A Misty Prelude
>An unnatural cold pervades the air, a ghostly mist that coils around her and seeps deep into the bones. Every breath is a sip of ice.
In the suffocating silence, the soft dip of Bianca's oar is a stark counterpoint as the two drift into the abyss of an underground river.
The lantern at the bow is a futile protest against the misty gloom, its light revealing only a few meters of dark water before being consumed by the swirling, watchful shadows of the fog.
Maestro Gray Raven, we will be clear of this place soon.
I am aware the atmosphere here is... oppressive. Just a little while longer, if you please.
Do not worry. I will see you safely to shore.
Turning, she offers a gentle reassurance to the gray-cloaked figure behind her, and is met with a soft smile.
Through the shifting mist, the gray feather on that person's attire remains a constant, a beacon that steadies her heart.
But then, the oar catches on an unseen force, refusing to budge. The boat slows, then stops completely.
An eldritch shadow seems to stir in the depths. It lurks now beneath the hull, a silent weight, watching them from the abyss.
...It seems that we are not alone below.
No, Maestro. Your safety is my priority. Please, allow me.
Bianca raises a hand to stop the other from helping. Slowly, she lifts the lantern, its light piercing the dark water as she scans the depths.
The river, disturbed by their passage, grows still. The ripples fade until the surface is a perfect, black mirror, reflecting her own face back at her.
But the reflection is wrong. The face in the water wears a grotesque, widening smile—one that is not her own.
...!
Terror dawns on Bianca's features, but the face below retains its serene and eerie smile. The eyes within the reflection hold a coldness more piercing than the surrounding mist.
This is no reflection. It is something else entirely, an entity of unknown origin staring back from the abyss.
It's too late for you now. Do not think of taking that person away from this place.
Give me the one beside you.
A wave of pure confusion crashes over her. The figure in the water wears her face—a second Bianca—and its gaze fills her with a deep, instinctual dread.
She moves back, throwing a protective arm out to shield "Gray Raven", but her hand sweeps through empty air. That person is gone. Terror seizes her heart.
Maestro? Where are you?!
Please, answer me!
No response. Her voice is swallowed by the hungry fog, leaving not even an echo behind.
The mist itself seems to awaken, thickening into phantom tentacles that coil around her neck with a chilling solidity. Each breath becomes a desperate, ragged fight.
But a new fear eclipses her own suffocation: what unseen horrors might be befalling that person in this impenetrable gloom?
Don't... take that person away...
The white world before her eyes begins to bleed into a suffocating black, a heavy curtain falling over her vision. It smothers her thoughts, her panic, her very consciousness...
Until there is nothing left but an absolute and final silence.
Bianca, you silly girl... falling asleep backstage like this. Aren't you worried you'll catch a chill?
Hey now, wake up... Bianca!
A voice pierces the heavy shroud of sleep, slowly pulling Bianca back to consciousness.
Urgent and persistent, it coaxes her eyes to open.
Ugh…
A dull throbbing blooms behind her eyes as her vision swims into focus, revealing the concerned face of a middle-aged woman.
Her foggy mind begins to clear as reality solidifies: she is slumped against a pile of props backstage, the muffled music from the performance filtering through the heavy curtain.
The theater director looks down at her, a faint line of worry etched between her brows.
Fragments of memory reconnect with reality, gradually erasing the eerie mist that haunted her nightmare.
Rubbing her temples, Bianca realizes she has merely dozed off in a quiet corner during a rehearsal break. On the other side of the curtain, the world carries on without her.
She looks down at the book still clutched in her hand, its corner damp with sweat. How long has that nightmare held her?
The director gently pries the book from her grasp. Her eyes fall on the author's name on the cover—"Gray Raven"—and she releases a soft, knowing sigh.
You were talking in your sleep just now... kept calling out, "Where are you?" You looked as if your spirit had left you.
Oh, child. You've clearly been working too hard preparing for that new play selection meeting. You've become so absorbed that it's giving you nightmares.
"Gray Raven"... Ever since you learned that person would be attending the selection, you've been working around the clock. You've even lost weight.
Bianca pushes herself to her feet, her hands automatically smoothing the wrinkles from her costume before she dips into a polite curtsy for the director.
My apologies, Director. I didn't sleep well last night, and I'm afraid I dozed off here...
I assure you, it will not happen again.
The director doesn't acknowledge her promise. Instead, she simply takes Bianca's hand with a firm gentleness and guides her down to sit beside her.
You've always held an extraordinary passion for the works of "Gray Raven". I understand why you want the lead in that author's new play.
With your talent, being chosen would be completely deserved. I only worry... Bianca, you are becoming too consumed by it all.
I understand your passion for the scripts, for the characters. But now this very passion is eating away at you.
Others merely play their roles, but you... you always feel you become them. If this continues, you will lose yourself in the part.
The director's words are silken threads, tugging at the seams of Bianca's mind and pulling her back into the recent past. Suddenly, she is standing once more in the blinding spotlight of that day:
The day of her debut as the leading lady.
