PROLOGUE
The mortals made a treaty, to keep the Players South
And when the treaty ended, a wall to keep them out
And if the wall should crumble, then marks will keep us safe
And if our marks should fail us, gods have mercy on our fate
ACT I
Act I: Scene I
ten years later
If I had a coin for every time I was warned about the Playhouse, I’d have enough to buy a front row seat.
One for last week, when the papers warned of its rumored grand return and the looming end of the treaty.
And then about a hundred more for this morning, when news broke the Playhouse had posted a bulletin announcing their next tour stop—the District of Dionysus—and all hell subsequently broke loose.
To make things worse, the bulletin listed no date. No arrival, no performances scheduled, nothing. Like the tense speculation of their return—and the fear it drives into the air—is just another glorious part of the show. I’ll bet they do it on purpose.
I push myself to tread faster, my eyes focused on the afternoon sun dipping lower on the horizon as I weave through a sea of faded coats and skirts blurring into gray streets, the word“Players”swarming in the air. They’ve been closing in for weeks, their theatre sinking and vanishing beneath the earth, only to impossibly rise up somewhere else.
I tuck my chin and urge my legs tomove.
You will cooperate, I command my limbs, most of which have already gone numb and cold.You will work today and not—
As if to argue with the thought, the wind smacks me with a gust that soaks through both of my coats and unfurls a paralyzing chill down my bones. I buckle and swear under my breath.
“Cursed, I heard—”someone utters to their companion in passing, eyes flickering in my direction. I bristle at the word, straightening.Cursed.
The Player’s promise from ten years ago hovers at the edges of my memory, sending a shiver down my spine.
Glass smacks the sidewalk in front of me, shattering, and I shriek, shielding my face.
“Sorry—gods, so sorry!” calls a woman through a window two stories up, who just nearly murdered me with a slab of falling glass. What a way to gothatwould have been. “Can’t be too careful.”
She isn’t the only one. The path ahead is littered with broken mirrors catching the light like specks of gold. The Playhouse is moving closer every day, and people arestillharboring them? Gods help us.
Mirrors are practically an invitation for a Player to come inside. Or worse, to snatch someone through their reflection. I wait a beat, just in case anyone else feels like chucking more glass out their window, before moving again, taking care to sidestep a large chunk.
I avert my eyes from the shards; I haven’t seen my own reflection in years.
From the way people stare, I gather this is a good thing.
Glass crunches under my boots all the way to the Cut—a deep trench of dark water on either side of a wall rising out of it. Both look a little ominous today.
The Cut divides Theatron in half, separating us in the North from the Player worshippers of the South. In the center between them is the only shared territory, the District, which sits low and flat like the bottom of a bowl. It’s a wildly unhappy marriage, and probably the only place you can find a temple dedicated to the Players just two streets away from an apothecary that sells the Eleutheraen gold that kills them.
“Did you miss me, Jak?” I call mockingly to the usual guard from the footbridge as I approach the closest gateway.
Jak’s face pinches at my greeting. “Riven. Still alive, I see.” He doesn’t sound pleased by this, nor amused by the little bow I offer in response.
“When do you think it’ll be?” I ask.
He huffs a humorless laugh, but there’s a strained edge to it. “I’ve heard guesses ranging from three days to three months, based on their patterns. What, you want in? Some of us are taking bets.”
