[Status: Deeply underdressed, moderately cursed, and heading straight into a royal trap. Just another Tuesday.] —Glyph
The royal invitation said "dinner."
But Castle Vesche didn't do dinner.
It did theatre.
A chandelier of floating crystal bees. A table that adjusted to the perceived ego of the guests. Plates that refilled when someone lied.
And at the head of it all—
Her Majesty, Queen Ilyra Vesche. Widowmaker in silk. Crowned contradiction.
"Lord Solvane," she purred, as I stepped into the chamber. "We were beginning to think you'd died again."
"Miracles are trending," I said, bowing low. "Thought I'd be ahead of the curve."
[Bold opener. She likes that. Or she'll have your tongue lacquered.]
I was seated at the far end of the table, opposite Ilyra.
Between us: a parade of power.
Lord Harrow, who'd personally executed two debtors this week (and billed their families). Countess Myrel, a poisoner turned vintner. And High Priest Edran, whom I'd impersonated two days ago.
[Reminder: That's the man you voice-jacked mid-funeral. You might want to avoid eye contact.]
"Lord Solvane," said Edran, "your… return has stirred many questions."
"And the gods have answers," I said, lifting my goblet. "You just have to listen."
The Queen arched an eyebrow.
"Do you speak for the gods now?"
"On good days," I said. "And on bad ones, I pretend better than most."
Polite laughter. Uneasy glances. The Queen's lips twitched.
[This is where you crash and burn unless we go full spectacle. Ready for Prophecy Mode™?]
"I'm listening."
"Do it," I whispered. "Full Method Actor."
[Warning: Multiple targets. Social risk: 88%. Memory risk: 12%. Want me to simulate a god-vision or roll with improv?]
"Improv. You direct."
[Finally. I've waited centuries to run a cult scene. Let's go.]
The chandelier dimmed. The bees froze mid-glow.
I stood. My eyes rolled back.
My voice dropped into something deeper—hollow, reverent, other.
"There is a sickness in the court," I said, voice trembling just enough.
"The crown rots from within. And a serpent wears a smile."
Gasps.
My hands lifted.
[Insert creepy light FX in 3… 2…]
Glyph pulsed static through my skull, lighting the air around me with a subtle corona.
A hum filled the room—high, metallic, divine by suggestion.
"The gods weep for their betrayers," I intoned, "and name them thrice:
Harrow, for cruelty.
Myrel, for silence.
And Edran…"
I let it hang. Suspense is everything.
"For taking the voice of another."
The High Priest blanched.
"Lies," he snapped. "Blasphemy."
"Truth," I whispered. "Spoken from the beyond."
[Okay, Shakespeare. Wrap it up before your nose starts bleeding.]
I staggered. Fell to one knee. Let the light dim as fast as it rose.
Sweat clung to my neck like a guilty collar.
"Forgive me," I gasped. "The vision… it burned."
The Queen rose slowly, goblet untouched.
"You've grown interesting, Lord Solvane."
"Trauma," I coughed. "Very character-building."
The table was stunned. Harrow looked pale. Myrel looked furious.
Edran? Edran looked at me like I'd just walked across his grave.
"The gods do not speak through tricksters," he said. "This reeks of… theatre."
"And yet the message rings true," Ilyra murmured. "Does it not?"
[Oh she's loving this. You just turned dinner into a prophecy-themed reality show.]
Later, as the other guests departed in calculated silence, the Queen kept me behind.
The doors closed.
"You're not Audric," she said, simply.
"Then who am I?"
"Someone with debts. Enemies. And style." She tilted her head. "You speak lies as if they're memories."
"It's a coping mechanism."
[Or trauma response. Same thing.]
"Tell me," she said. "Were you always a liar? Even… before?"
My blood went cold.
She leaned closer.
"I've seen travelers before. Strangers in borrowed skin. They always think they're special."
"You're saying—"
"You're not the first." Her smile was blade-thin. "But maybe you'll be the last."
[Translation: She knows about Earth. She knows you're not just reincarnated—you're imported.]
"Why keep me alive, then?" I asked.
"Because the court is a stage. And you, my dear corpse, might be the only actor worth watching."
She handed me a sealed envelope. Heavy wax.
The royal crest burned crimson.
"Tomorrow," she said. "You will perform a miracle in front of the Temple Council. One that proves your resurrection."
"What kind of miracle?"
"That," she said, "is your problem. If you fail—"
"I get executed?"
"Worse." Her smile widened. "I get bored."
[Cool cool. No pressure. Just invent religion on the fly.]
Back in the carriage, I collapsed into velvet.
"Glyph… how bad?"
[On a scale of 1 to execution? We're at 'start building a god or start running.']
"I faked a prophecy. What next?"
[You create a religion. With brand identity. And at least one minor martyr.]
"Can I make myself the martyr?"
[No. But you can fake a resurrection. Again. Just… better this time.]
The envelope in my lap pulsed faintly with a magic seal.
Inside, no doubt: the instructions for the next performance.
No script. Just pressure.
And maybe a stage trap waiting to snap.
END OF CHAPTER 4