Act III Scene XVII
I haven’t slept or eaten in three days.
But when Sil calls us out to a roaring curtain call, I feel full and awake. More alive than I have in years.
JUDE: “Riven? We’re up.”
I startle from my daze, the show a blur of vague recollections. Sil has called our names.
Mattia sweeps into a low bow as Jude leads me onto the stage. Riotous applause shakes the platform. Screams for us to look in a thousand different directions attack my ears.
SIL: “I give you Jude Stepharros…and Riven Hesper!”
Jude bows low, then takes a sweeping step aside and gestures to me. My legs shake, anger coursing through my veins. At the Playhouse or at myself for doing exactly what Sil wanted, I’m not sure. Or maybe just at the fact that this feels so good.
I bow.
SIL: “Not only your stars of this most wonderful and memorable performance, but your contenders for this Dionysia’s finale. You are all invited to witness Riven seek a permanent role here in the Playhouse when she challenges Jude to a final standoff in the arena.”
Sil presents a book between us, pressing a quill into one of my hands while Jude signs the book without hesitation. When he’s done, he looks to me hopefully.
I glance over the page. A faux contract. This is Riven Hesper’s promise to the Playhouse, should she win in the arena. To stay and perform until challenged for her place.
This is just a prop. A measly piece of paper that can be torn or burned or crumbled.
My contract—my true contract with the Playhouse—flashes through my head. The feeling of a quill in my hand long ago, gold spilling across the page. My name, my real name, signed at the bottom. An eternity sworn to the Playhouse, to whatever role I am cast in.
All for this. Fame. Love. Belonging. Power.
I press the quill to the page and sign, a show of sealing myself inside the Playhouse until my death, should I survive the finale. The audience watches, awed by my devotion.
The leaders of Theatron observe from the front row, their expressions still and contemplative, eyes roaming over me and then Jude. Then back to me.
SIL: “Any words you’d like to share, Riven?”
I swallow, conjure the lines I know were written for me. They come out stiff as ice.
RIVEN: “It will be an honor to perform in the arena with you, Jude.”
SIL: “And you, Jude?”
The whish of something piercing the air breaks the conversation, followed by the gasps of the audience as it soars overhead. I see a slant of gold ripping through the sky.
Then I hear myself scream.