The royal gala was the grandest event the Mensah Circus had ever been invited to. Inside the Zubari Palace courtyard, the night shimmered with hundreds of floating lanterns, gold curtains draped the performance ring, and nobles sat in jeweled tiers that gleamed like constellations.
The air was thick with perfume, power, and the hum of expectation.
Tonight's show would determine whether the Mensah Circus truly belonged among royalty—or was merely a novelty from the streets.
And at its center stood Nakiya "Naki" Mensah, the Flying Star.
Backstage, Naki adjusted her costume—midnight blue with golden accents, a nod to the prince's crest. Her reflection shimmered in a polished mirror, yet she hardly recognized herself. The clown who once hid behind paint was gone. In her place stood a woman of the ropes, confident yet uncertain of what this new world demanded of her.
Kwesi peeked in, torch already lit. "They're calling you first, sis."
She smiled nervously. "Then let's make sure they remember the name Mensah."
"Make them remember you," he corrected softly.
The drums began.
Naki sprinted into the ring, flipping forward in a blur of silk and starlight. Her routine was unlike anything the court had ever seen—a fusion of Ghanaian rhythm and royal spectacle. She balanced on a wire while miming exaggerated faces, earning laughter; then, in the same breath, she leapt into a breathtaking aerial twist, earning gasps.
Laughter and awe flowed together, the very essence of her artistry: comedy and grace, the clown and the acrobat united.
When she landed, the nobles rose to their feet in thunderous applause.
Prince Malik stood, his voice warm and commanding. "The Flying Star shines brighter with every ascent."
Naki bowed, her heart racing. She turned—just in time to see Bianca step forward from the shadows, her crimson costume blazing like fire.
"If the prince desires brilliance," Bianca said sweetly, "then let me add flame to his star."
Rosa's troupe-trained precision radiated from every movement as Bianca launched into her act—pure technique, flawless execution, and no soul. The crowd clapped politely, but their cheers lacked the warmth that had met Naki's flight.
Still, when the two women passed backstage, Bianca's smirk didn't falter. "Enjoy the applause, Mensah. It fades faster than the paint you used to wear."
Naki didn't reply. She didn't need to.
But later that night, during the royal dinner, Malik approached her personally. "You've changed the meaning of performance, Nakiya," he said. "You make people feel."
"Thank you, Your Highness," she said softly. "That's all I ever wanted."
He studied her for a moment longer than necessary. "The palace will always welcome you. Some performers serve the tent; others serve history. You could be both."
The words should have been flattering, but they lingered heavy in her chest.
Across the table, Madam Efua watched the exchange, her eyes narrowing. Bianca, seated nearby, noticed too—her smile sharpening into something dangerous.
When the gala ended, Naki slipped into the dressing tent, exhausted. The golden mask she had worn for her final bow sat on the vanity before her. She stared at it, its reflection glimmering in the mirror.
Behind her, the faint murmur of jealousy and ambition filled the air—the sound of a circus slowly dividing under its own success.
She touched the mask and whispered, "Let them watch. I'll keep flying anyway."
Outside, the royal banners rippled in the wind, and the palace bells chimed midnight—marking not just celebration, but the beginning of rivalry and unrest beneath the glittering crown.