Chapter 12: The Resurrection Scene Nobody Rehearsed

I woke to applause.

Not the good kind. Not the kind you earn after killing a monologue and emotionally gutting your audience. No. This was the polite, hollow clapping of people trying to convince themselves they'd just witnessed something holy.

I was lying in a marble basin, half-naked and soaked in what I sincerely hoped was wine. The cathedral ceiling above me flickered with glamor spells—divine constellations, illusionary angels, and one suspiciously buff saint holding a glowing codpiece.

[Status: Wet. Shirtless. Probably about to be canonized again.] Glyph chimed in, voice still recovering from last night's memory echo.

[Also, the codpiece is your fault. I found old files from Saint Clara's Sins.]

"They're staging a resurrection," I croaked.

[Yep. One you didn't consent to.]

I sat up.

The Temple Council gasped like synchronized swimmers. The Queen, perched on her balcony throne above the nave, raised her wine glass and smirked.

Her smile said, Dance for me, little prophet.

I was the star of their miracle matinee.

And I hadn't even read the script.

Twelve Hours Earlier

After the secret theater chamber, after the inquisitor's revelation that I was just a backup actor in someone else's story, I'd returned to Solvane Manor with a migraine and a burning desire to break the fourth wall.

I didn't sleep. Again.

Instead, I paced the balcony in a stolen robe, rereading the classified file the inquisitor had shown me.

"Project RE:VERSAL. Iteration 4.4b. Subject: Jeremy Pierce Blake. Role: Understudy (Emergency Replacement). Incident Log: Take 12 - Termination Required. Rewrite Pending."

Termination. Not murder.

"Glyph," I whispered, "I wasn't killed. I was edited."

[Yep. You were cut from the main narrative. Recast into this one.]

"They called it a rewrite. Who the hell has the authority to rewrite someone's death?"

[Producers.]

"Gods."

[Producers pretending to be gods.]

That's when the knock came.

Midnight. Three sharp raps on the front door.

I descended the stairs like a man walking to his own execution—and opened the door to find the Queen's assistant. A boy barely old enough to shave, dressed in silk and shame.

"Her Majesty requests your presence at first light," he said, avoiding eye contact.

"For tea or torture?"

"She didn't specify."

He handed me a scroll. Sealed with the royal crest.

Inside: a summons.

"You will rise at dawn. Publicly. Miraculously. Do not ruin the moment."

At the bottom, scrawled in handwriting that didn't belong to any royal secretary:

You're the final rewrite, darling. Make it worth the retake.

[This is a trap,] Glyph said.

"Obviously," I muttered. "But it's also opening night."

The Resurrection

Back in the basin, I stood slowly.

Glamor spells lit up the cathedral like a Broadway finale. The crowd swelled with pilgrims, nobles, debtors, and opportunists. Some held candles. Others held knives. A few probably held both.

[Want stage notes?] Glyph asked.

"Only if they're sarcastic."

[Always. Step one: look dazed. Step two: clutch your chest like you've been touched by divine epiphany. Step three: lie so hard the stained glass sweats.]

I did as instructed.

"My heart…" I said, staggering to my feet. "It was pierced by truth."

Gasps. Murmurs.

A priest dropped to his knees.

"The Prophet lives!"

I raised a hand. Let it tremble. Chose a voice somewhere between biblical and backstage burnout.

"I have seen the roots of the world. The script beneath the sky. The gods are not watching—they're waiting."

That got them. The murmurs rose to frenzy.

The Queen rose to her feet, slow and regal. Her voice carried like a dagger wrapped in honey.

"Lord Solvane. Do you bring revelation?"

I hesitated.

Then stepped forward.

"Yes," I said. "But not the kind you wanted."

Flashback to the Dressing Room

They gave me a dressing room.

Seriously.

Before the resurrection ceremony, they handed me a linen robe, a glamor stone to make me glow on cue, and a mirror.

The mirror showed me nothing.

Not because it was broken.

Because I no longer cast a reflection.

I touched the glass. My fingers met nothing. Not even cold. Just absence —like I'd been cut from the frame.

[Magic interference,] Glyph whispered. [Or your identity's too fragmented.]

I stared at the blank glass, pressing my fingers to my face.

"I'm not even sure who I'm playing anymore."

[Does it matter? Just hit your marks.]

Back in the Present

The Queen descended the staircase behind the altar, silk robes flowing like animated fog. She stopped five steps above me and stared.

"I gave you a stage," she said. "Now give me a miracle."

"I gave you a corpse. You resurrected it."

"Semantics."

"You don't want a prophet," I said. "You want a puppet with good lighting."

She smiled, and for a second I saw something flash behind her eyes—tiredness? Madness?

"Then be the best damn puppet this kingdom's ever seen."

[Audience check: crowd's 82% euphoric, 12% terrified, 6% trying to sell relic fragments.]

[And the masked inquisitor? Watching from the choir loft.]

Of course they were.

I raised my arms, light pulsing from the glamor stone under my skin.

"Let the gods speak!"

[Boosting effects. Glyph-Projector synced.]

The stained-glass windows pulsed. The chandeliers wept golden fire.

And in the hush that followed—I let the real miracle slip through.

"I am not the only one," I said softly. "There are others. Echoes. Rewrites."

The Queen frowned.

"The gods chose you."

"No," I whispered. "The gods are rerunning old scripts. And I'm just… the final take."

The glamor stone sparked red-hot.

I collapsed—on cue.

The crowd erupted.

Later

I was escorted back to Solvane Manor like a victorious war hero. People threw flower petals. One guy tried to throw himself at me. Another offered to name his baby after me.

[Reject it,] Glyph said. [You don't want a "Jeremy Jr." on your conscience.]

"Especially if I don't live through next week."

Nightfall

I sat alone in my study, staring at the shard of the shattered hourglass from the fake relic. It was still warm. Still pulsing.

"Glyph," I said, "what if this story was never mine?"

[Then steal it.]

"I don't want to be the understudy anymore."

[Then rewrite the rewrite.]

The front door creaked open.

I didn't move.

The inquisitor stepped into the room, mask gleaming.

"You performed well," they said.

"I improvised."

"They'll believe anything now."

"They believe I'm holy."

"You're not."

"No," I said. "I'm worse."

A pause.

Then the inquisitor placed a thin packet on my desk.

Inside: a script.

Not fantasy. Not divine.

A shooting script. Scene headings, camera directions, notes in margin handwriting I recognized.

Mine.

"Scene 34B," I whispered. "Final shot. Cliffside. Fog. Take 12."

The last page was marked: INT. ROOFTOP — DUSK — J. BLAKE FINAL MONOLOGUE.

And the final line:

"Rewrite required."

END OF CHAPTER 12