If the North refuses to cooperate, Sil will give up and wipe them out. I know that as well as I know my own lines. But the plague I caused wasn’t scripted. It wasn’t supposed to happen, and now it’s thrown a wrench in Sil’s grand storyline, made the council resistant.
And theyhaveto concede, because if they don’t…
I walk until I reach the enormous columns bordering the Archeion of Dionysus. Stepping over the chamber threshold, I drop my Mimicry mask and follow Jude’s voice echoing through the stone halls. Eventually, it leads me to a set of carved doors.
“Syrene will be safe,” Jude is saying. “I swear it to you, upon my blood and my stage—”
Moira’s voice laughs coldly. “Jude Stepharros, I have never heard a more worthless promise.”
“Then allow one from me.” My voice strikes the room as I throw open the doors, but my heart wrings with the words, the betrayal I’m unleashing on my home, even if it’s the only way to save it.
And definitely the only way to prove my loyalty to Sil.
He needs to believe I’m on his side. That I’ve given up.
Still, my stomach twists.
RIVEN: “Your mines of Eleutheraen gold have run dry. Your forces are weak and your resources almost nonexistent. You may fight with what you have, but you won’t win.” With a single breath, I’ve broken my promise to Galen to not speak of the shortage.
Even Sil didn’t know about that.
I’m sorry, Galen.I’ve let him down in so many ways.
But this time—this time—I’m going to make it right.
The room freezes, all seven sets of council members’ eyes on me, reflecting horror. Moira looks on me with hate as I lay cards that aren’t mine on their negotiation table.
Jude stares at me, astonished, and it’s an effort to meet his gaze. Like he’ll be able to read the decision behind my eyes.
But Sil—he smiles, the most horrible smile I have ever seen. “My, Riven. How we’ve missed you this evening.”
Act III: Scene XXIII
Later that night, I follow my scripted blocking up to the Playhouse terrace, much as I resent obeying it. For right now, I have a role to play. By the slow, stumbled chatter, I assume I’m late for my entrance. They’ve run out of lines.
TITUS: “Riven!” His voice booms as I emerge, but I catch the tension in his smile. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are looking at either a new star Player or a corpse with a very nice jawline.”
Mattia kicks him.
MATTIA: “Do you think you could make it more than a few sentences without being such a shameless flirt?”
TITUS: “With wine like this and a face like yours?”
ARIUS: “Join us, Riven. There’s drink to go around.”
TITUS: “So, drink! Like there’s no tomorrow.” He winks but holds my gaze a beat too long, our earlier conversation written behind his eyes. There’s a small place below his ear where gold peeks through, the tiniest crack in his costume.
Moving to the couches, I seat myself in the space beside Parrish—realizing it isn’t incidentally empty but unwittingly reserved. More of it, scripted.
I catch Mattia’s attention, where she’s plucking figs from a bowl. Her gaze bounces away from mine. There’s a new rupture of gold at her hairline, spreading like a web. The Player in me sees it and feels disgusted, noting the urge to shed a deteriorating costume, empathizing.
ButIam the costume, and I’m still here, so I shove those thoughts away.
RIVEN: “Any word on the council?”
Arius grimaces. Titus laughs.
MATTIA: “From what I hear, I don’t think Jude will be joining us tonight.”
