Chapter 14 : A Role to Die For

The throne room was too quiet.

No footsteps. No courtiers. No petitions. Just silence and a low, ragged breath from the velvet-draped couch at its center.

Prince Aurek Vesche—heir to the crumbling throne, rumored war criminal, and favorite subject of five separate assassination attempts—was dying.

And I'd just been asked to save him.

"You will perform a miracle," said Queen Ilyra, silk-veiled and spine-straight, "or you will confirm your heresy with his final breath."

Lovely.

[Cool cool. So it's Medical Drama: Fantasy Edition. You're McProphet now.]

"Glyph," I whispered, "what the hell do I do? I'm not a healer."

[You are now. The gig demands it.]

"Can't fake medicine."

[Sure you can. Just add Latin and crystals.]

I approached the prince, boots echoing on the marble. He lay beneath layers of velvet and sweat, face pallid, lips cracked. A faint wheeze escaped his chest with each breath, like a dying accordion.

He opened one eye—barely.

"Prophet," he rasped, voice gravel and irony. "Here to crown me or kill me?"

I tried to smile. Failed.

"Neither," I said. "I'm here to lie until one of us feels better."

[Honesty in a healing session? Bold choice.]

Behind me, Ilyra watched with the kind of cold poise reserved for people who've witnessed both coronations and executions without blinking.

"You have one hour," she said. "The court will be watching."

The chamber doors shut with a finality I felt in my teeth.

Great. No pressure.

I knelt by the prince.

"Can you feel your limbs?"

"Only the disappointing ones."

"Any divine dreams? Hallucinations? Visions of celestial staircases?"

He coughed. "I saw you burst into fake fire once. That count?"

"Technically, yes."

[Update: patient is lucid, dying, and snarky. Basically you, but with nobility.]

"Glyph. Scan the symptoms."

[High fever. Rapid respiration. Delirium. Possibly mana burnout. Or arsenic. Or heartbreak. You know how royal boys are.]

"Great. So we guess."

[No. We stage.]

I pulled my cloak tight and whispered: "Prop Master."

[Prop Master: Activated.]

From memory, I summoned a relic I'd used in The Saint's Pulse—a stage prop made from copper wire, moon-glass, and bioluminescent paint.

The Heartcatcher.

In the play, it read the soul's rhythm and lit up when lies were spoken. On stage, it looked like hope.

In this moment? It looked like a miracle.

The device shimmered into my hand, warm and trembling.

[You sure this'll pass?]

"Maybe. If they want it to."

I pressed the Heartcatcher to Aurek's chest. It pulsed faintly.

He stared at it, dazed.

"Is that… glowing?"

"Only when the soul wants to fight."

[Cringe.]

Aurek blinked. "Bullshit."

"Correct. It also responds to profanity. See?"

[Wait—did you just improv your way into a placebo healing?]

"Shh."

I shifted my voice lower. Softer. Theatrical.

"In your blood is legacy. In your breath, the ghosts of kings. I call now not to the gods, but to the performance that holds us all—the story written in your marrow. Live. Not because they will it. But because you choose the next act."

A beat.

A flicker in Aurek's expression.

Then: "That was the worst monologue I've ever heard."

[He's stable.]

For an hour, I "treated" him.

I waved smoke over his chest. Murmured nonsense in fake Celestine. Tapped pressure points I remembered from an acting workshop about "embodying pain."

I wasn't healing him.

But something was.

Or maybe—he just wanted to live.

By the time the court returned, Aurek was sitting upright.

Sweating. Weak.

But alive.

He even managed to smirk at the High Priest.

"Gods still hate me. Not dead yet."

Gasps rippled through the room. One noble actually crossed himself. Another fainted. Ilyra's fingers twitched—barely.

"A miracle," she said. Not a question.

I nodded. Slowly.

[You pulled off a con with bioluminescent glue and monologue. Give yourself a Tony.]

Aurek chuckled, hoarse. "Don't get cocky, Prophet. Next time, I die on purpose."

After the audience dispersed—after the whispers and the prayers and the nearly vomited relief—I stood alone at the window, overlooking Vesche.

Glyph buzzed softly in my skull.

[You okay?]

"No."

[Good. That means you still have a conscience.]

"I didn't heal him."

[No. But you gave him something to live for.]

"What if it's a lie?"

[All faith is. Yours just has better lighting.]

I exhaled. Closed my eyes.

And saw it again.

Not the prince.

Not the court.

But the body in the river.

My face. My corpse. My smile.

[Incoming memory bleed.]

My hands shook.

Not from magic. Not from adrenaline.

From… recognition.

"I've done this before," I whispered.

[Define 'this.']

"This room. This scene. The false miracle. I've done it."

[We're in a recursion.]

"Or a rehearsal."

[Wait—what?]

I turned to the wall.

Pressed my palm against the gilded frame of a mirror.

And whispered the phrase the inquisitor gave me.

"Call sheet. Take twelve. She never forgave you."

The mirror shimmered.

Briefly.

Then went still.

And behind my reflection… a figure.

Blurry.

Not me.

But familiar.

A woman.

Holding a clapperboard.

[We're getting bleed-through.]

"Glyph. She was on set. Earth-side."

[Confirmed. Production assistant. Name redacted. Also: deceased.]

"How?"

[Same night you died.]

I clutched the frame.

And my reflection rippled.

Turned into something else.

Not Jeremy.

Not Audric.

But a version of me I'd buried.

Jeremy Pierce Blake.

The failure.

The fraud.

The actor who'd begged for one more take before the lights exploded.

A knock.

I spun.

It wasn't a servant.

It was Aurek.

Still pale. Still trembling.

But standing.

"I remembered something," he said.

"What?"

"You said… 'we don't break character, not even in death.'"

My stomach dropped.

"That's a line," I said. "From Blood Rehearsal."

"My favorite show."

"That show was unreleased."

He nodded.

"I watched it anyway. In the dark. In dreams. In—"

He clutched his head.

"They filmed us," he whispered. "Even here."

Then he collapsed.

[New memory clue: Prince Aurek has dream-memories of unreleased Earth content.]

"Glyph."

[Yeah.]

"I think we're all in the same performance."

[And the director's missing.]

Later, back at Solvane Manor, I sat in the cellar, surrounded by old props and wine bottles I couldn't afford.

I summoned the Heartcatcher again.

It flickered.

Twitched.

And began pulsing… on its own.

[Um.]

"What now?"

[There's someone here.]

I turned.

A door creaked open.

The inquisitor stepped inside.

No mask.

No cloak.

Just a face I hadn't seen in years.

Sallow. Tired. Familiar.

She looked like—

"Lucia?" I whispered.

She didn't answer.

Just held out a note.

Black ink. Perfect script.

You're next.

The next take is final.

And the director is watching.

END OF CHAPTER 14