Lights up close erased the edges of his vision. The stage dissolved into heat and noise. The crowd sounded like surf. The Thalos actor pressed a mic into Seven’s hand, his smile kind but conspiratorial. The microphone was warm against his palm, and the sound of the audience folded into a single, expectant hum that made Seven’s throat tighten.
“Everyone,” the actor announced, “these are some of the longest-running legacy players inPaladinhistory. They’ve logged in together since Beta, taken their mains through every expansion, kept a campaign alive through high school, finals, moves, break-ups, and—” He glanced at them with a knowing warmth that seemed oddly intimate. “Life. The Knights of the Kids’ Table.”
Pride landed low in Seven’s sternum—a silly feeling to have over a name, but names did that. He swallowed the lump in his throat. It felt like someone had reached into his chest and strucka match on his ribs. Why did hearing about his own life in this particular voice make it feel holy? Sacred? This was crazy. He was standing next totheSer Thalos.
“They’ve got a ranger,” the actor added, “who many of you will know by reputation, if not his stupidly high stealth rolls. The original Thorn Vale.”
The camera found Seven’s face and flung it twenty feet tall on the LED wall. A guy in a beautifully made ranger costume, who didn’t like being looked at, watching himself be looked at.
He lifted the mic. His voice came out just steady enough to hear clearly. “Uh, hi. I’m Seven. I play as Rowan Thorn Vale.”
The audience laughed—notathim, but because they recognized his nervousness. They were probably imagining themselves suddenly being thrown into the spotlight.
“The fans—our watchers,” he heard himself say, heat creeping behind his ears at how sentimental that sounded, “kind of ship me with another origin character.”
“Ship?” the Thalos actor echoed, voice ticking up in question at the end, as if he had never met fans before.
“Yeah.” Seven couldn’t stop his smile. “There’s a…romance thing that plays out in our adventures.”
“And who,” the actor asked, like this was news to everyone there, “do they ship you with?”
“Ser Thalos.” Seven tipped the mic toward him. The cheer for the name and the face was immediate. “They, uh, like watching our interactions.”
“We like watching a lot of things,” Felix said salaciously, alluding to the NC scenes in the game cuts. “Some of us are married to it.”
The actor lifted his hands, and the surrounding laughter died down. “You’ve written a love story with us for a decade. Tonight, we thought we’d return the favor.” A pause, then the sound ofstrings rose, soft and earnest. He turned toward the table as the actor playing Thorn Vale stood, light pooling around his boots.
The proposal scene from the Arc of the Greenwood finale. The one with compilation videos Seven didn’t watch because he already knew it by heart. The ranger took a step toward Thalos and lifted his chin for the line everyone could mouth.
“The Greenwood has no kings. It has guardians.”
Thalos answered on cue. “Then give me leave to guard what I cannot live without.” The actor stopped mid-gesture and laughed, delighted. He turned back to the crowd and shook his head. “This doesn’t feel right, does it?”
Noise tangled through the room. Some said yes. Others said no. But democracy had nothing on a showman with a plan.
He faced Seven, his voice lowering, the amusement in it giving way to gentleness. “Maybe tonight,” he said, “we ask the actual Thorn Vale to step in. Would you like to take a turn as my Thorn Vale?”
Seven wanted to sink through the stage. “I’m not—I don’t?—”
“Do you,” the actor interrupted, not performing now, but asking the younger man for an answer he seemed to already know, “by any chance, have your own Ser Thalos?”
The question cracked something open inside Seven, and heat climbed the back of his neck. He did. His Ser Thalos was probably at home in a pair of basketball shorts, pouring over case files. He could picture the faint crease between Enzo’s brows, the glow of his monitor painting half his face.
His chest squeezed; his sudden ache for Enzo made no sense. He would see him in less than two hours. He had seen him just ten minutes before the curtains went up when they’d FaceTimed. Still, his desperate need for him to materialize in that moment was so real his gaze slid to the wings.
He wanted to see broad shoulders there, a sharp jaw, that controlled temper in a three-thousand-dollar suit. The man whohated spectacle but loved him. After all, both things could be true.
“Yes,” he said, his voice small. “Yeah.”
The lights dimmed. The crowd’s roar softened into a hush. It was the kind of silence that had a pulse.
“Then maybe you’d like to finish the scene with him,” the actor suggested.
Music swelled around them, noble and theatric. It was a song Seven had heard through cheap speakers a million times.
A spotlight cut across the wings. For a breath, he let himself be pragmatic. Of course, no one was there. Of course not. Enzo would buy a twenty-thousand-dollar gaming rig and have a desk altered to protect Seven’s wrists. He’d cancel depositions to watch a raid. But he would not step?—
Polished steel caught the light. The audience gasped.