The moment the "Duchess of Night" glided onto the stage, she commanded the room, holding every gaze captive. Bianca had worn the role like a second skin.
This Duchess was a tyrant, one who used her immense power to sacrifice innocent villagers.
Eventually, her own spiraling magic destined her to fall by the "hero's" sword.
But as the final echo of the massacre scene faded, a foreign presence flooded Bianca's mind.
It was a visceral, psychic scalpel, carving away at her sanity. Her memory began to rupture, gaps spreading like dark fissures across a pane of ice.
The daze was momentary, yet when it broke, time had become unmoored. She had been trapped in a waking dream, brief and absolute.
The illusion of the play was shattered. Bianca stood utterly frozen at the heart of the stage, a silent, dissonant chord struck in the midst of the symphony.
...
A murmur of confusion rippled through the audience. From the wings, her colleague—the "Hero"—watched her with an expression of uncertainty and silent inquiry, unsure when to enter.
The pause had stretched too long, a tear in the fabric of the play. The only path forward was to mend it with improvisation, to let the story continue in a new, unscripted shape.
With a face of carved marble, Bianca met her colleague's gaze and gave a nearly imperceptible nod that said she had this. In a heartbeat, she drew the mantle of the Duchess back around her.
I, too, once possessed a life like the humans... fleeting and fragile, yet I knew laughter, tears, and love.
But now, dwelling in darkness, all I possess is this lonely, never-ending existence.
The spotlight isolated Bianca within the ruined "castle hall," a single figure embodying the Duchess of Night's profound despair and sorrow.
Here, the Duchess' lament over her helpless fate and crushing solitude was no longer an act. Bianca had dissolved into the role, her very soul merging with the tragic noblewoman.
From her, countless invisible threads of enchantment seemed to emanate, weaving a spell that captivated the gaze and stilled the breath of every person in the audience.
Alas... my sweet lover became the "hero" who stood against me, only to perish by my hand, leaving behind only this treasured sword.
I can see that person now... my love, who once pledged eternal devotion to me, waiting desperately for me on the far shore of the River Styx.
The Duchess raised her arms high, lifting an invisible blade, her eyes holding one last, fleeting glimpse of relieved longing.
With a final, tragic grace, the unseen weapon was plunged into her chest. Her elegantly dressed form crumpled, collapsing into the haunting final image seared beneath the spotlight.
Simultaneously, thunderous applause erupted, roaring through the theater until the stage curtain swept shut.
But Bianca never saw the figure dressed in gray who had been watching her, silent and still, from the shadows of the audience.
As the roar of the crowd persisted beyond the curtain, she remained in her fallen pose. Her castmates rushed to her side, their faces beaming with joy.
That was incredible, Bianca! I was so worried. I had no idea if I should rush on stage or not! I was absolutely beside myself!
I never imagined you could save the play like that. It was brilliant!
Bianca had barely found her feet when Elliann, who played the "hero," rushed forward to embrace her.
But Bianca remained distant in Elliann's arms, failing to return the enthusiasm as usual. She was still adrift in the emotional undertow of the character she had just portrayed.
Where is the River Styx I seek...?
Hey, Bianca? The performance is over... Are you alright?
Her colleague shook Bianca's arm, her voice laced with worry. Bianca's distant expression finally flickered, the last traces of the dream dissolving as she drifted back to the present.
...Is that so? It's over? I'm glad nothing went amiss.
My deepest apologies for troubling everyone.
You scared me half to death... For a moment, I thought you were truly possessed by the "Duchess of Night"!
I am quite alright. I was just... lost in thought for a moment.
After giving Elliann's shoulder a reassuring pat, Bianca headed backstage and immediately locked eyes with the theater director, whose expression was etched with concern. She had witnessed the entire exchange.
Director, the mishap during the performance was entirely my fault. I have caused trouble for everyone, and I offer my sincerest apologies.
Bianca offered the director a deep bow.
I'm not blaming you at all, Bianca. In fact, your performance surpassed all our expectations.
It is only your state earlier that concerns me. I worry you are immersing yourself a little too deeply, which can so easily...
Bianca finally surfaces from her thoughts to find the director still beside her, her hand cradling Bianca's with a maternal tenderness.
The concern in the woman's eyes is a perfect mirror of that day.
Director, I know my apologies are of little comfort, but I will prove myself through my actions.
I will ensure I am in the best possible condition for tomorrow's selection.
...All right. In that case, go home and rest early today. Please, take care of yourself, Bianca.
The director's expression deepens with concern. She seems on the verge of speaking, then hesitates. Instead, she simply returns the book by "Gray Raven" to Bianca, giving the back of her hand a gentle pat—a gesture that conveys more than any word could.
Bianca offers a final bow before turning to leave, never noticing the director's worried gaze, which follows her until she disappears from view.
I only worry that you are immersing yourself too deeply. You could so easily... become "controlled" by the role.
It would be like wearing a mask you can no longer remove.
