TIG:“Gods, I hate waiting here.”A whisper I’ve heard before. It comes from my left.
No.It doesn’t. But itshould—
A greatcrackstartles me as lights flash on within each of the archways, illuminating us.
Except I’m alone this time. Around me, each auditionee from my first day in the Playhouseshouldstand as a glowing silhouette in the darkness. They aren’t there.
I look up and watch a series of spotlights piercing the five empty spaces on the platform above, where the Players should stand. Or did.
Eerily, their spaces are empty, too.
Finally, a long, elegant shadow emerges from the sixth and largest entrance in the arena. My face hardens as Sil materializes within the arch.
SIL: “Ladies and gentlemen!”
Even from this distance, his eyes slice through me as the director marches into the arena.
SIL: “Congratulations! You should all be proud—a round of applause for this year’s cast!”
Applause crashes in around me as Sil’s arms stretch out to the audience.
No—applausedoesn’tcome.There’sno applause. No audience.
But I’ve lived this scene, and so I know there should be.
“Enough, Silenus.” The voice that rips from my vocal cords sounds nothing like mine. It’s earsplitting, drenched with the theatric pitch of the Players that should be standing over me.
Sil levels his gaze on me. “Act One, Scene Seven,” he says. It takes more effort than it should to move forward; I can feel the reluctance in disobeying now. Challenging my own blocking.
“Tell me, Riven—since you’re soaware.” Sil speaks slowly, nodding at the pages still clutched in my hands. “What is it, do you think, that controls the world? Is it money, fame, love?”
My eyes drop to the loose pages. I release them, and they flutter to the floor.
“Stories,Riven!” he announces when I don’t answer. “It is not what we’re taught, who we know, what we have. What controls us—” He inclines his head, waiting for me to finish the sentence.
The answer rises in my throat, but I swallow it.
Sil sighs. “What controls us is whatentertainsus. And so I am going to tell you a story, Riven. One that will sweep the masses.” He winks. “There once was a girl who grew up much the same as many. Without Craft, fearful of Players. Only, the division did more than break the world she lived in. It broke her own family. Took a parent from her grasp.”
The air constricts in my lungs as the truth collapses in on me, heavy as steel.
SIL: “She’s taken and branded with their righteousmarksand made to fade into ordinariness. Just like everyone else. She is raised to hate and fear the Playhouse, just like everyone else. That is thepoint.She isjustlikeeveryone else.”
“Stop,” I say without meaning to, bringing a hand to my mark, feeling the scars tingle at my throat.
SIL: “Then, one day, she comes to the Playhouse and finds no evil to fuel her hate. In fact, it becomes a home. Itfeelslike home. So, torn between the two, she becomes the bridge that bonds them. A bridge for the Playhouse to return to the North and bewelcomed.Because if shecan forgive the Playhouse, why shouldn’t everyone?”
The carefree tone of Sil’s story vanishes in his next sentence.
“Or, that’s how the story was supposed to go.”
The arena is still. The absence of my fellow auditionees feels overwhelming now. “Where are they?” I demand.
“They aren’t in this scene, Riven.”
Scene.
I kneel and grasp the fallen pages from my dressing room. They glow like the skin of a Player. Like my own skin, humming with life in my hands.
