The third act moves into more recent years. Titus plays the role of Michail, his traitorous actions hidden from the audience. His death is framed as a tragic accident.
Still, I don’t watch from backstage when his body falls from the highest level of the skene, hits the marble with a disturbing crunch. The result of a faulty railing in this version of events.
The audience wails at the depiction of the Playhouse fleeing the District in the wake of his death and the calamity that followed.
Act IV:
Nausea gathers in my throat as Mattia helps me change costumes, donning Galen’s old jacket. Then I set foot onstage for the third act.
My story.
The story of a girl who grew up fearful of Players, who lost a parent to the division, who carries the same mark as the rest of the North. A girl who despises the Playhouse, just like the audience.
I’m just like everyone else.
I step onto a set drained of its color, surrounded by faded, dreary shades of gray.
Then I journey to the Playhouse, and the world comes alive, blossoms with beauty and entertainment and song that the audience yearns for, locked behind its gilded doors.
There, I discover it isn’t full of evil; it’s deeply misunderstood. So, torn between the two, I become the bridge that bonds them.
Act V:
All is well.
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 feelsso 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—mytruecontract with the Playhouse—flashes through my head. The feeling of a quill in my hand long ago, gold spilling across the page. My name, myrealname, 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.
