The Ruler's Rift

Reflection Revolution

Celeste exited the warmth of the home and thrusted her cloaked figure into the drizzle and the stormy air. She walked slowly to the caravan, taking in the earthy scent of soil and rain. Her boots crunched the drinking grass and clicked against the soaking pavement that made up trails and sidewalks.

Colors, bold and mocking, eventually emerged from the drab, rainy day. Celeste approached the group of tents they'd set up between worlds. Its bright exterior laughed in the demon's face. She knew its secret - inside, it hid a horde of worthless, abusive excuses for people. She stepped in, brushing the wet curtain aside as she made her way.

Voices erupted from the interior. "Celeste, hey!" One of the performers called.

"The hoops arrived!" Another cheered, waving her hand toward Celeste as if flagging down an ice cream truck. "I've been practicing my juggling, too! Maybe we can do it together next time. I feel bad with you doing it all yourself."

More like she just wanted to share the spotlight. Celeste refrained from scoffing. "Oh! Yes, maybe. I'm sure you have improved," she muttered. "Where's Lance?"

"Where he always is."

"Thank you."

Like a worn film played too many times, Celeste walked into Lance's tent again. The same lamp shined, and he sat in the same chair stamping what may as well have been the same paperwork. Finally, this would be the last time Celeste would see any of it. "Hello, Lance," she started.

He didn't turn. "What?"

Thunking filled the space, methodically, achingly - each leaflet took its stamp. Celeste turned her gaze to the tall mirror at her left and let her beautiful reflection calm her. She sighed, "I want more than this."

The man spun in his chair, brow furrowed at the demon. "What is that supposed to mean, Celeste?" He groaned. His cheek rested against his fist like he were a lazy king in an uncomfortable throne. "I'm not giving you no raise."

Celeste shook her head, white hair swaying. "No, Lance. I'm going to pursue other things," she breathed. Her heart picked up as he stared at her.

Lance blinked. Silence stretched for a mile before he huffed, "So that's how it's gonna be, huh?" He rolled his whole head in scorn. "I don't like ya, but I need ya. Just look at all this demand." He grabbed some papers from his drawer and tossed them at Celeste. She scrambled to catch them, shoving them in her cloak to get them out of the way. Lance continued, "We give you a home, a purpose, and you just run off?

"Your father gave me those things," Celeste snapped.

"He would've thrown you into a river with a stone on your back if he knew the monster you really are."

Celeste stiffened, staring at his father's warm smile and kind gestures in the back of her memory. Her pulse quickened with anxiety and anger. "If you were more like your father, I wouldn't be leaving," she declared, head held high.

"And you should be more like your parents," Lance retorted, standing with sudden force. "Apparently they didn't want you so they must've had sense!"

That comment, that tone, that disgusting finger pointing at her - they pumped rage into Celeste's veins, an ire that burned into her muscles and tightened them. No visible change occurred, but she could punch Lance's head off his shoulders now. "How dare you make that presumption," she rasped. "I could've been separated from them or they could've died. They did want me. They must've seen my worth unlike you!"

"My eyes work great!" Lance declared. "Twenty-twenty vision here! I don't see nothing but a conceited bitch!"

"I wanted to do this civilly..." Celeste growled.