The Ringmaster (Harrow Faire #4) - Kathryn Ann Kingsley

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The game of humanity is a cruel one indeed.

We must clamber atop others in our need to reach the peak. To become more human, we must etch our names deeper than all others into the bedrock of the world. We seek to leave a mark that will not be weathered by the winds and rains of time. We raise pyramids and statues to keep a piece of ourselves present in this world.

But we do so by whittling down the bones of those we leave in our wake into tools that we might wield.

That is how one wins this cruel diversion of life we all play.

It is expected—it is normal—it is what we call society.

But once in a while, often centuries apart, may come a soul who does not wish to partake in the game. Along comes a man or a woman who not only desires to avoid the rules, but who seeks to undermine them entirely.

These are souls who not only strive to rise above the gears and cogs of the “system” by which they are offended, but to also smash it into pieces. They are often mistaken for revolutionaries during, or after, their lifetimes. Sometimes they are even heralded as prophets and saviors.

They are not.

They are the same as we.

Their greed may take a different form. They may paint themselves in the blood of martyrs and saints. They may present themselves as the champion of those poor cogs and gears they seek to “free” from their “miserable lives.”

But they seek to destroy the cage that was built only to erect another that serves their needs first above the rest.

Destroying the game to build another is always a selfish act. And it is always violent. And it is always prone to corruption.

To wit: Religion. Yes, all of it.

If you came here to argue the general benevolence of spiritual pursuits upon human history, you are quite lost and may need to rethink the validity of your map. It is a poison we willingly swallow to distract us from the horror that is the void. That is all.

Even in such instances as the change they seek to inspire are intended to be benign, kind, and charitable, their path is one of destruction. For the humanity of some must be devalued to increase that of others. One must play the Robin Hood of seity—and take from those deemed to have too much and give to those they see as having too little.

I do not argue that they do not “mean well” in their hearts.

But I ask you, is that not committing the same sin as these saviors would stand against?

Are they not simply deciding that they should be the ones in charge, doling out the chips at the poker tournament? Do they not simply wish to argue how the house saw fit to divvy the wealth of seity?

Now, do not mistake me. I do not condemn these rebels. I do not seek to discourage anyone from disobedient and defiant acts. If one wants to sit at the poker tournament, murder all those in attendance, flip the table, then decide they prefer to play chess instead because it better suits their skills—that is their right.

If your cage does not suit you, find another.

Yet recognize that those who do this are not sent from God to right a wrong. They are not saviors. They cannot break the game.

They simply seek to rewrite the rules.

-M. L. Harrow

Simon stood upon the precipice of doing the most revolting thing he had ever been required to do in his life—mortal or immortal, as the case may be. Not only was it loathsome, it was nigh impossible. He stood upon a cliff, and he might as well have been asked to sprout wings and learn to fly. No, indeed, that stood a greater chance of coming to pass than succeeding at what lay before him.

The task before him might mean his death. It might be the end of him.

But he was resolved. He had to do this.

He had to.

Or at least he had to try. Even if he plummeted to the jagged rocks below in his failure, he could not go on knowing that he had not made the studious attempt. He was going to do this revolting thing. But it did not mean he needed to like it.

An hour of pacing around his boxcar had not led him to a better option. There was no other solution to his issue. It was this or commit to failure. And that was