"Glyph," I whispered at 2:13 a.m., "how do you fake a miracle in under ten hours?"
[Same way we faked your last audition: props, lighting, and blind panic.]
Miracles, it turns out, require production design.
Especially when your audience includes eleven high-ranking clergy, three god-bureaucrats, and a masked inquisitor who might be from Earth.
I stood in my half-collapsed bedroom, stripped to my undershirt, surrounded by broken heirlooms and panic sweat. Glyph's voice hummed in my skull like a caffeinated lighting designer.
[We need three things: a relic, a reaction, and a reason the gods would bother.]
"They won't," I muttered. "I'm not holy. I'm not chosen. I'm a washed-up actor with a fake noble's face and a knack for dying inconveniently."
[Exactly. Which means you're relatable.]
I stared down at our junk pile: a cracked hourglass, a copper compass, two enchanted teardrops, and a scroll written in Celestine that I absolutely did not understand.
I glued the teardrops to the hourglass with candle wax. Divine craftsmanship.
"You're serious about using this?"
[Jeremy. Look me in the metaphorical eyes. That compass? It spins when someone lies. That hourglass? Allegedly belonged to a martyr. That scroll? Complete nonsense. Perfect.]
I held up the compass. It spun. I wasn't even talking.
"It reacts to thought crimes."
[Or guilt. Either way—Gods love guilt.]
I assembled the pieces onto a velvet cloth like I was preparing for a bad stage show.
"Name?"
[Mercy's Ticking Redemption.™]
"Glyph."
[Fine. The Holy Relic of St. Elric's Mercy and Temporally Responsive Judgement. We'll call it Mercy's Timer for short.]
...….
Dawn came with the subtlety of a guillotine.
I was escorted through the echoing nave of the Hall of Revelation, flanked by knights and robed choirboys with better posture than me. Glyph whispered stage notes as we walked.
[Temple Council layout: eleven seats in a crescent. Center dais for 'revelations.' Stained-glass gods glaring at you from all angles.]
"What's the odds I spontaneously combust?"
[Lower than average. But bring extra charisma just in case.]
At the center of the hall stood a plinth of radiant quartz. That's where I'd be performing my "miracle."
A priest gestured.
"Present the relic."
I stepped up, suppressing the urge to throw up from both nerves and lack of breakfast. I placed Mercy's Timer on the quartz slab.
The compass spun.
The hourglass cracked.
The teardrops dribbled like guilty sweat.
[Perfect. It looks cursed.]
The Council stared. Their faces were carved from centuries of judgment. Only one face stood out—a red porcelain mask, expressionless, seated among them.
The inquisitor.
And their voice, when it came, nearly buckled my knees.
"We are told," said the inquisitor, "that you died. And returned. We are told you heard the gods. Do you now bring proof?"
"I bring their warning," I said, projecting like I was back on the tiny black-box stage of the Wilshire Theater. "And a relic imbued with the memory of mercy."
[That sounded expensive.]
"Then speak," said the inquisitor. "And let the relic decide your truth."
I placed one hand on the relic and closed my eyes.
Glyph buzzed into performance mode.
[Let's begin. Voice drop, tone shift. Go for tragic prophet meets burned-out cult leader.]
I opened my mouth—and let the lies pour out.
"In the dark beyond death, I saw a city of hollow kings. I saw coins made of bone. I saw my name erased, then rewritten in blood."
[Nice. Add something vague and foreboding.]
"And I heard the gods whisper: 'You are not the first. But you will be the last.'"
The hourglass glowed faintly. The compass jittered. One teardrop slid down the relic's side like a single, dramatic tear.
A gasp.
"A false relic," said a robed councilor, rising. "This is theatrics!"
"So is life," I said. "But I bled for this role."
The inquisitor stood. All eyes shifted.
"Would you allow a test?" they asked. "A single truth, spoken by you, while the relic listens?"
[That's bait. But we have no choice.]
"Ask."
"State your name."
I hesitated.
[Use the stage name. The lie you've lived.]
"I am Audric Solvane."
The compass shivered. Stopped.
[Good. It accepts the performance.]
"And before that?" the inquisitor asked, voice like a scalpel.
Silence.
I could lie. I should lie.
"Jeremy Blake."
The compass spun wildly. The hourglass pulsed. The relic rose an inch into the air—hovering.
Then—it glowed.
[Glyph—what's going on?]
[That's not me. That's—something else.]
The air grew thick. The light intensified.
A low hum filled the hall. Not mechanical. Not magical.
Something holy.
Or worse—something watching.
Then, with a sound like breaking glass and a choir gasping in unison, the relic exploded.
Shards of hourglass scattered like divine confetti. One teardrop landed in a priest's goblet and hissed into smoke. The compass hit the angel's face— right where its tear would be.
"This is…" someone whispered. "A sign."
The inquisitor didn't flinch. Just… tilted their head.
"Well," they said. "It seems the gods have answered."
...…..
I was escorted out in total silence.
Not arrested.
Not executed.
Worse.
Canonized.
"You are a vessel," the head priest muttered, awestruck. "A divine echo. A prophet reborn."
[We're not prophets. We're improv artists with good lighting.]
"Prophets get statues. Liars get pyres, Glyph."
[Start writing. Or start running.]
Back at Solvane Manor, I collapsed onto the chaise lounge (technically stolen from a debt collector). My heart was still hammering.
"That glow—Glyph, what was it?"
[Still parsing. It wasn't divine magic. It wasn't my projection. It was… ambient. Like something piggybacked on the relic's narrative.]
"We summoned something?"
[More like… caught its attention. And now it's watching.]
...…..
I climbed to the roof at dusk. Solvane Manor glowed faintly below me, full of echoes and wine I couldn't afford.
The stars were brighter here. Or maybe my eyes were glitching.
I pulled the hourglass shard from my pocket.
It was warm.
Not from magic.
From memory.
"I'm not Audric," I whispered. "I'm not a prophet. I'm not anything."
[You're an actor. That's enough.]
"I lied. I lied to survive. And now they believe me."
[That's what performance is. Controlled belief. Shared delusion.]
"And the inquisitor—Glyph, that voice…"
[I ran analysis. 62% match to Earth-Standard English, 23rd-century cadence. They're not from this world.]
"Then who—"
"Who are you really?"
I turned.
The inquisitor stood behind me, mask gleaming under starlight. Their mask tilted, and for a second, I thought I saw a faded mark on their wrist—like a scar, or a barcode.
I hadn't heard them arrive. No guards. No footsteps. Just… arrival.
"You remember me, don't you?" they asked.
"Should I?"
"You sold me a fake relic once. In your first life."
The shard slipped from my hand.
[Oh no.]
"You called it the 'Bloodstone of Redemption.' It was plastic."
"…It was a prop," I whispered.
"And now you're here. And you're very good at pretending to be holy."
[Glyph—this is bad.]
"So I've come with a message," they said, stepping closer.
"From who?"
The mask leaned near my ear.
"From whoever killed you."
And then they were gone.
END OF CHAPTER 5