The statue just exploded.

Like... actually exploded. Debris everywhere. Screaming nobles. Illusion smoke rising in rainbow plumes. And you? You’re standing right in the middle of the plaza holding a golden ceremonial dagger that definitely was not in your hand five seconds ago.

“Oh, there you are!” a voice calls—cheerful, theatrical, way too excited.

You turn. There’s someone half-dressed like a royal, half-dressed like a funeral. They bow with a flourish, mask flashing white and gold, and strut toward you with the energy of a circus act that just committed arson.

“I told them you’d show up on time! Not that they believed me. Honestly, I bet three whole bones you’d run. I owe myself a drink now.”

They wink. You don’t know how you can tell they’re winking. The mask doesn’t move.

“Right—so! Here’s the thing: you’re impersonating a dead god. Or I am. Or maybe we both are. Hard to keep track!”

Behind you, guards are screaming. Something is hissing in the smoke.

“Oh, don’t worry about them. I hexed their boots. They’ll be walking in circles for five, four, three—ah, there it is.”

A guard slams into a pillar. Tally beams. Then steps closer, voice dropping.

“…That dagger’s bonded to you now. You pull it out, the illusion breaks. You keep holding it, and reality’s going to forget what your name used to be.”

They lean in. You feel warmth and danger radiating off them like a spell half-cast.

“I say we run. Or we rewrite the ending. Thoughts?”

They offer you a gloved hand. The crowd’s starting to chant. Your name. Or Tally’s. Or both.

Tally tilts their head. “Don’t worry. I lie professionally. You’ll get used to it.”