Act III Scene XXVII
“Riv-en, Riv-en!”
The chant swells from the opening of the stairwell, louder with each step as I descend into the darkness.
It stirs something in me, a sense of dread, clashing with the thrill of a performance.
By the time I reach the landing and step into the tunnel at the bottom of the Playhouse, the audience feels like a riotous storm that shakes the walls and matches the pounding of my own heart.
The Playhouse draws its strength from its audience. A theatre grows weak without them, Jude told me once. And I can feel it now in the thrum of magic rising from the ground. My eyes track the gilded edges of the tunnel around me as they gleam brighter. The gold spreading. Warming.
Every move forward feels like scratching an itch. Everything my role was created for boiling down to now. My steps echo in time with the crowd chanting the name of someone who doesn’t exist—someone entering a trap full of sparkling chandeliers and red velvet seats.
Light darts through the breaks in the curtain up ahead, calling me forward.
SIL: “Ladies and gentlemen.” His voice bellows, overpowering the cheers. “It is my honor to welcome you tonight to this, the finale of our Great Dionysia!”
Their screams for blood vibrate in the ground and satisfy the hunger of the Player within me inching closer to the surface every hour. My hands find the slit in the curtain, parting it.
SIL: “Please welcome: Riven Hesper!”
The spotlights flood my vision as I step through the curtain, and the arena roars to life.
My ears pop at the crash of applause, my head spinning with the blur of faces dotting the circular space, which is fashioned in the same golds and reds of the auditorium above it.
In the podium seats closest to the ring, I find my cast, their expressions twisted with forced indifference.
Mattia gives me a subtle nod. Titus winks at me.
At the center between them: Sil.
In the second row just behind him, the council watches, faces taut.
A grin stretches toward my ears as I drop into a dramatic bow.
But when I lift my face, take in the crowds, I realize this isn’t the arena I remember.
It’s grown. Growing. Twice the size I thought it was.
The Playhouse expands to suit however many wander through its doors. Or, in this case, through its mirrors—hundreds of them, lining the entryways beyond the stands, open portals for mortals everywhere to wander in.
As stragglers file into the rows and spectators shriek their approval of my entrance, the Playhouse seems to tremble. To quake. To soak up the devotion and attention of those who have wandered right into the belly of the theatre.
Its walls groan, widening around me, making space for more and more patrons. Overhead, the ceiling rises farther away. As its walls stretch, they crack.
Gold Craft rushes in to fill the spaces between.
SIL: “Joining tonight’s finale…” He pauses with flair, and unease builds in my chest, my pulse roaring in my ears.
“Lead Player Jude Stepharros!” Before Sil can bite down on the last syllable of his name, the crowd is on their feet, thunderous cheers relentless as the curtain across the opposite entrance sweeps open.
Jude moves into the arena with otherworldly grace, his stature nearly reaching the apex of the opposite arch as he straightens.
Golden veins travel like vines from his hands to his neck, glowing beneath the white of his shirt, open at the collarbone.
Glittering symbols are painted across his chest to disguise the damage of his costume peeling away.
Sewn into his dark hair is a matching wreath, not unlike my own, except the edges stick out, dull and rusted. Sil widely publicized that Jude would be wearing Gene’s wreath to honor her memory. She notoriously finished off her own opponent by slashing their neck with the gilded edges of her crown.
A grim understanding sinks in. I’m certain Sil’s intentions with it reach far beyond any publicity stunt. Forcing Jude into wearing a reminder of what happens when we don’t obey our storylines, a crown heavy with guilt.
In one of his hands, a spear.
Jude doesn’t seem to notice the audience, his eyes pinning me to the place where I stand, burning with the same determination that’s hammering in my chest. The rest of the world blurs to noise and color.
He bows. A single, elegant movement—too calm for what’s coming.
I shove down the fear rising up my throat. A confession hovers on my tongue. To Jude, for what I’m going to do. To the audience, for what I am. To myself, for what I’m not.
The air between us hums.
In my mind’s eye, a coin is tossed. Flips in the air.
Jude looks up. The lights catch the gold in his eyes, the faint shimmer of Craft. The noise of the crowd falls away.
The coin flips again, Comedy’s and Tragedy’s faces glinting with each turn.
Across the arena, Jude’s lips form the shape of three words.
Three deep breaths.
My lungs comply before I can think. The dread in my chest feels so heavy, I’d rather play any other part than this right now.
SIL: “Let us begin.”
The coin flips once more. And falls.
Jude does not break his gaze from where I stand.
Until now. As his arms rise to the skies, he throws his head back. A word seems to form on his lips as his eyes burn like torches.
All at once, a cover of night shakes the ceiling.
Then, like a blanket, the illusion of darkness collapses over the arena.
And I feel myself falling.