This version of The Dagger and The Dancer began differently.
Rain hammered against steel rooftops. Winds howled like wolves in mourning, ripping through the glass canopy overhead. Somewhere, hail clattered against marble with the fury of thrown bones. It was, in every way, the worst possible weather for a dancing ball—yet that was precisely where we were. A twisted parody of elegance, a gathering draped in thunder and lightning.
And this time… the world was different. No longer set in the gilded past of chandeliers and carriages—this was a distant future of neon lights and synthetic silk, where chrome and crystal danced together under stormy skies.
Yet one thing remained constant. Everyone involved was beastkin.
"Sire," Lumivis said quietly beside me, his glow subdued, "this is…"
"An issue," I cut in, the words dry in my throat. "The more we question, the more the narrative shifts. Every time we develop a theory, every time we try to hold the story still—something new happens. The script mutates. The meaning changes. The play… rewrites itself."
I glanced at my reflection in the broken surface of a glass wall. No antlers. No horns.
"Who am I cast as this time?" I muttered. "I don't feel the stag horns on my head."
"That was what I was about to say," Lumivis replied. "Before you were interrupted. Check your side."
I looked down.
There—resting against my hip like it had always belonged there—was the mask. Smooth porcelain, impossibly delicate, and hauntingly familiar. And beside it… the dagger. The dagger. The one Lucien had been commissioned to steal. The one always tied to betrayal, to blood, to the climax of every version of the play.
I felt my mouth go dry. My thoughts began to unravel.
"Celeste… is the Masked Stranger," I breathed. "Not me. The dancer is the Stranger, except for the rare times when she isn't. That's part of the ending, isn't it? That's the twist."
Lumivis tilted his head. "What twist, Sire?"
I closed my eyes, and it struck me like a thunderclap.
"She reveals herself," I whispered, "to be her own assassin. Her own contracted killer."
The pieces snapped together. The symmetry. The performances. The endless tragedies. I opened my eyes again, and the weight of it crashed down on me.
It was never just about the dagger. Or the dancer.
"You killed her," I said, but not to Lumivis. The words weren't meant for him. They were meant for someone else. Something else.
"The 'you'—" I choked on the realization. "It wasn't the character speaking about himself. It was the final line. It was a message."
I looked up to the sky, past the cracked dome of artificial glass, into the shifting storm beyond. Rain danced in chaotic rhythm across my vision, but I didn't blink.
"The audience did," I said. "The audience is the Masked Stranger."
Silence.
Somewhere, music played—a slow, mournful waltz that didn't belong in this scene. The play had changed again. But not because of us.
Because they were watching.
And the moment they turned their gaze away?
Maybe… the dagger would disappear.
Maybe… the dancer would live.
The rain softened.
Not because the storm was passing, but because the world had paused. Like a breath held between acts. The violins faded into silence. Even the thunder hesitated.
I turned slowly.
The ballroom—the place where tragedy always unfurled—was empty. Not abandoned. Not forgotten. Empty. Every place setting undisturbed. Wine in glasses untouched. Chandeliers swaying slightly from a wind that no longer existed.
It wasn't the calm before the storm. It was the silence that falls when something's watching.
"They're still here," I whispered.
Lumivis stood rigid beside me, pale and still. "Who is, Sire?"
"The audience," I said. "They're always here. Always watching. Every time we question the story, it shifts—not because we're wrong. Not because we're right. But because they like it that way. They want the confusion. The tragedy. The loop."
A strange chill touched my spine.
"What if we've never been characters?" I murmured. "What if we've been performers this whole time? Forced to play the same roles, bleed the same lines—so they can see how many ways we'll try to escape?"
Lumivis flickered uneasily. "That would imply the audience is not simply observing, but directing."
"And punishing," I added, bitterly. "Every time we step out of line. Every time we try to rewrite the ending. The storm, the cast changes, the time shifts—it's their applause. Or their disapproval."
I walked to the center of the ballroom floor.
There, etched into the tiles like a forgotten signature, were words I hadn't seen before. Faint. Barely visible in the flicker of broken light:
"Exit the stage, and the play ends. But only for you."
I knelt and ran my fingers over the letters. They didn't feel like carvings. They felt like wounds.
"Celeste didn't just die," I said. "She bowed."
Lumivis tilted his head. "You believe her death was… an act of protest?"
"A curtain call," I said. "She chose to end her role. That's why, in some versions, she isn't the Stranger. That's why her death is always framed in spotlight. She knew the audience was watching. And she made them watch her leave."
Lumivis was silent for a moment. Then: "And yet, here we are. The play continues."
"Because I didn't bow," I whispered.
The music began again. Not the waltz. Not the ballroom's theme.
Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
A single, slow piano note. Repeated.
Calling me back to the script.
"I have to finish this version," I said aloud, though I didn't know if it was to Lumivis, or to them. "But not because they want me to. I need to know how many endings exist. How many truths the audience will allow before they close the curtain."
Lumivis adjusted his cloak. "Then shall I prepare the stage, Sire?"
"No," I said. "We prepare a trap."
And in the silence above us, behind the veil of unseen watchers, I could almost feel it:
The audience leaned forward.
The lights shifted. Not dimmed—tightened. A spotlight, invisible and uninvited, found my face and held it like a question mark. The ballroom restored itself around me, one set piece at a time. Tables. Musicians. Laughing guests in beastkin masks and velvet suits, unaware that they were echoes.
Lumivis walked beside me, though his steps made no sound on the marble. "If we are to set a trap," he said quietly, "then we must define its prey."
