"Gahh…"
Himeko fidgeted nervously behind the theater curtain, her fingers twisting the fabric like it was her only lifeline.
"What's wrong?"
Raiquèn, already dressed in Mitsura's costume, quietly slipped beside her.
"Urgh, Rai-san~ there's just too many people!"
Himeko groaned, clutching Raiquèn by the shoulders.
"Hm?" Raiquèn tilted her head innocently.
"Are you nervous, Hime?"
"Of course, I am! This is my first time performing live!"
Himeko's expression was a mix of panic and worry.
"We usually act behind cameras! And if we ever mess up, it can be edited or reshot. But in a live play—if I slip up even once—there's no redo!"
She said dramatically, waving her hands in distress.
Raiquèn wanted to laugh at how animated Himeko was but held it in. Instead, she gently patted Himeko's head.
"Hey, you'll be fine. Don't worry. That's why we practiced for a whole month, right?"
Himeko puffed her cheeks and looked like she might burst into tears.
Well, Raiquèn could understand. But oddly enough, she didn't feel nervous at all. Instead, she felt a bubbling excitement—
Maybe because she'd be performing with Yeira—her idol, her inspiration, the person she had admired for most of her teenage years.
"How come you're not nervous, Rai-san?" Himeko asked, peering up at her curiously.
"Aha~ that's because hard work never fails, Hime. Trust yourself. All those rehearsals won't betray us now."
Raiquèn smiled reassuringly. Though, judging from Himeko's expression, it only helped a little.
Peeking through a small gap in the curtain, Raiquèn scanned the audience.
'Wow… there really are a lot of people. Is it because of Yeira? Well, that's to be expected.'
Her mind briefly wandered back to the time she and Yeira were locked in that dressing room together.
She pursed her lips and flicked her own forehead.
Stop thinking about that.
Tonight, I'll give it my all.
She took a deep breath, tightened her grip on the script, and began reading her lines one last time.
The play began.
Soft light spilled over a grand estate, the Duke's manor bathed in muted gold. A hush fell over the theater as the first notes of the score trembled through the air — delicate, like the sound of secrets being whispered.
At the heart of the scene stood Gwen, a young noblewoman wrapped in silks but burdened by sorrow. Her father's remarriage had filled their home with the scent of roses and poison — both gifts from the new Duchess, Reyna.
Reyna smiled with grace that never touched her eyes, her words dipped in honey and venom. And always near her, a shadow — Mitsura, her obedient niece, a quiet girl with soft eyes and trembling hands.
What began as devotion soon darkened into deceit. Mitsura moved through the halls like a ghost, delivering potions disguised as medicine, letters wrapped in lies. Yet, with each shared glance, each late-night conversation, something inside her began to falter.
Gwen, for all her gentle manners, harbored ruin in her heart. She welcomed the storm that should have destroyed her — smiled at betrayal as though it were mercy.
The play unfolded like a slow waltz of destruction. Cups were raised, words exchanged under flickering candlelight, and in the quiet corners of the stage, guilt and affection bloomed side by side.
The act continued.
The stage bathed in morning light — soft, serene, almost deceitful in its calm. Gwen sat by the tall window, her brush gliding across a blank canvas. The colors were gentle, muted, as if she were painting a dream rather than a person.
"Mitsura," she called, voice low yet commanding.
"Sit here. I want to capture the look in your eyes when you're not pretending to be someone else."
Mitsura obeyed quietly, folding her hands on her lap. The audience could see the slight tremble of her fingers, the unease beneath her composure. Each brushstroke from Gwen felt like exposure — as though the artist saw too much.
And when the curtain dimmed to dusk, the scene shifted. The warmth of the manor disappeared, replaced by the cold shimmer of candlelight in Duchess Reyna's chambers. Mitsura knelt before her aunt, voice low, recounting every word, every detail, every fleeting look.
Reyna listened with her usual smile, the kind that felt like a blade hidden behind perfume.
"Good," she whispered, touching Mitsura's chin.
"Soon, the Duke will fall — and our name will rise from his ashes."
The music turned sharper, strings trembling as the light followed Mitsura's retreating figure.
Everything seemed to be moving perfectly — each piece sliding into place, each lie serving its purpose. The Duke's downfall drew near. The audience could almost taste the victory on Reyna's lips.
But as Mitsura paused beneath the fading spotlight, the faintest trace of conflict shadowed her expression — a silent hint that something within her heart was no longer obeying the script.