The curtains rose with the groan of old wood and the rattle of iron rings in their track. The Playhouse inhaled with them. Every masked face lifted, hollow eyes gleaming in the false light spilling from chandeliers that had been dark a heartbeat ago. The orchestra pit screamed to life, bows dragging across strings, a chorus of unseen musicians sawing out a tune that made the marrow ache.
Casimir Rook stood center stage. The grinning mask glittered, its gilded teeth bright as knives. His cloak of shredded confessions spread wide as though woven from wings. He bowed deeply, hands outstretched, then looked directly at me.
"Act Two begins," he proclaimed. "And what better theme than bondage? Faith shackled to breath, truth shackled to shame, and our beloved clerk shackled to his own tally of sins."
Applause erupted. It was not human applause. The masks clapped themselves, porcelain hands striking porcelain faces in deafening rhythm. Chains rattled with each beat, echoing through the rafters. The Ledger vibrated in my coat, ink already spilling across its pages:
Act Two Phenomenon: Chains of Applause.
Effect: Audience clapping binds debtor and critic alike.
Warning: Each round of applause tightens restraint.
My arms grew heavy. Invisible links coiled around my wrists, biting into skin. My breath caught, shallow, as if iron bands cinched my ribs. Seraphine swore beside me, her iron arm jerking as though magnets pulled it toward the stage.
Rook spread his arms wider. "Do you feel it, my friends? Every clap a chain, every cheer a lock. We forge our own cages, and call it worship!"
The crowd clapped harder. My knees buckled. The Spine of Iron seared in defiance, marrow burning to keep me upright. The candle-mark flared, a wick struggling against smothering smoke.
"Varrow!" Seraphine shouted. "Fight it!"
"I'm trying," I gasped. "The applause—it's…multiplying debts!"
The Ledger's page seared with options:
Counter-script Required.
Option One: Confess publicly, breaking rhythm. Cost: One truth revealed to all.
Option Two: Invoke Spine of Iron—shatter chains. Cost: Three marrow beats.
Option Three: Redirect applause—turn audience against debtor. Cost: Candle truth plus secret.
The clapping thundered. Chains cinched tighter, bruising wrists and throat. Seraphine's iron arm slammed against her own chest, runes sparking as she resisted. "Choose!" she barked.
My mouth went dry. The candle mark flickered, demanding a truth. I had little left I dared to speak. But the Ledger pressed, merciless.
I staggered forward, raising my voice above the applause. "You want a confession?"
The audience stilled, masks tilting, hollow gazes locked onto me. The silence cut sharper than the chains.
"I forged more than my father's name," I said, voice raw. "I forged entire accounts. I built lies so that men I hated would fall, and I told myself it was justice."
The masks gasped in unison. Threads of blue light snapped from them, the rhythm of applause faltering. Chains cracked, falling loose from my wrists.
Rook laughed, delighted. "Yes! Yes, my critic! Bleed for them! Every confession a jewel in my crown!"
But the Ledger flared again, seizing the moment:
Directive: Redirect.
Action: Turn confession into accusation.
I raised the Ledger high. "But if I forged accounts, Casimir Rook forges lives. Every mask you wear is his forgery. Every breath you take, he has stolen. He is the debtor. Not me. Not you. Him!"
The candle flared like a star. Light seared across the seats. Masks shrieked as cracks split them, porcelain fissuring. Several shattered entirely, revealing faces beneath—pale, gaunt, but breathing free. Gasps rippled through the hall.
Rook's grin tilted. His mask quivered, gold leaf peeling at the edges. He hissed, voice sharp as broken glass. "Careful, clerk. You dare to upstage me?"
Seraphine strode forward, iron arm raised high. "This stage doesn't belong to you, Rook."
He laughed again, but the sound faltered, edged with strain. The backdrop sea writhed, waves lashing outward, but for the first time the masks in the audience did not cheer. Their hands hovered, uncertain.
The Ledger inked a final line:
Interval within Act Two purchased. Debtor destabilized. Next strike decisive.
Chains clattered to the floor around me. My wrists bled. My marrow throbbed like hammered steel. And for one breath, the audience looked not at Rook, but at me.
The play had shifted.
—End of Chapter 13—