The audience of masks inhaled as one. The sound was grotesque, a thousand mouths sucking in a single ragged gasp. Threads of blue light shot from their chests to the stage, weaving together in the air like a tapestry of strangled souls. The backdrop's sea writhed harder, the painted waves bulging outward as if they wanted to spill into the aisles.
Casimir Rook spread his arms and basked in it. "Do you hear it?" he called, his voice both stage-rich and intimate, as though he whispered directly into every ear at once. "Do you feel it? The city breathes in debt, and tonight, we turn that breath into art!"
He bowed toward me with a flourish. "And you, clerk, are my critic and co-star. Do not falter—you have more lines to deliver than you know."
Seraphine drew herself up, iron arm gleaming as its runes flared faintly in the false spotlight. "Enough, Rook. You're drowning them. End it now or I'll tear that mask from your skull."
Rook laughed. The sound rippled through the masks in the audience, each one twitching its painted mouth in imitation. "Ah, D'Artois. Still playing the inquisitor's part? You mistake iron for faith. But tonight, you'll mistake faith for air."
The Ledger vibrated against my ribs, pages spilling ink:
Directive Urgent: Redline. Cut threads.
Warning: Audience count—243. Debts multiplied. Risk: Collapse.
I staggered beneath the weight. Each mask in the audience was a ledger entry, each pair of hollow eyes a number added to the sum. My candle-mark flickered desperately. The Spine of Iron ached like marrow grinding to dust.
Seraphine glanced at me. "Do it," she hissed. "Whatever the Ledger demands—do it."
I opened the book fully. Its pages snapped in the air like sails. Words scrawled across them:
Option One: Redline—all threads at once. Cost: Ten truths.
Option Two: Spine of Iron—shatter the stage. Cost: Five marrow beats.
Option Three: Burn the Candle—sear the network. Cost: Identity at risk.
My throat closed. Ten truths? I didn't have ten left that wouldn't destroy me. Five marrow beats? My bones already felt brittle as old chalk. Identity—what did it mean, to burn myself down to a wick?
Rook stepped closer to the edge of the stage, his mask's gilded grin wide. "Choose, clerk. Every performance is built on sacrifice. What will yours be?"
The masks in the audience exhaled together. The air rushed out like a gale, cold and sharp, pulling breath from my lungs. My vision swam. A boy in the second row clawed at his mask, revealing a pale face beneath, lips blue. He couldn't pull it off. It clung to him like a parasite.
"Seraphine," I gasped, "they're bound. The masks aren't theater—they're cages."
Her eyes narrowed. She strode down the aisle, iron arm raised, and ripped the mask from the boy's face. It shrieked as it tore away, porcelain cracking, threads snapping. The boy collapsed into her arms, sobbing, finally able to breathe.
Rook applauded, slow and mocking. "Bravo, inquisitor! A moving act! But for every mask you tear away, two more cling tighter. You cannot save them one by one."
He gestured, and the backdrop sea bulged outward. A wave of painted water crashed onto the stage, yet no paint splattered—only blue threads spilling, whipping into the crowd. More masks clamped down, more bodies stiffened in their seats.
The Ledger screamed across the page:
Curtain-fall Approaching. Balance critical. Act now.
I staggered forward, raising my hand. The candle-mark on my palm blazed, light flaring like a brand. "Then we burn the script."
The candle's flame erupted, small but fierce. It licked at the threads, unraveling them strand by strand. Every truth I had ever buried seemed to surge toward the surface, begging to be spoken. My chest ached with them. My throat burned.
One thread snapped. A woman's mask shattered, falling to shards at her feet. She gasped, wept, fell into her neighbor's arms. Another thread burned, another freed. But the flame flickered low, demanding more. Always more.
"Tell it!" Rook shouted gleefully. "Tell them all your secrets, clerk! Strip yourself bare! Let the city see you for the debtor you are!"
The audience leaned forward, hungry, hollow eyes waiting. My candle-light sputtered, demanding payment. My heart pounded—three beats short, marrow thin, ribs bruised by debts. I thought of my father's scorn, Aurelius' silence, my envy, my forging, my shame.
Seraphine's voice cut through the clamor, sharp as steel. "Don't give him everything. Give him just enough to burn his stage down."
I clenched my fist. The candle flame roared once more, flaring high enough to lick the backdrop. The painted sea caught, writhing, the eyes within it shrieking as they dissolved. Threads snapped in cascades. Masks cracked. The audience wailed as breath returned to them in jagged gasps.
Rook's mask tilted, his grin wider. "Ah, clerk. You've set the stage ablaze. But what will you have left when the curtain falls?"
The Ledger inked a final line across the page, bold and damning:
Curtain Held. Interval Purchased. Cost: Three truths, identity frayed.
My knees buckled. Seraphine caught me, iron arm hissing as it bore more than its share of my weight. The Playhouse trembled around us, chandeliers swaying, velvet smoldering.
Rook bowed once more, unfazed, gilded grin gleaming. "End of Act One, dear critic. The next will cost you even more."
The curtains slammed shut with a thunder that rattled the city's bones.
—End of Chapter 11—