My Walker's robe had vanished once more, replaced by attire from a forgotten century. A three-piece suit clung elegantly to my frame—deep obsidian fabric laced with whisper-thin threads of gold filigree that traced the seams like veins through parchment. At my throat, an ascot rested like a solemn oath. Ornate cufflinks gleamed with sigils I half-recognized, and at my chest, a brooch shimmered with an otherworldly luminescence, like moonlight caught in amber.

At my hip, a leather-bound journal pulsed with the steady rhythm of a quiet heartbeat. Its ink-stained pages whispered, inscribed in a script that shimmered, shifted, and rewrote itself the longer I stared. A language older than memory. A voice older than mine.

Then came the rupture.

Not pain. Recognition.

From my brow, antlers burst forth—not the majestic crown of a stag, but the lithe, curling branches of a buck. Elegant and ancient, they coiled around the horn already there, as if claiming their place beside it. Blood welled in tiny rivulets, crimson drops trailing down my temples like sacrificial tears. It should have been grotesque. Instead, it was beautiful—eerily so.

"Sire," murmured Lumivis from the velvet shadows of the stage, his voice a sigh within the silence. "It appears you have been cast as Lucien."

"Thanks, Lumivis," I muttered, fingers brushing the tender seam between bone and thought. "I kind of figured that out… Please tell me this isn't permanent."

"Unlikely," the spirit replied. "You were not cast by Vex. This came from your own Lexicon. The play chose you. And her."

A bell tolled—not from tower or clock—but from the very fabric of the sky. Fog spilled over the stage like breath from a dreaming god. Velvet curtains stirred, then parted.

And the city of Eldermere awoke.

A place stitched from memory and ink.

I—Lucien—stood amidst a masquerade I had no recollection of joining. The ballroom shimmered with a surreal elegance, marble and moonlight melting into one. The waltz echoed like secrets through paper canyons. Nobles spun in elegant pairs, draped in silken gowns and gilded masks. Their laughter rang hollow, the sound of pages turning in a forgotten book.

She stood beneath the chandelier—draped in crimson, her mask the shape of a fox. Her laughter cascaded like bells over fresh snow.

"Lucien," she said, her voice both memory and mystery. "Or is it Alexander tonight?"

"I could ask you the same," I murmured, drawn to her like ink to quill. "Celeste."

"I'm no dancer," she teased, eyes glinting like stolen stars. "But tonight isn't about truth. It's about remembering what we forgot."

She extended her hand.

I took it.

The waltz began.

Nobles turned to watch. Their stares bloomed like inkblots on parchment. I moved as Lucien might—tentative, poetic in my awkwardness. She danced like fire incarnate—untamed, radiant, burning across the floor.

At the center of the ballroom, Lady Saphirine emerged from the crowd. Pantherkin. Eyes like daggers. Smile like a blade just before it bites.

"Scandal," someone whispered.

"Madness," another said.

Above us, in the rafters, the Masked Stranger stirred. Not yet Celeste. Not yet.

They held the Dagger like a quill, poised to edit fate.

Later, Lucien—me—sat beside the fire in the theater's belly. Celeste paced nearby, her tail twitching, coiled tension wrapped in ribbons.

"You can't change them," I said. "The nobles. The ghosts. They only love a girl like you when she's tragic."

"And you?" Her eyes pinned me, sharp and unrelenting.

"I love you when you're cruel."

She softened—barely.

Valère arrived—but not truly. He wore Valère's face, but behind the mask, it was me. Another me. A mirror, cracked and bleeding sorrow.

He knelt.

"I will fall for you," he said, voice breaking like old parchment. "I will tear the pages from heaven and burn them. Just say you'll dance."

She touched his face, leaving a streak of red.

"Then fall," she said. "And fall. And fall."

Lady Saphirine emerged from the fog. Her voice: silver drawn over stone. "He is mine by name, if not by soul."

