Outside, the sky kept that false blue, not a single cloud, not a single flaw. Inside the castle, however, the temperature dropped with every step they took. Ryouhei said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the journal, which had started to burn softly around the edges, as if writing his ending had awakened something else.
Sera walked beside him but didn't look at him. The air was heavy. Not with magic, but with something more dangerous: a script.
"We're trapped in someone else's story," Ryouhei finally said. "One where everything is written and our moves were rehearsed long before we arrived."
"Then we burn it," Sera replied. "The script, the stage, the play. All of it."
Ryouhei looked at her, and for an instant, his expression reflected a shadow of a smile. It didn't last.
**
Night fell with perfect synchronization. Exactly as they took their final step out of the throne room, the lights dimmed, as if someone had pulled a backstage lever.
That's when they saw it.
In the garden, beneath a perfectly symmetrical tree, one of the "assigned companions" —a boy with silver hair and a radiant smile— stood completely still. The castle's soft music continued playing, but it no longer felt cheerful. It was... out of tune.
Ryouhei approached.
"Are you okay?"
The boy didn't answer. His eyes were open, but his expression was hollow. Then he whispered, barely audible:
"He is everywhere. Even when we pretend he's not."
Ryouhei's blood ran cold. Sera took a step back. The boy raised his head, and for the first time showed something real: terror.
"He watches us while we sleep. While we talk. We can't leave. We can't improvise."
Then, his body collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
**
The castle pretended not to notice. The other "companions" continued dining, laughing, playing their parts. No one asked about the silver-haired boy. No one even seemed to remember him.
"This goes beyond narrative control," Ryouhei said, flipping through the journal, which now wrote on its own:
"End of Act I. The Chosen begin to doubt. The audience watches."
"You think… He is pulling the strings here too?" Sera whispered.
Ryouhei nodded.
"Not just the strings. The entire structure. The scenery, the music, everyone's memories. Everything."
A murmur came from the walls. A toneless, emotionless voice repeated on loop:
"The show must go on."
Sera turned abruptly.
"We're not following the script. Not this time."
The journal trembled in Ryouhei's hands. More words appeared, written in ink as black as oil:
"First act of rebellion recorded. Preparing stage punishment."
The chandeliers went out.
The doors slammed shut on their own.
The air filled with canned laughter. Not human. Not real.
And the invisible curtain fell on them—though the play had only just begun.