A celebration of the senses in the grandest show in the world, only found here at the Diamond Circus!

Each introduced with his booming voice that carries to the very top, every entranced audience member guided along on a journey that keeps them so enthralled that soon even they will be summoned by his will to perform in any way he pleases.

Their attention directed where he wills it as the parade of performers march out in a dazzling display.

Declarations of hyperbole grab at the audience, their expectations held with rapt attention as much as their minds and thoughts. They dare not make a sound, hanging on every word, all held in the outstretched hands of the Ringmaster.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls of all ages, it with great gusto and extreme pleasure that I introduce to you the Grand Diamond Circus performance of a life time! One that you will soon never forget!"

The Ringmaster's loud voice cuts through the noise of the audience, clear and bold, with a hint of melody to it.

a black top hat, a bright tailcoat in red with yellow diamond patterned trim, a waistcoat over his bare feathered chest, breeches and a cravat.

Practice becomes pleasure.
Warm-up becomes surrender.
And with every silver note, you sink just a little further into the sweet, chiming rhythm the bells were made to awaken.

You keep moving just to hear them… a gentle dance fueled not by training, but by the way that fairy-bright melody sends shivers through you. Each ring pulls you deeper, each soft chime another wave of bliss sliding down your spine.

You take a single warm-up stretch, and the bells answer.
A light step, and they shimmer again.
Soon every shift of your weight becomes its own small performance.

Dozens of tiny silver bells are sewn along the hems and seams, each one with a soft, chiming ring that’s impossible to ignore. The moment you move — a step, a turn, even the slightest sway of your hips — they sing for you.

The Troupe Master watches from the doorway, unseen until now, observing your private little transformation—

A performance you’ve given entirely for him.

Your mind halts mid-thought.
Your body straightens, held in a silent command you instantly obey… and only then do you sense the quiet presence behind you.

Without knowing why, without questioning the impulse, you lift one gloved hand to your ear. Finger and thumb poised. Ready.
You want to hear it.
You need to.

Snap!

A perfect, crisp sound.
Smooth. Sharp. Final.

Your breath catches.
Your focus narrows.
You raise your gloved fingers, admiring the soft gleam, the pure white tracing lazy spirals in the air. You follow the motion without thought, mesmerized by your own hands. Your upcoming performance drifts from your mind entirely.

It feels like they’ve been waiting for you.

You lift them with reverent fingertips and slide them on.
Gossamer. Silk. They glide over your skin like they were made for your hands alone.

His office is dim and immaculate. And there, as if placed by invisible hands in answer to a silent prayer, lie the finest gloves you’ve ever seen.

Ice-cream white dress gloves, satin-smooth, each cuff adorned with a tiny diamond stud. A single monogram — K — marks them unmistakably as his.

There’s no time to search properly, but a daring thought slips in:
Surely the Troupe Master wouldn’t mind if one pair of his fine gloves were to be “found” and borrowed.
Just for tonight.
Just until yours turn up.