The Harlequin stood at center stage, arms wide.

His voice echoed through the undercity like a sermon and a scream:

“Welcome, forgotten hearts.
Welcome, cursed roles.
Tonight… you are free.”

The masked audience didn’t move.

They weren’t here to act.
They were here to watch.

And on the opposite side of the stage—
Lira and Edrick.

No masks.
No scripts.
Only truth.

And the truth was this:

Someone had to break the cycle.
Or become its next chapter.

The Wolf stepped forward.
Eyes burning gold.
Chains dragging like the memory of pain.

He looked to Lira.

And in a voice barely human, barely his own:

“You left me.”

Lira nodded, steady.

“I did.
To protect you.”

The Wolf turned to Edrick.

“You forgot me.”

Edrick’s voice cracked:

“Because I was told it would save you.”

A pause.
The silence before a decision.

Then the Wolf whispered:

“Then let’s finish it.
Together.”

The Harlequin clapped.

Mockery. Joy. Malice.

“Touching.
But irrelevant.
Because I am the one who decides the ending.”

He reached for a lever beside his throne.

“The curtain must fall.”

But Lira stepped forward, raising her arm.

The silver thread between her and Edrick sparked.

It glowed. It fought.

And then—
it snapped.

Not broken.
Released.

The chain that bound the Wolf shattered.

A scream of metal.

A surge of light.

The stage shook.

The audience of masks collapsed like puppets without strings.

And the Harlequin—
stumbled.

For the first time.

Afraid.

Edrick drew his weapon.
Not to shoot.

To cut.

He stepped behind the Harlequin.
Grabbed the mask.

Pulled.

It resisted—then cracked.
Then—

Fell.

Underneath:

A face.

His own.

Older. Hollow-eyed. Burned by grief.

Edrick stared at himself.

Not a twin.
Not a clone.

A possibility.

A version.

The Harlequin smiled—his voice now quiet. Human. Terrifying:

“I was what you would have become.
Had you chosen vengeance over love.
Control over memory.”

Edrick stepped back.

Lira’s voice broke through:

“Then this was never his story.”

“It was yours.”

“And ours.”

The Wolf stood between them.

Not growling.

Watching.

Then bowed.

Not to a master.
Not to a god.

To them.

The lights of the stage went out.

One by one.

Until only the thread on the floor still shimmered—

and then, too, disappeared.

In the silence, the voice of the true Harlequin faded like ash:

“The final act is yours to write.”