The world around Edrick was black.
 But not dark.

It was lit by theatrical spotlights, suspended in nothingness.
 A stage carved out of void.

Beneath his feet, old wooden planks creaked.

In front of him—
 a hooded figure.

Feminine.

It stepped forward.
 Edrick followed, heartbeat rising.

Lira?

The figure raised its head.

A white mask.
 Black eyes.
 Still. Watching.

Then a voice, neither human nor inhuman, whispered from the dark:

“Welcome to the final act.”

The vision vanished.

Edrick awoke suddenly.
 His breath ragged.
 His hands cold.

It was night.

But he wasn’t alone anymore.

Lira stood before him.

On the rooftop of the old Conservatory—one of the highest places in Blackglass—they had found each other again.

Not by choice.

But because there was nowhere else left to go.

It was still raining.

But neither of them felt it.

Only the wind.

Only them.

Edrick spoke first.
 His voice was harsh. Too much.

“How many lies, Lira?
 How many secrets are you still keeping from me?”

Lira didn’t flinch.
 Her white hair clung to her face.
 Rain like tears she wasn’t shedding.

“Do you want answers…
 or just someone to blame?”

He took a step forward.
 His eyes like ice.

“I saw a painting of you killing me.
 A woman died… whispering your name.”

She didn’t step back.

“And I found a diary written in my hand…
 that I don’t remember writing.”

Silence.

Sharper than any accusation.

Lira pulled something from her pocket.

A small wooden mask.
 Old. Worn.

She threw it to the ground.
 It cracked.

Inside, hidden in the grain—
 a symbol:

A crescent moon
 intertwined with a broken key.

Edrick went pale.

“I’ve seen this…
 In a dream.
 A vision.
 You were there.
 I was a child.”

They stared at each other.

And the words came from both, at the same time:

“We were bound.
 As children.
 Part of a ritual.”

A rite.

A pact.

Two roles.

Eye.
 Heart.

Lira spoke last.

Her voice cracked, but steady.

“We were… the only cage that could hold him.
 But someone broke the bond.
 And now…
 he’s free.”

Later, in the refuge, they found the two canvases that had haunted them for days.

Now… they were changed.

In Edrick’s painting:
 Lira wasn’t stabbing him.

She was on her knees. Crying over him.

In Lira’s:
 Edrick wasn’t walking away.

He was holding her hand.
 Even as she bled.

On the back of both, carved with a delicate hand:

“Act complete.
 But the curtain… does not fall.”

“Next act: The Wolf and the Vow.”