Silas woke to the sound of rain.
Or… something like rain. Each drop landed with a metallic tink, echoing too long before fading. He blinked. The opera house ceiling was whole again. The blood-red moon was gone. No thorned roses. No Conductor.
But the piano sat in the center of the stage, black lacquer glistening like it had never been cracked.
He sat up slowly. His chest hurt, like someone had driven a spear through it. He pressed his palm there. No wound.
A shadow moved in the wing.
"You're awake."
It was her. The girl from before — same black dress, same green eyes. Stardust still clung to her hair like it belonged there. She looked… relieved. And then, instantly, afraid.
He stared. "Who are you?"
Her breath caught. "Lyra."
The name felt like it should mean something, but all he could offer was an empty silence.
"You don't remember," she whispered. Not as a question — as a wound she'd already been cut by too many times.
She stepped closer, violin in hand. "I… pulled us back."
"Back?"
Her gaze flicked toward the chandelier. "Time. I can rewind it — once the song starts. Only a few minutes. Only this place." She lowered her voice. "But it's not free."
He frowned. "Not free?"
Lyra lifted the violin. The strings were frayed and darkened at the edges, almost like they'd burned. "Every time I play, I hear them. Voices. They never stop. And pieces of me…" She tapped her temple. "They go missing."
Silas glanced around. The same opera house. The same velvet curtains. "So this has happened before?"
She nodded. "You've died before. Many times."
The words landed heavier than he expected. He didn't remember dying. He didn't remember living before this hall.
Lyra's eyes searched his. "This time, we have to avoid the roses."
"Roses?"
She didn't answer. Her head jerked up toward the balcony. "Too late."
Something burst from the stage boards with a wet crack. Thorned vines coiled upward, splitting into bulbous buds that pulsed like heartbeats. The scent of iron filled the air.
One by one, the buds opened — spilling black ink across the stage. The liquid rose, shaping itself into figures. Some walked on too many legs, others had torsos fused with warped instruments: a harp twisted into a ribcage, a trumpet where a jaw should be.
Lyra's grip on her violin tightened. "They're here for you."
Silas took a step back as one of the creatures tilted its head, the strings on its chest thrumming a low, sickening chord.
"What are they?" he asked.
Lyra's voice was flat. "The audience."