I borrowed these from Mattia until we get you to the costume wing, so for both our sakes, please do not cut them up. And ditch that shabby jacket. You’re embarrassing both of us.
After proudly donning my jacket over the blouse, I head for the door, but I catch myself sticking my legs out in front of me a few times. I’ve never worn color before and can’t seem to stop looking at the vivid hues of red. Something about it makes me feel guilty, so I pull my gaze upward, awkwardly ignoring the unsigned contract on my vanity on my way out.
I discover the other auditionees already in the common room, at last putting names to their faces and wishing they’d stop looking at mine like it scares the daylights out of them.
The siblings, who I learn are twins, are called Thyone and Phileas—championing Players Parrish and Arius respectively. According to both, their Reveler uncle turned them out and warned them not to return unless one of them was dead and the other had acquired a role in the cast.
Titus’s chosen champion introduces herself as Tig, a strikingly tall, willowy girl with umber brown skin and curly hair. She makes it known several times over that Sil himself spotted her from the crowd and insisted Titus audition her last night.
Then there’s Mattia’s champion—Linos, a boy with a quiet, commanding presence and tanned, broad shoulders. He shrugs when asked about his upbringing, mentions he has siblings and something about Players’ salaries.
Guess I’m not the only one who showed up out of desperation last night.
We’re all about the same age, and that’s where the similarities end.
But I am far more concerned about whattheyall share in common, since at some point between last night and this morning, their eyes brightened, gleaming almost gold.
I’mcertainthe twins shared the same cold black eyes just yesterday. This morning, both glitter in a way that unsettles me. Linos rarely looks up, but I caught a flicker of it in his, too.
“Y-You’re all—” I stammer. They startle, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve spoken to them. “Your…eyes?” That isn’t the question I meant to ask, or a question at all. I’m not used to being included in conversations. One of the twins cocks her head, confused.
THYONE: “Of course. Didn’t you do a Craft binding last night?”
Gods above. Do I even wantto know?
RIVEN: “Uh—a Craft binding?”
THYONE: “With your mentor.”
I’m going to kill Jude. “What?”
PHILEAS: “An exchange—borrowed power during the casting call.”
TIG: “You didn’t think they’d make us compete as mere mortals, did you?”
Wait, Judedidsay something about that last night—that the other Players would gift portions of their power to their chosen champions.If you let me, I’ll give you mine.
There’s the smallest,tiniestchance I should have asked for clarification before screaming at him to get out.
The doors open, and the other auditionees file out. I follow them through.
The dining hall welcomes us with a clatter of silverware, the scent of fresh fruit, and a dozen ornate tables perched alongside a wall of glass that looks out to a beach.
Immediately, there are two things I don’t like about the scene outside.
One: the water. Jude was right—we’ve moved so far away from the District, we’re on the damned coast. The tide is coming in, dark waves slapping against high, sharp rocks in the distance.
The clouds are just as foreboding here as they are in the North, an ominous haze rolling over the black sea. This is not what fogs the enormous glass panes, though.
It’s the second thing I hate about the dining hall: Hundreds of thin, desperate faces surround us from the outside, their eager breaths clouding the glass. Revelers. The Playhouse must leave its gates open more freely South of the Cut. Clammy hands push against the windows, reaching for us. Some of them stumble over one another just to get a look. Most of them don’t even seem to blink, their eyes hollow.
Isthiswhat life is like in South Theatron? A frenzy of obsessive Playhouse fanatics, wasting their every thought and breath on the Players? Is that whatI’dbecome without my mark?
TITUS: “Well, if it isn’tAlistaire! We were just talking about you.” I jump at the sound of my alias and almost drop the fruit I was spearing onto my plate. Titus leans back in his chair at the Players’ table, where they all cluster like a gathering of overdressed swans. He points a fork at the windows. “Get used to it. I know it feels like being in a fishbowl, but truth is, they’re the ones who can’t help it.” He smirks wickedly. “How’d you sleep? See any ghosts?”
RIVEN: “No ghosts.” I answer the second question instead of the first. Because thetruthis I think I slept better than I’ve ever slept in my life. No thanks to Titus, whose groans and declarations of vengeance toward whoever shot that arrow could be heard anywhere in the Playhouse.
This morning, though, the only sign of his injury is the slightly bulging heel of his left boot, probably bound in gauze beneath the leather.
