Page 16 of The Immortal's Trick
The first actor speaks, robed in crimson and green, his voice cutting clear through the amphitheater. Every line is exaggerated, every movement precise, ritualistic.
It takes only a few moments for the crowd to fall still, lulled by the rhythm of the chorus rising behind the actors.
I blink, letting the illusion take hold.
There’s a pulse to the performance, a kind of music stitched between each word, each beat of the drum. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, in the soles of my feet pressed flat to the stone beneath us.
The story is a tragedy—of course it is. Love and betrayal, gods and omens. A daughter cursed, a war born from pride. But it doesn’t feel distant. It feels...close. The words wrap around my ribs, tighten there. The actor’s anguish is too real, too raw.
Beside me, Lome hasn’t moved. I sense him more than see him—the heat of his arm, the faint catch of his breath when a smile draws at my lips. I wonder if he’s watching the stage at all, or if he’s watchingme.
I don’t dare look to find out.
The heroine appears, veiled in white, her voice soft and piercing. She loves the god, but she hides it. The other gods are cruel, and fate is twisted, yet she still loves him in secret.
I glance around Lome’s back at Nebet.
Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears, one hand pressed to her chest. She’s always felt deeply. Des sits beside her, head slightly bowed, watching the performance with a quiet, reverent sadness. I think of what Lome said about him and wonder who Des loved, and what happened to her.
My gaze returns to the stage. I shouldn’t relate so profoundly to the actress’s fear and her aching silence. But I do.
The chorus sings again, a slow, mournful lament. My throat tightens.
I press my fingertips to my temples, pretending to fix a strand of hair that’s slipped free—my pulse thuds against the pads of my fingers. I need to pull myself together. This is a performance. It’s notreal.
Except... it is. Because grief is real, love kept in the dark is real. So is the terrifying feeling blooming inside me—a warmth that spreads like fire beneath my skin whenever Lome shifts beside me.
The air feels thick. I catch the scent of citrus oil on Lome’s skin as he leans forward slightly. He’s close. Closer than before.
His whisper brushes my ear like silk. “Are you enjoying the play?”
The question is soft, almost hesitant. I’m not prepared for how intimate it feels.
I nod. My lips part, but no words come.
He waits, patient. I finally manage, “It’s more beautiful than I imagined.”
His smile returns, but he keeps his gaze on the stage. “The first time I saw a play, I felt as if a new level of humanity opened up to me—a new way to experience beauty, life, and pain.”
“Yes.” I’m whispering too now, barely trusting my voice. “That’s exactly it.”
After that, there’s a long silence between us—comfortable, but charged.
As the story reaches its climax, the chorus swells, and the heroine reveals her truth. She loved the god all along, and she doesn’t care about the consequences.
But it’s too late. It’s always too late.
The audience gasps as the heroine dies, sword gripped in her hand, her eyes fixed on the god who wielded the blade—the one who was supposed to love her.
Something cracks in my chest.
I sit frozen as the stage falls quiet before the roar of my pulse in my ears is drowned out by the crowd’s raucous applause.
Like a moth to a flame, my eyes are drawn to Lome’s.
Emotion burns hot in his hazel gaze. No smile. No teasing. Just something unspoken, yet I hear the message loud and clear.
There’s something between us.
