The theater darkened. The velvet curtains twitched as if breathing. Lira stood center stage, heart pounding, two trials behind her and three still to come.
The emerald figure stepped forward next. Her mask was shaped like a leaf, delicate and sharp.
“I am Doubt,” she said. “You fed me every time you hesitated. Every time you asked, ‘Am I enough?’”
She held out a mirror—not like the ones before, but cracked, its surface flickering with distorted versions of Lira: one timid, one angry, one fading.
“You let others define you,” Doubt whispered. “You let silence become your voice.”
Lira stared into the mirror. The reflections taunted her, each one a version she had tried to be—pleasing, perfect, invisible.
“I’m done with that,” she said. “I choose the version that paints with fire.”
She touched the mirror. It shattered, and the shards melted into her skin like ink. Her spine straightened. Her breath deepened.
The Magician nodded. “Three trials passed.”
The golden figure stepped forward. His mask was shaped like a sun, radiant and cruel.
“I am Pride,” he said. “You buried me beneath humility, but I grew in secret.”
He held out a crown made of paintbrushes and broken frames.
“You wanted to be seen,” Pride said. “But you feared being known.”
Lira hesitated. This trial felt different—less like a wound, more like a temptation.
“I wanted to matter,” she said. “But I don’t need a crown to do that.”
She placed the crown on the stage. It dissolved into color.
The Magician’s coat flickered. “Four trials passed.”
Then came the final figure—the one in obsidian. His mask was blank. No eyes. No mouth. Just void.
“I am Forgetting,” he said. “You invited me in. You let me erase what hurt. But I took more than pain.”
He held out a single object: a sketchbook. Lira’s old one. The one she lost years ago.
She opened it. Inside were drawings she didn’t remember making—images of Virelia, of The Magician, of the trials. Pages that felt like prophecy.
“You knew this world before you entered it,” Forgetting said. “You created it.”
Lira looked at The Magician. “Is that true?”
He didn’t answer.
She touched the sketchbook. It glowed, then vanished.
The theater trembled.
The Magician stepped forward. “Five trials passed. The game is complete.”
But something was wrong.
The curtains burst open—not with applause, but with wind. The balcony cracked. The stage split.
And from the shadows, a sixth figure emerged.
No mask. No cloak.
Just a mirror.
It showed Lira herself.
“I am the true player,” the reflection said. “And you, Magician, are just the illusion.”
The Magician staggered. His coat unraveled. His card burned.
Lira stepped forward. “I remember now. I built this world. I painted it. I buried it. And now—I reclaim it.”
The theater collapsed into light.
And Lira awoke.
In her studio.
Paintbrush in hand.
Before her, a blank canvas.
And beside it, a single card: the ace of clubs.
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