JUDE: “Actually, he will.”
We all turn to where Jude stares blankly at us from the top of the steps.
I wonder if anyone else notices the messy way his gold irises have begun to bleed into the whites of his eyes. His handsome features, sharp before, are almost inhuman now.
“Any news?” Parrish chirps.
JUDE: “It would seem your speech moved them, Riven.” Moved them. A kind way to phraseplucked every line of defense from their fingertips.“They’ve surrendered. Signed onto Sil’s new terms, to go into effect beginning tomorrow, after the Great Dionysia winner’s been crowned.” He finds a seat across from me but avoids my eyes. “The Playhouse has won.”
Silence shivers over the words.
Then my cast breaks into cheers, wine is poured, and chalices are clinked together.
I’ve done it, exactly what I was designed to do, taken the world for a stage. Handed it to Sil on a platter.
I hate to admit part of me feels good—complete.Playing my role as it was intended.
JUDE: “Confiscations of Eleutheraen weapons and the dismantling of resistance groups will begin immediately after. I expect none of it will go down cleanly.”
TITUS: “Well, enough of this doom and gloom! One of you will be dead tomorrow, and that’s exciting.”
The mere mention of the arena sets a chill in the air. As the quiet chorus of banter carefully sculpted around me plays out like a piece of sheet music, I clutch the Eleutheraen gold vial in my pocket, wondering what Galen would do, would say, if he could see me now.
ARIUS: “Well, Riven?”
I snap to attention, unsure what the question was, until I realize Iknowwhat’s been said, because I remember reading this scene. Red wine splashes over the sides of a crystal chalice Arius sets on the table. “Any predictions?” he clarifies. “About tomorrow?”
Parrish nudges me jokingly. “Suppose you’ll join us forever? We’ve got the whole world to perform on these days.”
I look widely at my cast. Jude’s knuckles are white around his cup. I raise my own.
RIVEN: “Ignorance is bliss.”
Our final night slips away with the shift of stars and the clearing of crowds below, though some hopeful onlookers sleep outside the Playhouse gates, craning their necks up toward the terrace.
The Players make their exits in pieces. First, Mattia, who always retires early. Then Parrish, who stretches, yawns, and mutters something about checking on her “experiment.” Then, stubbornly, Titus, who awakens from his drunken stupor at this proclamation.
Finally, Arius rubs his eyes, then floats down the stairs after the rest.
Alone, Jude and I say nothing to each other.
This scene is over. We’re supposed to go to bed, too. Being the obedient Player Jude always is, he numbly gathers his coat from over a chair without a word.
Fine. With my shoulders tight, I turn stiffly and stalk toward the stairs, making my peace with the thought that the next—and last—time we’ll see each other will be in the arena.
“Riven,” he blurts as I pad down the first three steps.
It’s the first unscripted word he’s deigned to utter since that conversation yesterday.
I throw a look over my shoulder, brow gathered. We’re out of lines for this scene. And Jude has made his alliances clear. “He speaks,” I say dryly. The lights in the stairwell leading to the common room flicker, dimming. We’re off script, but somehow, it feels more natural than the words that were written for us.
“This is the safest time to talk—when we return to our rooms at night, before the lights shut off.” His voice is tight. “The same way it’s okay to smile and wave and break character during curtain call. The curtain is starting to shut.”
I pinch the corners of my mouth into a cold half smile. “Then I had best get backstage before it does.”
I scamper down a few more steps before he calls, exasperated,“Riven.”
But my next entrance, to my dressing room and then to my bed, is calling. I’m sure he can feel his own blocking, too.
