The Old Playhouse had once been Ebonbridge's jewel. Velvet seats, chandeliers cut from glass imported at ruinous expense, stages that had seen dukes and exiled queens bow to the roar of the city's applause. Now it squatted at the river's edge like a drowned noble, windows cracked, dome crusted with mildew, velvet rotted into rags. Its gilt letters still clung to the facade, spelling out a name the fog refused to carry.
Seraphine and I stood on the quay, staring at it across the water. Barges drifted past, their pilots refusing to glance at the ruin, as if even acknowledgment might demand a ticket's price.
"Rook will make it a stage again," Seraphine said, voice flat. "That's his way. He'll build a play out of blood and debts, and the city will pay admission whether they want to or not."
The Ledger pulsed against my chest. I opened it without needing to think. The page wrote itself:
Directive Confirmed: Pursue Casimir Rook.
Stage: The Old Playhouse.
Warning: Audience present. Debts multiplied by witness.
I swallowed. "It says the crowd will make it worse."
Seraphine's iron arm hissed. "Of course. Theater feeds on witnesses. The more eyes, the heavier the cost. Rook knows that better than anyone."
We crossed the bridge to the Playhouse. Fog licked at our ankles, swirling in slow eddies that tugged like weak hands. The marble steps were slick with algae. Flyers clung to the doors, plastered in frantic ink: The Breathless Saint Lives On!; Rook's Miracle Performance, Tonight!; Tickets Paid in Secrets Only.
Seraphine tore one free and shoved it into my hand. The paper squirmed faintly, words shifting like eels in a net. The price scrawled across the bottom read: Confess to Enter.
"This is his doing," she said grimly. "He's built the threshold out of shame."
I felt the Ledger writhe, eager. Its page scrawled anew:
Entry Toll Required: One whispered confession. Cost mandatory.
I clenched my teeth. My chest still ached from the Collector's bargain, and my marrow felt thin as glass. How many more truths could I burn before nothing of me remained?
Seraphine saw my hesitation. Her hand, human and scarred, rested briefly on my arm. "I'll go first."
She stepped up to the doors. For a moment she stood tall, chin high. Then she leaned close, whispering into the crack between the rotten boards. I caught only fragments: a name, a promise, a betrayal. The door shivered, then swung inward with a groan.
She looked back at me. "Your turn."
The Ledger's candle mark pulsed on my palm, faint light glowing between my fingers. I closed my eyes. My voice was barely sound when it came: "I forged my father's signature to get into the Chapter House."
The door sighed, hungry, and opened.
Inside, the Playhouse breathed. Fog clung to the aisles like drapery. The chandeliers swayed though no wind moved. The stage loomed ahead, curtains drawn, painted backdrop depicting a sea that writhed with too many waves—no, with shapes under the waves. Eyes blinked open and shut within them.
The seats were filled. Not with people, not exactly. Masks stared from every row: porcelain faces painted in weeping blues, laughing reds, snarling blacks. Some had bodies beneath them, slumped, trembling. Others floated, faces untethered, mouths painted too wide.
Whispers swelled. Laughter echoed, sharp and stage-trained. Then the curtains peeled apart.
Casimir Rook stepped forward. He wore the grinning mask I had seen on the docks, but now it was gilded, every tooth outlined in gold leaf. His costume shimmered with stitched contracts, sleeves made of signatures, a cloak of shredded confessions. He bowed low, graceful, every inch the star.
"Ladies, gentlemen, debtors all," his voice rolled, rich and mocking. "Welcome to my Reckoning of Breath! Tonight's performance is brought to you courtesy of a saint who refused to pay his final bill, an inquisitor who mistakes iron for faith, and—most precious of all—a clerk who carries the Ledger itself!"
Spotlight—real or imagined—snapped onto me. Masks turned, hollow eyes staring. The weight of the audience crushed down, multiplying debts by their attention. My candle mark flickered in panic. The Spine of Iron ached, marrow groaning as if already asked to bear too much.
Seraphine stepped forward, iron arm raised. "Rook. End it. Now."
He laughed, the sound rolling across the theater like applause. "End it? My dear inquisitor, we've only just raised the curtain."
The backdrop sea writhed. Threads of blue light spilled from it, running across the stage, down the aisles, into the chests of every masked figure. They gasped as one, a hideous choir of stolen breath. The Ledger flared against me, pages scrawling furiously:
Phenomenon: Breath Network, Audience-linked.
Debtor: Casimir Rook.
Directive: Redline. Deadline: Curtain-fall.
My pulse thundered. The Playhouse was no theater. It was a trap, a ritual, a debt given flesh. And the curtain had only just risen.
—End of Chapter 10—