The stage went dark.
A single spotlight flickered to life, catching the crimson shimmer of Livia's hair as she stepped forward. With a graceful curtsy, she bowed—velvet-skirted and smiling like sin.
"And so, dear guests... tonight's spectacle ends.""You may wake up now—if you still remember how."
Laughter broke like glass. Applause followed in crashing waves, the crowd rising in delight, unease, enchantment.
But behind the velvet curtain, Ezra didn't move.
He sat hunched in the wings, fingers clenched around a silver coin. Its edge bit into his palm, but he couldn't feel it anymore. The echo of laughter wasn't joyous—it was a scream in disguise, rattling inside his skull.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The circus hadn't let him go.
"Why... can't I leave?" he whispered.
Somewhere deep in the shadows, the old tune began again. That cursed melody. Soft. Relentless.
The game was over.
But the Queen hadn't said he was free.
Then her voice came, curling through the dark like incense:
"The door is open, Ezra...""But you'll have to remember where it is."
He turned.
She was gone.
Only the scent of roses and smoke remained.
The spotlight shifted.
Ezra knelt center stage.
His once-flawless suit was torn, soaked in sweat and blood and something far older—hubris. The silver coin lay shattered at his feet, its spin long ceased.
He stared at it like a man mourning a corpse.
Above him, a figure emerged from the gloom.
Livia.
The Queen of Horror. Draped in shadows and velvet, each step she took bled gravity into the room. The chandeliers above flickered, as if the stars themselves bowed to her descent.
Ezra's voice trembled, hoarse and broken.
"I thought I could tame the Queen of Horror..."
He looked up, eyes wide with ruin.
"But you devoured me whole."
Livia knelt before him, her gloved fingers tilting his chin. Her face was calm. Her eyes burned.
Not with anger. Not with pity.
With something holy.
Or maybe... unholy.
"And now?" she asked.
He choked on the words, tears finally falling.
"Now I see the truth. Pride was my throne... and it made me blind."
Her lips curled.
A smile, or a sentence.
"Are you ready, Ezra?"
He inhaled sharply.
"I have nothing left but this ruin. Take it. Make it yours."
She rose.
The chandeliers pulsed—dimmed—shook.
"Confess," she said.
"I am Pride incarnate," he gasped. "And I beg to be unmade."
"Repent."
"Strip me bare. I offer all—my mind, my soul, my name."
"Reign."
The word cracked through the theater like thunder.
From above, a crown of shadow descended—not to be worn, but to be embedded. It struck him like judgment, like salvation. His scream shattered into laughter, wild and godlike.
Ezra's body lifted into the air, limbs flung wide.
Ribbons of illusion and memory and raw, unbearable truth twisted around him—smoke made sentient. Pride unraveling. Ego burning.
And then—
Silence.
He fell.
Not hard. Not broken.
Ezra hit the floor as something else.
No longer gasping. Just... still.
The Hollow King opened his eyes.
Where once there was calculation, there was clarity. Eternal. Unshakable.
Livia watched him rise. Her voice barely above a breath, but it rang through his soul like a bell.
"Welcome home, my Apostle."
In the audience, Alden stood among the ovation.
But he didn't clap.
He just stared, one fist clenched tight at his side.