Blades were drawn—but not of steel. They fought in illusions, in names, in monologues that cut deeper than any sword. Words became weapons. Lies became scars.

I watched from above.

The Dagger glinted beside me.

I did not remember placing it there.

Backstage, Celeste tightened her ribbons. My hands trembled as I helped her.

"We leave after the performance," she said.

I nodded.

But doubt settled like dust in my throat.

I had written this play.

That much I remembered.

But this was not the play I had written.

Celeste stepped into the spotlight, and became herself.

Her monologue fell like a prophecy.

"I dance not for applause. I dance to remember. I dance because the wound sings when it moves."

From the wings, the Masked Stranger entered—no longer stranger. They pressed the real Dagger into her hand.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

I gasped—but did not move.

Valère—me again—watched from the box seat. He cried out her name.

But it was too late.

The dagger found its mark.

The curtain fell.

Applause thundered.

Later, Valère stormed into the Margrave's estate. But no one met him—only mirrors.

In them: himself. Antlered. Broken. Bloodied.

"You killed her," he whispered.

"No," the reflection replied. "You wrote this. You handed her the dagger. You wanted to see how the story would end."

He ran.

Back to the theater.

But I was already there.

Lucien was gone.

Only Alexander remained.

And Celeste.

She wore the mask now.

The music began again.

We danced across a ruined stage. Her steps—divine. Mine—desperate, erratic, searching.

She wielded dance like swordplay. I countered with razors of paper, with verses that became prisons.

She leapt, conjuring a bow of moonlight. Her arrows sang like judgment, accusations woven in melody.

We were gods pretending to be mortals.

We were mortals pretending to be actors.

We struck in the same breath.

She collapsed beside me.

Her mask tumbled away.

It was her face.

But older. Timeless.

"A story must end as it was written," she whispered, voice unraveling like ribbon. "But some stories... are meant to be told again."

She pressed her fingers to my forehead.

The antlers shattered.

The dagger was gone.

The stage was empty.

The curtain closed.

***

The curtain opened.

Once again, I was Lucien.

The play began anew. And again. And again.

Hundreds—no, thousands—of times.

Each repetition a cycle of velvet and tragedy, candlelight and blood. I fell in love with Celeste over and over, both as a nobleman and as a patron. A man of ink and a man of flesh. Her laughter remained hauntingly familiar, yet the heartbreak always felt new.

Every scene etched into me. Not as Alexander. Not even as Lucien.

But as something in between. A ghost bound to a story not his own.

Each version peeled back a different layer—of Lucien, of Celeste, of the world. And with every act, I felt the sorrows of a man who could never keep her. And the tears of a woman who was never truly his.

"Sire," murmured Lumivis, materializing from the smoke like a regret. "We must proceed with caution. One of these iterations is correct. But even I cannot say which."

I clenched my jaw. My voice came sharp. Bitter.

"It's the one where Celeste is the mastermind."

Lumivis stilled.

"Think about it," I continued, pacing the wings of the stage. "She's supposed to be a 'poor' dancer—yet she's refined, poised, speaks like royalty, and moves like wind in silk. She carries herself with the grace of someone born into wealth, not hired by a playwright scraping together a cast."

I gestured to the stage, to the crimson drapery and the masquerade masks once again falling into place. "She doesn't fit. Not with Lucien. Not with the story. Unless she wrote it."

Lumivis lowered his head, a flicker of unease rippling through his glow. "You believe she manipulated the narrative?"

"I think she's trying to become the Masked Stranger," I said, the words tasting like rust and ash. "I think she always was. And more."

I turned back to him, eyes narrowed. "What if she's not just some clever performer? What if she's an assassin, using this farce to get close to the noble line? What if the tragedy isn't accidental—but scripted?"

Silence.

I pressed further, heart pounding with reluctant revelation.

"What if… she's Vex's daughter?"

Lumivis's form shimmered, faltering like candlelight before a gust. "That… would explain the paradox."

