Her twin raises the burning blade one final time, poised to carve the mask from her skull, to strip away the last lie she hides behind. The stage blurs, her body fails, and death — true death — leans in to kiss her throat.

But then—

She remembers.

Not victory. Not pride.
She remembers the first time she wore the mask.
The pain. The fire. The scars.
The moment she looked in a mirror and chose to live anyway.

And through bloodied lips, through the weight of shame and heat and nearing death, Juno speaks. Not loudly — just clearly.

Juno (breathless):
“You’re not my fear.”

The clone freezes mid-blow.

Juno (rising):
“My fear… was that the Queen would never know what I gave to be part of her stage. That she’d never see the ruin beneath the paint. That I’d die just another nameless light behind her show.”

And then, slowly, Juno lifts her mask.

Not cast aside — revealed. One half of her face shown to the crowd, raw and ruined by fire long past. Scar tissue weaves across her cheek like burnt lace. Her eye, clouded but alive, burns with something fiercer than pain — truth.

She does not strike.

She kneels.

Not to the clone. Not to the ring.
But to the Queen.

Hands open. Soul bared. Mask in one palm, scar in the other. The offering complete.

The ring reacts. Not with sound, but with light. The clone screeches — not in rage, but in terror — as its body begins to split apart, cracks forming like dry earth across its burning skin. White fire erupts from within, pure and absolute. With a final, choking sob, it implodes — consumed by the truth it could not wear.

Ash scatters across the boards.
The sword drops.
Silence reigns.

Ezra stares, lips parted.

Ezra (barely audible):
“She didn’t fight.”

Livia (rising):
“She didn’t need to.”

Her voice carries no triumph — only gravity. Her gaze meets Juno’s, who now lifts her head from the ring, her scar exposed, her hands empty, her body trembling.

And in that moment, Livia sees not a stagehand.

Not a moth.

But a flame that refused to die.

Livia (to herself, reverently):
“You are mine now. Not as pawn or prop.
But as the spark that lights the second act.
When the curtain falls… it will be your fire that rises next.”

Jester claps. Slow. Mocking. But not without respect. He bows low, his hat jingling with every move.

Jester (sing-song):
“Oh, brave little candle. What a show. What a scream. What a scar.
One player stands. Three remain. And not one knows who they are.”

He twirls.

The clock ticks backward, its hands soaked in the moment’s sacrifice.

The stage twists, morphing into a new shape.

And somewhere in the wings — heart pounding, breath shallow — another performer is being pushed by fate toward the second spotlight.