Chapter 13: Afterglow of a Forgery

Status – Glyph

System Integrity: 47%

Identity Drift: High

Queen Trust: 48% ▼

Inquisitor Trust: 21% ▲

Political Tension: 72%

Recommendation: Lie low. Bail if necessary.

....

Sunlight filters through my blinds at dawn. My head pounds like a war drum. My robe still smells like incense, smoke, and cheap wine. I stretch, expecting applause, but only waking to aching muscles.

[Congratulations, J. You're today's face—canonized, supposed savior, living liar.] Glyph's tone is tired, almost… sympathetic.

I sit up. The mirror across from me… displays nothing.

[Still reflection-less. Welcome to selfhood bankruptcy.]

"Might want to warn me if I lose my reflection permanently," I mumble. "At least let me keep my selfie game."

I eat stale bread in silence. Cult-chant afterglow haunts the house. Outside, the plaza fills again—Crowd: Veneration 85%, Suspicion 11%, Opportunists 4%.

Brick walls pulse with sound: a thousand devotions embroidered into the wood.

[The Spiral has legs now.] Glyph remarks. [Also, your fan club includes at least three debt-collecting cousins.]

Of course.

A knock at the door.

"Come in," I say, voice echoing oddly in empty foyer.

Brannigan enters, sword sheathed, expression warmer than Castilian sun. The Inquisitor follows—mask in hand. Tension radiates between them like reveals in slow motion.

"Rested?" Brannigan asks. "You have company."

Inquisitor steps forward, unmasked—sharp cheekbones, haunted eyes. I blink and all the roles—Audric, Jeremy, Elias—flicker in my vision.

[Memory anchor failing, J. Hold one face still.]

Brief Exchange:

Inquisitor: "Dangerous timings. Queen wants you up in council by midday."

Brannigan: "Also, a merchant scandal—someone found a fake relic with your seal. Could blow up."

Me: Nods, swallows.

[Political tension at 72%. Critical.]

They leave. I pace again.

Monologue (approx. 200 words)

My crown of broken mirrors sits on the desk. It's heavy. Too heavy. Not because it weighs a pound—but because it carries every lie I've told, every role I've played, every version of me folded into its facets. Tonight, I need to look at it. But first… council.

...…

The Council Chambers smell of wax and tension. Eleven seats, two royals (the Queen and an advisor in black), and me at the center dais. The crowd stands behind glass, silent and expectant.

They look at me like I hold all the answers. And maybe I do—but the script's been rewritten at least four times.

Queen's opening statement

"Recently, we witnessed a divine miracle. A resurrection. Our Spiral Prophet has reaffirmed our faith."

Murmurs.

Inquisitor removes mask.

"Divine" might be too generous.

Merchant official steps forward.

"We believed the relic. Wife blessed. Then the tears started bleeding gold—not true gold, but… they started bleeding. Our trust ended."

Shield of suspense.

Brannigan's behind me, stiff as a statue.

Queen (eyes on me):

"Can you explain, Prophet? You brought us this… miracle. Now our markets suffer."

Me: my heart pounds.

I breathe—

"I am not a god. Nor a saint. I'm an actor." Gasps ripple trough the chamber.

"You wanted a prophet. I played one. The tears—" I pause, voice catching.

"They were illusions. Made from drum tears, gold dust, glamor spells."

Hands tremble.

"Faith is not illusion. Faith is belief. And stories—stories can heal. Even if they begin in lies."

[That was actually good.]

Plot Twist: Queen clenches fists.

"Miracles built on lies aren't worth celebrating. They undermine faith."

Silence.

"In the end," she says, quiet but cold, "we needed unity."

I glare.

"In stories, the best lies are those we still tell ourselves."

...…..

Back in private quarters, I slump in chair. Glyph silent for too long. That's always bad.

[Emotional disturbance protocol activated.]

[Please select coping mechanism: 1) Lie flat; 2) Reinvent narrative; 3) Panic.]

"I choose 4. Violate protocol."

Glyph sighs.

[Here:] a file. On the courts inside my mind, someone's monitoring. Emotion sensors. Voice monitors. Biomagic pulses.

"More tracking."

[Yes. Also: reflection siphon is still active. They're trying to overwrite your identity again.]

...

Mirror-less, I face the broken crown.

Inner Dialogue

Continue: Lean into performance, become what they want—a controlled icon.

Refuse: Risk rebellion—or death.

I touch the crown. It warms my hand.

[You can't fool them forever.]

"The truth might kill me," I whisper.

[Truth never killed an actor. Only roles do.]

Clue Fresh (quarter into the chapter)

I flashback: The Queen earlier said "Don't miss your mark." That exact phrase was in the Earth script—my director said it day I died.

[Diagnostic: Past-death clue #4 triggered.]

...

I make a choice.

