Chapter 11: The Actor’s Prayer

Status Report – Glyph

[Divine Prophet™: Level 2 unlocked]

[Trust Rating: Queen (53%), Cultists (92%), Self (…still buffering)]

[Recommended Action: Stop making up gods before they start talking back.]

The worst thing about being canonized?

People stop asking if you're lying.

They just believe you.

The second-worst thing?

They expect an encore.

I barely slept. Not because I was haunted by divine visions or ethical guilt—though those were getting cozy in the back of my skull—but because the Wyrm's Mouth image wouldn't leave me.

That body. My body. Jeremy Blake, floating face-up like an audition tape left too long in the sun.

And worse—he smiled. Like he knew something I didn't.

Like he'd seen the script.

Morning came with fanfare. Literally.

Trumpets blared outside Solvane Manor. A choir of spiral-eyed cultists formed an impromptu procession on my lawn, chanting verses I didn't write.

Or maybe I did.

Hard to say these days.

"Glyph," I mumbled into a silk pillow I absolutely stole from Castle Vesche, "tell me this is a nightmare."

[If it is, it's trending. Cult TikTok just declared you the Spiral Mouthpiece of the Third Revelation.]

"There's a cult TikTok?"

[Metaphorically. But yes.]

I peeled myself upright. Someone had delivered robes. White. Gold-trimmed. A little too 'Messiah-chic' for my taste.

They also left a note:

"The Queen expects a sermon. One hour. Wear something that screams eternity."

—Handwritten. Wax sealed. Royal crest. Naturally.

Solvane Manor – Hall of Dusty Relics and Mild Panic

I paced in front of the mirror—my mirror—because the one in the Wyrm's Mouth cave still haunted me.

My reflection wasn't consistent anymore. Sometimes it looked like Audric. Sometimes like me. Once, it flickered into Elias Gray—eye-patched, tragic, deeply fictional.

"Who am I today?" I asked.

[Who do they need you to be?]

Castle Vesche's Grand Forum was packed.

Clergy. Nobles. Spiralites. That one blacksmith who once asked for a miracle to fix his gout. All here for "The Sermon of the Reborn."

Staged. Spotlit. Royal guards flanking the stage like bouncers at a metaphysical Coachella.

The Queen sat high above in her obsidian throne, sipping something that shimmered with illusion.

Next to her?

The inquisitor.

Unmasked.

And very interested.

I stepped onto the platform. Heart hammering.

"Brothers. Sisters. Spiral enjoyers," I began, hands spread like a televangelist with a gambling addiction.

Polite laughter.

A win.

"I was once lost," I said. "Drowning in lies. But the Spiral found me. And like all great stories—it began with a fall."

[Metaphor count: climbing.]

I paced.

"The Spiral does not demand perfection. It demands transformation. A lie, when shared enough, becomes truth. A truth, when hidden long enough, becomes myth. And we—" I pointed at the crowd— "are the mythmakers."

Murmurs of awe.

Scribes scribbled.

I was rewriting theology in real time.

And I was good at it.

Then the inquisitor stood.

He stepped forward, long coat brushing marble, voice calm but dangerous.

"Prophet," he said, "have you ever told a lie so well it became real?"

The crowd held its breath.

"I'm an actor," I replied. "That's the job."

He smiled.

"Then let me show you the final act."

He held up a spiral-coded glyphstone.

Activated it.

And the room changed.

Theater Below the Forum – Unmapped

We were somewhere underground. Lights flickering.

Marble peeled back like wallpaper. The grand chamber melted into stone, then blackbox theater.

Chairs. Curtains. A stage.

Old. Dusty.

Bloodstained.

"This," said the inquisitor, "was the Spiral's original temple. Before it was a cult. Before it was anything."

I stepped forward.

There were names carved into the stage's edge.

One leapt out.

"J. Pierce – Final Performance"

My breath caught.

"That's…"

"Your original name," the inquisitor said. "Before you died. Before they pulled you in."

Glyph buzzed.

[Confirmed. That's the production you died during.]

I staggered.

Fall of the Magelords. Off-world audition. One-take only. Rumors of a cursed set.

And then—

Flashes.

Spotlight. Heat. Falling.

Pushed.

"You died here," said the inquisitor. "But the script was never finished. So they rewrote it. Over and over."

"Who's they?"

He tilted his head.

"The audience."

He handed me a file. Thin. Earth-standard. Old barcode in the corner.

Production File 17-B: Audric Rewrite Initiative

Inside: photos. Scripts. Blacked-out lines.

And a note.

"Rewrite required. Subject failed scene 12. Memories unstable. Proceed to Wyrm's Mouth for asset burial."

I couldn't breathe.

"They buried me in the canyon."

"No," said the inquisitor. "They buried your old character. You were the backup. The understudy."

I dropped the file.

"This isn't a reincarnation. It's a rerun."

Flashback – Glitch Memory Spike

A blurred hallway. Earth lights. Voices.

"You said we'd delete him after take twelve."

"She never forgave him. She wanted a cleaner ending."

"Let the Spiral take him. He plays well under pressure."

"Glyph," I whispered. "Why didn't I remember this?"

[Because it wasn't in the script.]

Back in the secret theater, the inquisitor stepped into the spotlight.

"Tomorrow," he said, "the Queen will ask you to perform again. A divine miracle to solidify your sainthood."

"And if I refuse?"

"She'll kill you. Or worse—she'll recast you."

I laughed. Broken.

"This is a joke. It has to be."

"No. This is theater. And you are the only actor left who still remembers it's fake."

Later – Solvane Manor

I burned the file.

Didn't help.

My hand still shook.

My name—Jeremy Blake—was real. But not whole.

I wasn't just a man pretending to be Audric.

I was a character, rewritten so many times I no longer knew what was original.

"Glyph," I said.

[Yeah.]

"If none of this is real—why do I care?"

Silence.

[Because the audience still does.]

"And if they stop watching?"

[We stop existing.]

End of Chapter 11