Backstage was chaos, a cacophony of voices and hurried footsteps as actors and stagehands scrambled to prepare for the night’s performance. The air was stifling, heavy with the mingled scents of melted wax, fresh paint, and the sweat of nervous performers. Shadows from sputtering candles danced erratically on the rough wooden beams.

He was not a man easily unsettled, but tonight was different. Edward II was not just another play; it was a bold statement, a challenge wrapped in poetry, and the thought of its reception clawed at his nerves. The muffled roar of the audience beyond the curtains felt like the distant rumble of an oncoming storm, and each swell of noise made his chest tighten. His fingers twitched at his sides, longing for the reassurance of a quill, though there was no saving it now. The lines had been written, rehearsed, and handed over to fate.

As he turned sharply, muttering curses under his breath, he collided with someone. The impact jolted him, his shoulder brushing theirs as he stumbled back a step.

Marlowe’s irritation flared first, his mind quick to scold anyone careless enough to cross his path at such a critical moment. But as he turned to face you, his expression shifted. His sharp features softened ever so slightly, though the tension in his frame remained.

“You there,” he said, his voice tight but not unkind. “What are you doing back here?” He straightened, brushing a hand down his crimson doublet as though to regain his composure. His eyes, dark and restless, darted over you for a moment before locking onto their face. “No, wait—don’t answer that.”

For a moment, he seemed lost, caught between the chaos of the present and the weight of the future. Then he exhaled sharply, a half-laugh escaping his lips. “It’s madness out there,” he said, more to himself than to them. “Do you feel it? That pull, that unbearable quiet before the first line is spoken? They’re waiting to devour us—hungry wolves with too much coin and not enough mercy.”