But halfway there, I don’t know what possesses me. I can’t help but glance back—in time to see another burst of buttery yellow light. Warm wind breathes across my face, curling through the cool air.
The Playhouse doors have opened.
“Ladies and gentlemen!”
The voice is not human. It’s thunderous, beckoning, and everywhere all at once. It shimmers across the clouds and rumbles in the ground. Somewhere, a thrilled audience of Revelers shriek greetings. In their joyous cries, I make out a name:Silenus.
The Playhouse director.
He scares me almost as much as the Players. In some ways, even more. My hand hovers over my coat pocket, where my father’s golden knife hides.
“Thank you for joining us this fine afternoon!”Silenus’s voice thrums low, a rich baritone that strangely reminds me of a grandfather clock. It must project halfway across the city. I almost think I can feel it inside my own heart.
My mind goes to the solagraphs in the District Museum. Silenus is always pictured the same way: a head of thick white hair, fair skin, elegant spectacles, a fine suit. Smile lines etched into a face that has not aged in hundreds of years.
And always,alwaysin his hands: a small leather-bound book, pages that emit a warm, soft glow. “The Script,” it’s called, an item long suggested to have belonged to Dionysus himself. I can’t imagine anything lessthan a god’s treasured possession could give Silenus the power to direct the Players.
“Wonderful people of Theatron, it is always a privilege to be amongst old friends. But none of us are here for sentiment, I understand.”He laughs softly, but it seems to echo through the sky.
My legs cramp as Cassia and I fly up the steps to the temple, and I push myself to keep going.
“Such wicked rumors lately.”A sigh.“But the Playhouse is most happy to negotiate a new agreement with our friends in the North as our revered treaty comes to an end. But! In exchange—”
I can’t catch my breath. My lungs burn.
“We expect utmost cooperation as we hold our most beloved tradition here in the District, one that was so unluckily disrupted last time.”
At this, Cassia freezes. My mind races.Beloved tradition—
“We are proud to announce a casting call—and a Great Dionysia!”
My heart stutters, shocked as an explosion of cheers rocks the District.
A casting call.
The words send a shudder through me. I don’t know much about casting calls, only that they involve a mortal taking the place of a Player.Becomingone. Through the most brutal and violent of means, should they win—part of a five-day festival known as the Great Dionysia. A massive spectacle, during which the Players are released from the Playhouse and allowed to roam freely.
Cassia whirls, her eyes widening.
“Perhaps a new Player stands amongst us here today,”the director calls.“We hope to see you all later this evening for this most exciting opportunity.”
A great cracking sound splits the air as the Playhouse doors slam shut.
If anxiety were a person, I think it would look a lot like my aunt Cassia right now. She made us wait inside the Dionysian Records for several hours before she’d so much as entertain the idea of letting me go home, claiming it would be safer once the Revelers are inside the Playhouse for the casting call and not causing trouble outside of it.
Then again, if I devoted as much time as she does to studying Theatron’s darkest corners of history, of what has happened and whatcouldhappen again, I might be anxious, too. But Cassia says our best weapon against the Playhouse is our knowledge of it, devoting her life to protecting what historical records the Players failed to destroy.
“Let me take you home,” she says. “While the Revelers busy themselves with all this casting call foolishness.”
My pride wants to be stubborn about accepting the arm she offers, but the ice twisting around my stiff spine wins. I loop my arm through her sleeve, just this once.
As we depart the Dionysian Records, my eyes stall curiously on a set of oak doors that remain forever locked. Unlike most, I know what sleeps beyond them: empty storybooks. Thousands, robbed of their words, their contents devoured by the Playhouse.
Which is for the best. Stories are nothing but lies. Tools of manipulation for Players.
“Gods damn it all,” Cassia mutters under her breath, taking in the empty streets. The Revelers are nowhere to be seen, and anyone North of the Cut has clearly made themselves scarce.
“I’m pretty sure they already have,” I point out. “What do we do?”
