, flying from one trapeze to another as though gravity was a choice. Jugglers hurled fire, torches streaking light across the dark sky. Clowns stumbled, fell, and staggered, etching happiness and humour onto the faces of children who watched and giggled at every pratfall. Spectacle was alive, a throbbing living pattern of sound, motion, and hue.

Edward remained behind the cages, half-concealed, yet his spirit stretched toward the centre ring. He imagined the thrill of being among them, of leaping, flipping, and spinning under the blaze of lights. His body itched to move, to break free from the invisible chains of his station.

“Pay attention to the creatures. Not anything else,” Marcus’s voice sliced through his thoughts.

He nodded, but his heart wouldn't. He could not avert his face, could not allow this night to pass without leaving a scar, however insignificant.

The performers dazzled, and Edward felt a shift inside him, subtle at first, then insistent. The crowd’s cheer, the rhythm of drums, the scent of sawdust and fire—it all ignited something raw, something uncontainable. What if I stepped in? Just once. What if they saw me?

Before reason had a chance to object, his frame was already moving. He let out the cage handles and moved into the ring.

The first moments were quiet. The crowd’s attention lingered on the performers. Then Edward sprang, rolled, and hit the deck with a precision honed through years of imitation and observation. Flips, cartwheels, bold vaults around the edges of the ring—he moved as if the space were his, a shadow finally given form.

Gasps flowed through the crowd. Jugglers halted in mid-air toss. Acrobats suspended above the ground a moment longer than was possible. Then there was cheer. It swelled through the stands, enveloping Edward, alien and debilitating. His name was called out, though no one knew it. Adults applauded, children shouted in glee.

In the stands again, Mr. Carter sat forward, his eyes narrowed, watching. His assistant fumbled for a phone to capture the moment. Edward felt the rush of recognition, a glow he had never known. For once, he was no longer invisible. For once, he was the spark at the centre of the ring.

Then came the whip crack.

“Edward!” Marcus’s voice thundered, flushed with anger. He entered the ring, face reddened, chest rising and falling.

“You think this is your stage?” Marcus thundered. “You think you belong with them?”

He froze, chest heaving and falling fast.

“You’ve lost me time, order—and your pay!” Marcus snarled, hands shaking. “Not a penny this night. And if you ever attempt this again, I’ll turn you out into the streets!”

The crowd grumbled, caught between censure and admiration of the boy's boldness. But the moment crumbled like glass. Edward dipped his head and withdrew, slipping back into the cages. His muscles throbbed, but the blaze in his chest continued to burn, simmering below the surface despite Marcus's scorn to douse it.

After the performers had gone and the crowd had dispersed into the darkness, Edward stayed around the cages. His chest still resonated with the aftershocks of applause, along with the soreness in his limbs. He shut his eyes and relived every turn, every flip, every pilfered moment of triumph.

A slow voice broke the silence.

"Well, boy," grumbled Mr. Hovey, shifting his weight onto his cane. His glasses sparkled in the weak lamplight, reflecting it like little stars. "Didn't think you had it in you."

Edward blinked, startled. “Sir?”

“The way that you moved,” Hovey said, gesturing toward the unoccupied ring. “Not bad. Rough around the edges, but there is fire in you. Fire is a hard commodity. Don’t let Marcus hammer it out of you.”

His throat closed. Praise was a language he was unfamiliar with, uncomfortable with, and ephemeral. He desired to talk, to reply, but he could not think of the words.

Hovey’s face contorted into a half-smile. “Be warned, though. Ambition burns more fiercely than chains. But more quickly, too.” He tapped his cane emphatically against the ground and shuffled off into the darkness, disappearing as quietly as he had come.

He stayed, his chest pounding. It was the first time a human had ever looked at him and truly looked at him—not the man who worked with animals, not the man who navigated darkness, but him, the spark in the rough façade. It could not perish.

Night fell deeper, lanterns grew darker, and stillness enveloped the pit. Edward stayed, forearms braced across the bars, body rigid but heart aglow. A small smile played around the edge of his lip somewhere in the shadows. He no longer belonged to darkness, not completely. He had experienced the flame. And he would pursue it, no matter the expense