Theo learned young and early that in the Haven, life wasn’t about right or wrong, it was about chance. You sinned, you were caught, and the wheel decided whether you walked away laughing or didn’t walk at all. Most people feared that.

Theo watched it and felt something click.

He started small: dice games, street bets, rigged decks. Not to get rich, to feel the moment where certainty broke. He laughed when he lost, laughed harder when he won, and louder still when the odds were terrible. He didn’t trust plans. He trusted chance. And chance, more often than it should have, seemed to answer.

Eventually, he pushed too far and was dragged to the Big Top. The wheel spun. The crowd watched. The result wasn’t flashy or violent, it was quiet.

Afra’s ossuary.

Working among the dead should have sobered him. Instead, it sharpened him. Surrounded by forgotten remains and names no one remembered, Theo began noticing patterns that shouldn’t have existed; repetitions, alignments, gaps where probability didn’t add up. He talked to himself at first, muttering odds and outcomes.

Then something talked back.

Not a voice, but three answers overlapping, correcting each other, arguing about outcomes before they happened. Shapes appeared in his mind: brittle white stone, black dots, a diamond-shaped absence where meaning should be. Theo didn’t pray. He didn’t beg. He laughed and asked what the odds were.

Something in the seam of the world noticed.

Romulan. Nexali. Genoso.
The Sacred Geometry that shouldn’t exist, and does anyway.

Theo wasn’t chosen for faith or devotion. He was chosen because he didn’t flinch. He accepted contradiction, randomness, and fate arguing with itself without needing it to make sense. The gods of luck, chance, and fate didn’t give him power. It let him listen.

That’s when the madness set in properly.

Theo began hearing commentary constantly: probabilities whispered in the middle of sentences, outcomes argued over before decisions were made, laughter when events diverged from expectation. He talks back now, openly, casually, like someone sharing a table with invisible companions. He isn’t confused by the voices. He’s annoyed when they’re quiet.

After his punishment ended, Theo returned to the Haven changed, louder, bolder, less afraid of consequence. He gravitated toward the Big Top, drawn by illusion and spectacle, where magic bent perception and outcomes felt negotiable. There, amid lights and applause, his presence began to twist performances just slightly off-script. Marcus Might noticed. The Ringmaster likely did too.