The air in the Sunken District smelled like mildew and old applause.

  Jessa hauled Nyx by the collar through the crumbling archway of the Echo Opera, its once-grand facade now half-submerged in black water. Moonlight dripped through the shattered dome above, illuminating the rows of rotting velvet seats and the stage where the ghosts performed.

  Nyx twisted free, wiping their hands on their stolen coat. "If this is another one of your haunted morality lessons, I’m stealing your boots."

  Jessa ignored them, her gaze fixed on the stage. "It’s different."

  The ghost actors moved in slow, deliberate motions, their porcelain masks gleaming under the flickering footlights. The playbill, half-disintegrated, bore the title: The Last King Who Forgot His Name.

  Nyx squinted. "That’s new."

  "Not just the title." Jessa’s voice was tight. "Last time, it was a comedy."

  Now, it was a tragedy.

  The lead actor—a ghost with a cracked mask that mirrored Sorin’s sharp jaw—knelt center stage, hands outstretched as if begging an unseen audience. His crown, a twisted circlet of gilded thorns, slipped from his brow and rolled into the orchestra pit with a hollow clang.

  Nyx whistled. "Dramatic."

  Jessa’s fingers twitched toward the dagger at her hip. "They’re not just acting. They’re remembering."

  A whisper of movement behind them.

  A small figure materialized from the shadows—a ghost stagehand no taller than a child, their mask a plain white oval with two slits for eyes. In their gloved hands, they cradled a box of props: a dagger, a silver bell, a wilted moonbloom.

  "Thimble," Jessa greeted, as if this were expected.

  The stagehand tilted their head. "Jessa. Nyx. You’re late."

  Nyx blinked. "You know this ghost?"

  Thimble shuffled past, their voice muffled behind the mask. "Every performance needs an audience. Even the forgotten ones." They placed the moonbloom on the edge of the stage, where it disintegrated into dust.

  Jessa’s jaw tightened. "The play changed. Why?"

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Thimble adjusted a crooked set piece—a painted throne with a splintered back. "Stories shift when the ending’s uncertain."

  Onstage, the Sorin-ghost reached for his fallen crown, but another actor—a lanky figure with a bard’s lute and Kael’s smirk—kicked it aside. The crown skittered toward the wings, where a third ghost waited, motionless.

  The Exiled One’s mask.

  Nyx stiffened. "Okay, that’s unsettling."

  Jessa didn’t answer. She was staring at the props box.

  Inside, nestled beside the dagger, was a tiny silver bell.

  Engraved on its surface: Sorin, Age 12.

  The play unfolded in eerie silence, the ghosts’ voices swallowed by the theatre’s damp walls.

  The Sorin-ghost clutched his chest as golden paint—too bright, too real—seeped through his costume. The Kael-ghost strummed a lute with no strings, his song soundless but for the shudder it sent through the chandelier above.

  Nyx leaned toward Thimble. "So, what’s the moral? ‘Don’t be a tragic king’?"

  Thimble’s mask didn’t move, but their voice dropped. "The moral is, some roles can’t be resigned."

  A new prop appeared in the Exiled One’s hands—a music box. When they wound it, the tune that spilled out was the same lullaby Lyria had hummed in Blackspire.

  Jessa’s breath hitched.

  Nyx frowned. "You recognize that?"

  "Everyone in this city does," Jessa muttered. "Even if they don’t remember why."

  Thimble lifted a mask from their box—a delicate thing, half-silver, half-cracked. They offered it to Nyx.

  Nyx recoiled. "I don’t do audience participation."

  The mask trembled in Thimble’s grip. A whisper slithered from its hollow mouth:

  "He’s not ready to remember."

  Jessa’s hand shot out, snatching the mask before Nyx could react. The moment her fingers touched it, the theatre’s shadows twisted—

  —a flash of a silver-haired woman—

  —a crown shattering—

  —a child’s scream—

  Then nothing.

  The mask lay still in her hands, its voice gone.

  Thimble took it back gently. "Some masks refuse to be worn."

  Onstage, the play reached its climax. The Sorin-ghost collapsed, his golden scars splitting the mask down the middle. The Exiled One stepped forward, lifting the fallen crown—

  —and the Kael-ghost laughed, a soundless, broken thing.

  Nyx’s fingers twitched toward their own throat, as if checking for scars they didn’t have.

  Yet.

  After the final curtain (a slow dissolve of the ghosts into mist), Jessa prowled the stage, inspecting the abandoned props.

  The crown lay where it had fallen, its thorns catching the dim light.

  Nyx crouched beside it. "Think it’s cursed?"

  "Obviously." Jessa didn’t look up from the playbill she’d salvaged. The ink shifted as she read, the ending rewriting itself in real time.

  Nyx reached out—

  —and the crown glowed, faint but unmistakable.

  A pulse of gold, like Sorin’s scars.

  Nyx yanked their hand back. "Okay, definitely cursed."

  Thimble appeared at their elbow, their mask reflecting the crown’s light. "It remembers its king."

  Jessa’s voice was sharp. "Sorin’s not a king."

  Thimble’s silence was answer enough.

  Outside, the distant howl of a Hound echoed through the Sunken District.

  Nyx stood, brushing imaginary dust from their coat. "We should go before the creepy ghost play decides we’re part of the cast."

  Jessa hesitated, her gaze lingering on the crown. Then she turned, tossing the playbill into the water. It sank, the ink bleeding into illegibility.

  Thimble watched them leave, their final words drifting after them:

  "Next performance at dawn. The title will be different."

  Nyx glanced back. "What’s it called?"

  The stagehand’s mask tilted.

  "The Thief Who Remembered Too Late."