"Exactly," I snapped. "Nothing about what we've seen makes sense. Not with the scraps we've been given. Every scene has layers we're not seeing. Every line she speaks has weight we haven't unpacked."

I paused, voice lowering. "It's all wrong."

The curtain quivered. Somewhere beyond it, the next version awaited. Celeste would appear again, the same fox mask, the same tilt of the head. She would offer her hand, and I would take it.

Again. And again.

But now?

Now I wasn't sure who was leading the dance.

Or who would be left when the music stopped.

***

Turns out—it wouldn't be me.

Hundreds of variations. Hundreds of unknowns. Each one another turn of the wheel, another possibility that unraveled just a little more of the tangled web. But one thing remained constant—Celeste wasn't always the Masked Stranger. That theory shattered in one version of the play, like glass underfoot, leaving me with only fragments of doubt.

But then I thought—what if that version existed because of my theory? What if I was so fixated on her that my suspicion somehow manifested her innocence in one of the countless scenarios? That theory still held weight. And if it didn't, well… I had no choice but to double down and assume that Celeste was exactly who I suspected—a professional assassin playing her role to perfection.

I exhaled sharply, the weight of realization pressing against me. I turned to Lumivis, who had been patiently observing my spiraling thoughts from the shadows, his faint light flickering in the darkness.

"Lumivis." My voice was cold, the edge of my frustration cutting through the air like a knife. "I'm going to ask you one question. A single, simple question. Will you answer it?"

His form shifted, the spectral glow around him steadying as he nodded with an almost sarcastic enthusiasm. "Gladly, Sire. Ask away."

I looked him dead in the eye, my gaze hard. "Every time the play begins, I play both Lucien and Valère. I want you to answer me this: Why do you think that is?"

There was a pause. Lumivis didn't speak immediately, the question hanging in the air like a challenge. His flickering presence seemed to search for the right answer.

"Honestly, Sire," he said after a moment of contemplation, "it's probably due to the lack of cast. You, both Lucien and Valère? Perhaps the roles were never fully fleshed out. The play, it seems, relies on your presence more than anyone else's."

I nodded, the explanation making sense. The reality of the situation was simple—there were too few characters, too many layers of performance to balance. Of course, I had to embody both. It was the only way to fill the gaps.

But there was more to it. There had to be more to it.

I leaned forward, the puzzle pieces beginning to lock into place.

"This leads me to my follow-up question," I said slowly, my voice steady now. "We've been assuming that, due to the lack of cast, Celeste and the Masked Stranger are one and the same. But what if… what if the Masked Stranger isn't her at all? What if they're played by someone who is identical to Celeste?"

The air between us thickened, and Lumivis seemed to grow still. His light dimmed just a fraction, as though the very thought had unsettled him.

"Identical?" he asked, his tone a mixture of surprise and skepticism. "Are you suggesting that someone else in the play bears her likeness? Someone who's pretending to be Celeste, or perhaps—"

"Exactly," I cut him off, the idea striking me with sudden clarity. "What if the Masked Stranger isn't Celeste, but someone else who mirrors her every move? Someone who can blend into the shadows, a mirror of the dancer with no name, a perfect imitation. A doppelgänger playing the same role."

The thought was unsettling. It was the only explanation that accounted for the strange, inexplicable gap in the narrative. Someone had to be wearing the mask. Someone had to be pulling the strings in the shadows. And if it wasn't Celeste…

Then who?

I felt a shiver of unease race down my spine, but I ignored it, pushing deeper into the abyss of the play's twisting reality.

"Think about it, Lumivis," I murmured, as if the words could help me make sense of the madness. "What if Celeste isn't even aware of the true Masked Stranger? What if she's part of a bigger game—a pawn in something far more dangerous than I imagined?"

Lumivis didn't respond immediately, his glow flickering as if he, too, was processing the weight of the theory.

I wasn't sure if I believed it yet, but the more I considered it, the more it made sense.

It all came down to one question: who was wearing the mask when Celeste wasn't around to wear it?

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