Dawn arrived like a blade drawn from silk.

The sky over Blackglass bled orange, slicing through towers and steeples.
 And below, in the veins of the city, something began to move.

Not one thing.

Many.

Too many.

The wolves had woken.

In the cathedral square, people began to scream.
 Not from pain.

But from recognition.

Each face they passed looked familiar.
 Each word they heard sounded rehearsed.
 The city itself was no longer a place—

It had become a stage.

And someone—somewhere—was watching.

Edrick and Lira stood on the rooftop of the observatory.
 Below them: chaos.

Above them: silence.

Between them: the thread.

Silver. Tense.

Their wrists still marked by the ritual’s return.

Lira spoke first.

“He’s not just writing our story anymore.”
 “He’s turned the whole city into a script.”

Edrick nodded, his voice low.

“And every citizen… is an actor who doesn’t know their lines.”

They followed the trail.

Back into the undercity.
 Back to the place it all began.

The theater beneath the crypt.

It was no longer abandoned.

Torches lit the stairs.
 Fresh footsteps in the dust.
 The scent of wax, blood, and ink.

On the heavy double doors: a new engraving.

“ACT XV – CURTAIN.”

They entered.

And the lights came on.

Rows of empty seats faced the stage.

At its center—
 a single wooden chair.

Occupied.

The Harlequin.

Wearing a mask no longer carved from porcelain, but bone.
 White. Weathered.
 Cracked down the middle.

He did not rise.
 He simply spoke.

“I’ve waited for this moment longer than either of you has lived.”

Edrick stepped forward.

“Then die with it.”

But the Harlequin smiled.

“No, Edrick.
 I die only when the story ends.
 And this one… still has a twist.”

He lifted his hand.

Behind him, curtains pulled back.

Dozens of figures stood on stage.

All wearing masks.
 Some familiar.
 Some long dead.
 Some still alive.

And in the center—
 The Wolf.

Unchained.
 Eyes locked on Lira.

Lira stepped toward the stage.
 The thread on her wrist pulsed.

She could feel it:
 The choice.
 The cost.
 The truth.

The Harlequin opened his arms.

“One last scene.”
 “One last vow.”

And above the stage, in burning red letters:

“FIN.”

But no one moved.

Because the final act had only just begun.