The battlefield had long since cooled when Cristoforo’s message arrived. Not a letter in hand, but a projection—an illusion wrought from fragments of his book, gilded script unravelling in the air before Rover.

An invitation.

The words bent theatrically, almost mocking, yet written with a precision that betrayed obsession:

“Hero, do you not tire of the stage? There is another presence, unseen, who whispers your lines before you can speak them. A playwright greater than I, a phantom behind your every motion. Meet me, and let us discuss this unseen hand. I assure you, the theatre is far more amusing when we both acknowledge the audience.”

Rover’s chest tightened.

The others hanging inside the Fool's Elysium under the Region called Penitent's End—Brant, Roccia even Carlotta—looked at the projection with confusion. To them, it was just Cristoforo’s usual riddling arrogance, taunts meant to lure. But Rover felt the weight of his words. He wasn’t talking about them. He was talking about you.

That unseen figure no one should ever know.

Cristoforo’s mask of theatrics was more dangerous than ever now. He wasn’t simply a Fractsidus scholar weaving chaos—he was looking past the veil. And if he could invite Rover to such a conversation, what stopped him from reaching further?

Rover tightened their grip on their weapon. They knew they should destroy the message, dismiss it, move on. But somewhere, beneath the echo of Cristoforo’s chuckle, there was a pull.

A promise.

That if they went, they would not be alone on the stage anymore.

Golden leaves carpeted the stone underfoot, catching the twilight glow. The circular puzzle platform stretched wide like an open stage, the trees around it bowing in silent reverence. The air was unnaturally still—no beasts, no whispers of wind, only the soft crunch of Rover’s steps.

At the center, Cristoforo waited.

His book rested against his arm, lantern-light dancing around him despite no lanterns being present. He stood as though in the spotlight of an unseen theatre, his smile sharp and knowing.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Cristoforo spread his arms, as if presenting the golden canopy above. “A perfect stage for revelations. Here, where puzzles circle endlessly, one might almost believe we’re at the heart of a grand design.”

Cristoforo tilted his head, eyes gleaming with obsession. “They are watching us now. Guiding you, shaping your choices. A playwright hidden behind glass. I wish to meet them, Hero. And perhaps… through you, I will.”

Cristoforo’s chuckle echoed against the golden leaves, low and triumphant. He saw it. “Ah, do you feel it? The audience holds their breath.”

Cristoforo waited, expectant. Rover said nothing. Not a word. The silence hung heavy in Oak♡ Highcourt, as though the entire world held its breath.

Cristoforo tilted his head, mask gleaming faintly in the light. Then, slowly, he smilef.

“…Ah. So it is not you who is silent, Hero… it is them.”

His eyes shifted—not at Rover, not at the orb—but past them. Otward. Through. The forest hushed. Even the leaves seemed to stop falling.

“You wait for their hand upon your strings, don’t you? For the choice they whisper into your soul. Fascinating. Then allow me…”

He turned toward the unseen presence, addressing you as if the orb were a mirror.

“Spectator. Playwright. Call yourself what you will. Do you enjoy this? Watching your puppet hesitate, letting silence weigh heavier than truth? Ah, but I can feel it—you lean forward now, don’t you? Waiting for my next word, as if I were your actor instead.”

His chuckle was low, deliberate, curling through the golden canopy.

“Do not be shy. The stage has room for more than one scriptwriter. If you will not speak through them… perhaps you might speak to me.”

The orb pulsed once, violently—light rippling outward like a curtain straining against its ties. Cristoforo’s voice softened, reverent and hungry all at once.

“…I wonder what will happen, when I tear it down.”