The room dissolved around her, and Lira found herself standing in a theater—not the crumbling opera house she knew, but a grand, impossible version of it. Velvet curtains shimmered like liquid rubies. Chandeliers floated midair, dripping with stars and the seats were empty, save for five shadowy figures watching her from the balcony.
The Magician stood center stage.
“Welcome,” he said, his voice echoing like thunder wrapped in silk. “Now the game begins.”
Lira stepped forward, clutching the ace of clubs. “What am I playing for?”
“Your truth,” he replied. “Your freedom. Your memory. But you’re not alone.”
The shadows in the balcony leaned forward. One by one, they descended—each cloaked in a different color: crimson, indigo, emerald, gold, and obsidian. Their faces were masked, but their presence was heavy, like forgotten regrets.
“These are the other players,” The Magician said. “Each one carries a piece of your story. And each one will challenge you.”
The crimson figure stepped forward first. Her mask was shaped like a flame.
“I am Regret,” she said. “You left me behind, but I never left you.”
She held out a canvas—Lira’s own painting, twisted and dark. It showed a girl walking away from a burning bridge.
“You abandoned your brother,” Regret whispered. “You never forgave yourself.”
Lira took a sharp intake of breath. She hadn’t thought about him in years. The fight. The silence. The distance.
“I was trying to protect myself,” she said.
Regret nodded. “Then prove it.”
The canvas burst into flame and Lira as if in a trace stepped into it.
She was back in her childhood home. Her brother stood in the doorway, eyes full of betrayal, just like when she ran away when their parents died. She had to speak. Had to rewrite the moment.
“I was scared,” she said her voice trembling. “But I never stopped loving you.”
The scene shimmered. Her brother smiled and waved. The memory shifted—no longer a wound, but a scar.
She emerged from the canvas, breathless.
The Magician clapped once. “One trial passed.”
The indigo figure stepped forward next. His mask was shaped like a clock.
“I am Time,” he said. “You wasted me. You feared me. You tried to outrun me.”
He held out a watch, its hands spinning wildly.
“You buried your art,” Time said. “You let the world convince you it wasn’t good enough. No one saw it—so how could you know?”
Lira touched the watch. It stopped.
“I’m ready to reveal it,” she said.
The Magician smiled. “Then the game continues.”
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