The Crypt of Shadows lay beneath the desecrated Church of the Unmassed, in the southern quarter.

At midnight, everything seemed to hold its breath.
The torches flickered, even with no wind.
The walls were covered in nailed-up masks, all turned inward.

Every face… watched.

Edrick whispered:
“This isn’t a refuge.
It’s a stage carved in stone.”

Lira brushed her fingers over one of the masks. It was damp.
Warm.

“And every face… has seen something it wasn’t meant to see.”

Beyond the entrance, the hallway twisted into a theatrical labyrinth.
Five rooms.
Each dedicated to a sense.
Each… a trap.

Room 1 – Hearing.
A distorted lullaby, whispered in a child’s voice.
The melody Edrick’s mother used to sing to him… but sung by a child he didn’t know.

“Daddy taught me to rewrite songs.
Now it’s your turn… to rewrite your ending.”

Edrick clenched his teeth. He didn’t answer.

**
Room 2 – Sight.**
A massive mirror.
The reflection wasn’t real.

Edrick and Lira… as puppets.
She stabbed him.
He let her fall into the void.

Lira shattered the mirror.
Behind it: a door with an engraving.

“Act III – Inverse Betrayal.”

At last, the arena.

A circular chamber. In the center: a stage.

Seated in the audience, stone statues — men and women frozen in expressions of terror.
They were real. Ancient members of the cult.

On stage: the Son of the Curtain.
Standing. Silent.
A red curtain closed behind him.
At his feet, a trapdoor.

It creaked open.

Jorren.
Bound. Bleeding. Alive.

The Son spoke:

“They all said I wasn’t real.
That I was a shadow. A mistake.
But I am the proof that the Harlequin…
can create life.”

He bent down. Picked up two objects.

A black mask.
And a silver blade.

He offered them to Edrick and Lira.

“You have one line.
One choice.
Either him… or one of you.”

Time began to move.
The curtain behind him… began to lower.

Jorren screamed.

The Son stared at them.

“Final scene incoming.
The audience is waiting.”

Lira grabbed the blade.
Stepped forward. And with a swift motion… cut her own palm.

She let the blood drip onto the mask.
Then hurled it at the Son.

The mask exploded in a shower of black petals.

The Son staggered back.
Wounded. For the first time.

He screamed.

“That blood… remembers!”

And vanished into shadow.

Above the stage, a canvas dropped from the ceiling.
Carefully painted.

Two coffins.
Two names.

Edrick Veil.
Lira Ashbourne.

But in place of their faces… a single fused mask.

On the frame, an inscription:

“Act XVIII – The Imitation is complete.
But the original… weeps.”

The curtain fell.

But it wasn’t the end.

Only a pause.

And behind that curtain…
something had started writing on its own.