If I continue… I become the spiral myth. But if I expose… all hell.

I stand. Open window—cold night air, moon above the city.

I speak to the broken crown:

"Script says I bow. Will I turn the next page—or burn it?"

Outside, a candle flickers in the distance—someone's watching. Maybe the Inquisitor. Maybe the audience.

...….

Cold night air kissed my face. The broken mirror crown lay in my lap, shards etched with every lie I'd told. I pressed a finger against one fragment—silver-glass chipped, and yet warm.

[You'll never feel cold again.] Glyph whispered. [Because you're never alone in this head anymore.]

I exhaled. "So now what? I either play god or quit."

[My recommendation: quit before they recast you one more time.]

I closed my eyes.

Inner monologue:

If I continue playing this puppet, I'll be their hero. My name on every prayer. Patrons will buy relics with my face. I'll eat gold dust disguised as salad.

If I expose the manipulation… I risk rebellion. I could start a civil war. Or be executed for blasphemy.

Why hasn't anyone told me a simple moral fork didn't come with a safety net?

The window rattled.

A distant bell tolled—midnight mass, probably.

I looked up. Over the rooftops, the moon shimmered like a spotlight.

[This is your moment, Jeremy. What do you want?]

I whispered to the night: "I want me back." But then I remembered: I'm not me. And me is a fixed point. I'm all the others now.

I clenched the crown. Set my jaw. Decision made.

...….

I slept. Briefly. Dreamless.

At dawn, I woke to an urgent knock.

Brannigan burst into the room. His face was pale—a rare sight.

"Guild official. Torrent of angry merchants. They demand accountability. The city's buzzing—some are calling for your head."

[Political tension is at 85%. Auto panic mode activated.]

I swallowed bile.

"Arrange a public statement."

"We're on fire, man."

I nodded and stood, crown in hand.

.....

The plaza had never looked so hostile.

Barriers lined the square. Guards in spiral tabards patrolled the borders. Merchants with expensive relics demanded refunds. A small crowd chanted: "Prophet lie! Prophet die!"

[Option: calm them. Or disappear.]

I stepped onto a makeshift platform, microphone in hand (yes, mortal technology mixed with divine illusion).

"People of Vesche," I began, voice steady. "I stand before you—" I paused. Wanted sincerity, not spectacle.

"Not only your Prophet. A man. A fragment of truth wrapped in stories."

I laid the crown at the edge of the stage.

"I performed miracles with illusions. I staged resurrection with glamor spells and empty vessels."

Shock. Outrage. A few cheers.

[Choice moment: truth can liberate or destroy.]

I continued:

"But faith isn't in the spectacle. It's in community. It's in kindness. In helping your neighbor when no one's watching."

I looked at the merchants.

"If you want refunds, we'll do it."

Murmurs became understanding nods. My gamble?

They might riot. But many bowed heads turned toward unity.

I wasn't sure which reaction was safer.

...…

Back inside Solvane Manor, I collapsed into a chair, body and soul spent.

Glyph was quiet.

I closed my eyes.

"I lost them," I said. "Supporters, mirror, identity…"

[You got something better.]

"What?"

[You got choice.]

"But I'm no prophet anymore."

[Then stop being one.]

"Is that what I'm supposed to do?"

[Don't ask. Do.]

...…..

Later, the Queen's envoy arrived—with wine, candles, and no guards.

My stomach sank.

I was dragged to the royal balcony again (Ironic). She greeted me with a sad smile.

"Bravery is rare," she said softly. "Especially when your magic fails."

"I'm tired," I admitted. "Of lies, crowns, roles."

She nodded.

"Then take off the crown."

And she did.

The mirror crown glinted as I handed it back.

"I quit."

She sighed.

"So you think you can walk away?"

I met her eyes, unblinking.

[That phrase again—Don't miss your mark.]

"I never miss."

She paused.

Then tapped the balcony rail.

"I need you one more time."

A pause.

"For the child."

My pulse froze.

...…..

She led me through hidden halls beneath the palace—to a small chamber lit by dawn.

A boy lay on a silken bed.

He didn't move.

He gasped once—almost human—but then stopped. Pale, still as marble.

"Prince Aurek," she whispered.

He was rumored dead. Now… dying? Stasis? Something.

She handed me a vial of glowing liquid.

"It's gin," she said lightly. "Er, no—miracle serum. Your performance, remember?"

I looked at the boy.

[This isn't acting.]

The Queen paused the chamber.

"I've lost my heir. My people need hope. I need you—if only for one last scene."

My stomach roiled.

...…

I turned toward the boy, tears glimmering in his cheeks.

And thought: This is real. Not prophecy. Not illusion. A boy.

My heartbeat thundered.

I closed my eyes.

The vial burned in my hand. Not from magic. From memory —the same heat as the spotlight the day I fell.

END OF CHAPTER 13