Act III Scene XV
Sincerely, I hoped never to see The First Act Theatre again after my trial. At least I’m not being led into it by chains this time, though Jude’s grip could probably give those shackles a run for their money.
It’s as I remember: an outdoor amphitheatre nestled at the bottom of a hill, filled with seats that climb up to the rim—though the seats are mostly full already.
At its base sprawls a platform with a massive skene of white pillars lined up behind it.
Stars cluster overhead, as if arranged to produce the most light directly above the stage.
Smart of Sil to move the first performance of the Great Dionysia here.
Some in the North may be eager, curious, but not enough to risk setting foot in the Playhouse.
He’ll win them slowly first. In an open-air stage, where spectators can observe from the seats, watch from the stands, or just listen from the safety of their homes miles away.
I’m led through the crowd and around back, up a flight of stairs and into the skene at the back of the stage. I register little, if any, of it as I’m ushered through a curtained entrance and onto the stage behind Jude.
My ears pop as the audience jumps to their feet at the sight of us.
SIL: “Welcome, welcome—to the Great Dionysia!” His voice booms, carries over the applause.
He nods at Jude, and the Lead Player raises his eyes to the sky. A whispered word falls from his mouth.
The entire world falls dark, like a curtain closing, a set being prepared. Chants turn to excited whispers. The crowd stirs with unease, frightened by the dark illusion.
Then the world blazes gold, a burst of Craft seeping into the ground and shooting across the District. The moon shines like a spotlight, illuminating a different city than the one we stood in a moment ago, adorned in the fashion of every Great Dionysia, past and present.
My eyes track maroon flowers encircling the platform, blooming through emerald ivy. The dusty, cracked stage shines in luminous gold beneath my feet. Warmth coats Theatron’s chilly air, replaced by a silky breeze that seems to hum sweetly when it passes you by.
The realization pierces me like an arrow. It’s decorated as our lost home on the mountain, Eleutherae.
The audience seems to notice all at once—some with shock, others with delight—that the colors of their own clothing have brightened into vivid shades of red, gold, and purple. Most of them return a roaring wave of applause. This is more color than many of them have ever seen, much less worn.
Even I have to pause to take it in—seeing the world outside illuminated in beauty that we hoard all to ourselves.
My mind flashes briefly to the Archives, to every story ever written. Stolen away by us.
SIL: “Tonight!” His diction cuts clean through the last of their cheers as Jude and I exit the stage. “We are proud to present a brand-new show based on old events. As we know, those who do not learn from their histories—”
TITUS: “Have better things to do?” His heckling receives a fit of laughter as he exits.
Sil shakes his head, smiling, and turns back to the audience.
SIL: “In honor of the upcoming renegotiation of the Playhouse’s home in Theatron and a peaceful return to the North, the cast feels a responsibility to remind the world of conflicts not so long ago, if only to avoid their recurrence. We must learn from our pasts, yes?”
The crowd stirs, uneasy. Meanwhile, we take our places offstage. As we wait, the audience stirs with anticipation, Revelers eagerly claiming the best views while those with marks take hesitant positions near the edges of the theatre until the last seat is occupied.
From backstage, I peek and catch a glance of Theatron’s council being escorted into the front row. Sil’s voice rings in my head: I want you to change the tide.
All my ideas of bringing the Playhouse to its knees shake, uneasy. Not because I’m frightened I can’t beat Jude in the arena. I can. I’m designed to.
But because the thing I am beneath this skin is stronger than me, and my own nature will, I am certain, come to claim back her vessel.
You are the bridge between the Playhouse and Theatron.
I want to be. I want to be, I realize. And I hate that I do. I want to be here, before an audience, beloved. Home. Would it be so bad to be that bridge? Would it be so wrong—
SIL: “Let the show begin!”
The lights dim, and I shut my eyes, embracing the warmth twirling at my fingertips. Craft nips at the air.
They will want to know why you chose the Playhouse over them.
It’s tempting. So tempting. No one would be the wiser. They’d never know I’m the true villain of their story.
For the next three days, we’ll perform this new show in five acts. We won’t sleep, eat, or drink. On the fourth, we’ll rest—an intermission for debate as the Playhouse and the council sign a new agreement.
On the fifth day, Jude and I will fight.
The heart is stronger than the mind. Humans abandon their stubborn truths so long as they feel strongly enough inclined to do so.
The script for this performance is five hundred and thirteen pages, carefully crafted lines into the shape of a simple parable that waits on my tongue, stirs in my bones. One that rewrites Theatron’s history, carving the new story into the eyes that watch.
Rewriting history is easy, Sil told me.
You just need enough people to believe it.
The audience settles comfortably into their seats, and the moon illuminates our stage. For the first time in a long time, North and South Theatron sit side by side.
And Sil has done a remarkable job convincing them the enemy is each other.
Waiting, I set my eyes on my glass-green shoes, the color stark against the gilded platform at my feet as I pull in three deep breaths. Jude materializes at my side, ready for our entrance.
“Jude,” I whisper, feeling the call of the stage in my blood as the show roars to life. “Help me stop him.” I flinch at my own words, the same ones Gene spoke to him, begged him.
Jude refuses to meet my eye, his gaze on the stage.
JUDE: “Break a leg, Riven.”
Then the show begins, and we move for our entrance in a performance that was set, written, and cast fifteen years ago.