In the year of the gilded crescent, a carnival unfurled within the pages of the forgotten. Its tents were spun of star-silk, stretching across the celestial night like whispered promises. The labyrinth of paths whispered, weaving between dreams and memories.
Here, trains of phantoms floated listlessly, recruiting faces trapping moments that twitched with fame lost yesterday. Michael stumbled through this place — no map, only whispers in hollow laughter.
He met the minstrel with strings forged of moonlight, a melody unfathomable in its genesis. The minstrel’s eyes promised eternity; his tune fractured into ephemeral echoes.
"Seek the mirrored hall," the ghostly figure murmured, trailing spectral notes. "It reflects not what is, but what shall not come to pass."
Following unseen nudges, Michael stepped toward the entrance. The horizon quivered at his touch, like subliminal heartbeats. Within him, the sound of endless jungles, a sea of voices still unheard.
Another hue round a curve in the maze: the Makings of Man circus — bottlekin beasts, and towers stocked high with jade crates. Charlie, the illusionist at large, grinned with eyes that held stolen sun-drops, balancing illusions wreathed eternally within.
"Would you like to float, friend? A certain elixir potentially awaits," his words danced, skipping chalice to chalice.
The thrill spoke, and so he dared... All happened, or nothing happened, as the global clock creaked silently forward.