"The audience," I said. "We pull them forward. Out of the box. Onto the stage."
"And how do we bait them?"
I turned toward the far balcony. The curtains there were already trembling. She was watching.
"Celeste."
The dancer. The stranger. The axis around which every ending spun.
She stepped through the velvet curtain without fanfare. Tonight, she wore silver, like quicksilver running over her shoulders. Her beastkin features were soft—a fox, maybe. Or a cat. The ambiguity suited her.
"You look pensive," she said, descending the stairs as if gravity bent for her convenience.
I met her halfway across the ballroom floor. "I'm going to ask you something strange."
"That would be a first," she smirked, tilting her head.
"I need you to lie," I said.
Her smile faltered.
"To the audience?" she asked. A coy smile on her lips. Nodding.
She knew. She really did know.
"To everyone. Especially me. I need you to say you are not the Masked Stranger. Say you have never been her. Even if it's not true."
Celeste's eyes, which could be mirrors when she wanted them to be, turned opaque.
"Why?"
"Because the moment you say it, they'll change it." I gestured upward. "They'll flip the script to prove you wrong. The audience doesn't want apathy. They want blood. They want the mask. The moment you deny it, they'll make you become her again—just to get their ending."
She stared at me.
"Celeste… we're trying to trap the director."
That, finally, made her blink. "…You're mad."
"Probably," I said. "But I think you are too. So help me rewrite this scene."
She circled me once, silent. Her fingers ghosted over my shoulder, not like a lover, but like a playwright revising a line.
"Alright," she said. "But only if I get one thing in return."
"What?"
She leaned in close, whispering near my ear. "If I become the Stranger again—you kill me yourself. No spotlight. No scripted tragedy. No audience applause. Just a dagger and silence. You end the loop."
I swallowed, my throat dry.
"…Deal."
She stepped away from me and turned to the invisible crowd. No orchestra signaled her entrance. No cue prompted her next line.
She raised her arms—and danced.
Not like she normally danced. This was raw, defiant. A performance designed not to awe, but to provoke.
And when she stopped, she spoke:
"I am not the Masked Stranger."
There it was.
The silence.
The wrongness.
The audience stirred. I felt them—those voyeurs beyond the veil—recoiling. A ripple passed through the room like a tear through fabric.
And then came the sound:
Applause. Slow. Deliberate. Mocking.
The chandelier above us shattered.
A figure dropped into the center of the ballroom in a spiral of black lace and white porcelain.
The Masked Stranger.
But it wasn't Celeste.
It was me.
The mirror image. My face hidden behind the familiar mask. My body draped in the same tailored clothing. My movements theatrical and deadly.
Lumivis took a step forward, panic visible for the first time. "Sire—"
"I know," I said, eyes wide. "They cast me as the killer this time."
Celeste grinned, but there was sadness in it.
"They're accelerating the narrative," she whispered. "They're scared."
And so was I.
But maybe, just maybe, that meant the trap was working.
The orchestra returned.
But it wasn't the same music as before. The strings were tuned too tight. Each note felt like a tendon pulled to its limit—ready to snap. A tension that lived in the gut more than the ear.
And on the marbled floor, lit by the light of shattered chandeliers, we danced.
Celeste and I.
No—The Dancer and The Masked Stranger.
Two roles. Two lies. One truth hiding between the rhythm and breath.
She moved first, a step forward, arms extended like a lover's embrace—but her fingers were poised to strike, her every motion hinting at violence disguised as beauty. Her silver gown spun with each pivot, catching the light like moonlit glass.
I answered her steps. Masked, silent, theatrical. We circled each other—heel, toe, pivot, draw. Our shadows pirouetted like blades.
In the silence between beats, I heard it:
The audience held its breath.
Celeste's voice brushed my ear during the spin. "They're watching for the end. Don't disappoint them."
"You're still going through with it?" I whispered back, even as my gloved hand found her waist and pulled her into the next turn.
She met my gaze—eyes bright with unspent tears and fire.
"Let me die beautifully," she said. "Just once."
She twirled, faster now. Our feet struck the floor like thunder. The musicians played as if possessed. Each motion was a question: Will he do it this time? Will he finish the dance?
We both knew the dagger had to fall.
She guided my hand to her waist again. Slipped something into it.
The blade. The real one.
She smiled, tragic and radiant.
"Strike on the fifth step of the seventh measure," she whispered. "That's where the audience is looking."
I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. I wanted to break the script and end the loop.
But I danced.
Step. Step. Turn. Dip. Rise.
Step.
She leaned in during the flourish. Her breath tasted of blood and perfume. "Do it."
Step.
The dagger pulsed in my hand like a heartbeat.
Step.
She was too close now. Her eyes were closed. Her lips parted—not in fear, but in trust.
Step.
A single violin cried out, shrill and sharp.
Step—
The dagger plunged into her heart.
Her body arched. Not in pain—in rhythm. Like the final pose of a dancer who had trained her entire life for this exact moment.
And then—
Before her knees could buckle, I caught her.
Held her.
And kissed her.
Not passionate. Not hungry.
It was a kiss that said I'm sorry.
It was a kiss that said thank you.
It was a kiss that broke the loop.
Her breath left her in a sigh. Her body went limp in my arms.
And above us, the ceiling fractured. The world began to peel. Like a stage collapsing after the final curtain.
The audience erupted—gasps, applause, something like fury and joy tangled together in celestial uproar.
They had their ending.
But it wasn't theirs.
It was ours.
If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.