After a long moment, the director finally looks away, releasing a soft, weary sigh.
Perhaps such worries are misplaced. What Bianca needs now is not intervention, but patience and time.
Click. The soft sound of the lock engaging, and the noise of the outside world falls away. Bianca lets out a gentle sigh of relief.
Noticing she is still holding "Gray Raven's" book, she walks to the bookshelf and carefully returns it to its place. Taking a step back, she stands in quiet contemplation of the scene before her.
Each volume is meticulously arranged, its slightly worn spine a testament to countless nights of devoted reading. And on every single one, the same name appears as the author: "Gray Raven".
Though the enigmatic writer has never made a public appearance, the stories flowing from that pen have become impossible to overlook in literary circles.
They unfold in a future scarred by conflict, where an unknown virus has triggered a catastrophic collapse. In that fractured world, humanity bands together to resist, giving rise to countless tales of heroic sacrifice, interwoven with moments of fragile, unexpected warmth.
At the heart of these narratives stands the fearless "Gray Raven Commandant," who confronts each new crisis with boundless courage and wisdom.
Though Bianca herself has never known war or true disaster, she feels an inexplicable, almost innate sense of familiarity and affection for the world woven by "Gray Raven's" words.
Are you the one who was in my dream?
It feels as though I have been searching for you for an eternity. There is a familiarity, as if I've known you for ages, and yet... so much remains just beyond my memory.
But tomorrow, I will finally meet you in person, Maestro Gray Raven.
I have waited for this day for so very long.
Her fingers gently trace the name "Gray Raven" on a book's spine.
Early the next morning, Bianca hurries to the theater, eager for today's play selection.
But before she can reach the backstage area, a figure clad in gray materializes before her. The person's face is poorly concealed behind a mask, and without warning, they begin to recite lines at her with dramatic passion.
O my beloved, who has waited with such faith! Even from a thousand miles, I felt your affection, carried on the gentlest breeze.
Your form has grown slender from your endless vigil, yet your passionate heart shines more brilliantly than purest gold.
My beloved, in this moment, I have at last returned to your side—uh... oh no! What comes next? I forgot my line...
The "gray-cloaked figure" finally breaks character; a giggle escapes from behind the mask before Elliann lifts it away, revealing her familiar face.
Agh, I totally killed the mood! How could I blank on the best part?
And you could've at least played along, Bianca! I went through all the trouble of dressing up as your beloved "Gray Raven"!
Bianca simply brushes the hair from Elliann's forehead, her smile gentle as she takes in the girl's post-performance disarray.
I had a feeling it was you, but your delivery was quite compelling.
Let's channel that spirited performance into our play selection meeting.
Bianca, you worry too much! You've been preparing for this meeting for ages; it's going to go perfectly!
Elliann puts away her "Gray Raven" costume, an impish smile playing across her face.
So, Bianca... today you finally get to meet your beloved "Gray Raven" in person. Don't tell me you were too excited to sleep last night?
"My beloved" is hardly the appropriate phrase, and besides, I...
Alright, alright, you know what I mean! Everyone in the theater knows you're "Gray Raven's" biggest fan!
You snatch up that person's new works the moment they're published, and I always see you reading those books during breaks. If you ask me, it's just like having a secret crush on someone you've never met...
Now you're being absurd...
Bianca is left momentarily speechless. The jest is forward, yet it resonates with a quiet truth in her heart.
In lieu of a reply, she answers with a soft smile and takes Elliann's hand, walking into the theater, where the rest of the cast has already gathered.
Facing a circle of expectant faces, the director neatly aligns the selection envelopes in her hands and holds them aloft, a silent call to order.
My dear cast, I know you've all been anticipating this day. It is a true joy to see you all here, so full of hope and ready to begin. Today, we see which of your dreams will find their wings.
To honor the spirit of the work itself, every playwright has submitted their theme anonymously. Let your intuition guide you. Choose the story that speaks to your heart.
If your vision resonates with the playwright, you will become the leading actor for their new play.
Now, come forward and find your story. May this be the first step on a wonderful journey for you all, my children.
The actors flock around the director like a murmuration of starlings, their movements a flurry of eager anticipation. They pluck envelopes from the table, their voices a rising chatter of excitement as they debate their potential choices with their companions.
Soon, the flurry subsides. After several rounds, each actor has made their choice. They scatter like leaves to the dressing rooms, the rustle of costumes and the quickening pace of footsteps signaling the shift into anxious preparation backstage.
The room, so recently abuzz with life, falls into a hollow silence. Only Bianca remains.
A single, forgotten envelope lies on the table. It had been opened, inspected, and discarded by every other hand, its contents deemed worthless—a single, blank sheet of paper.
It seems a blank page was mistakenly included with the topics. A simple oversight, I'm sure...
But Bianca's fingertips drift over the envelope, finding not emptiness, but a subtle, embossed pattern of a feather. A slow, knowing smile graces her lips as she presses the paper to her heart, claiming what the others had failed to see.
I see no oversight. Only a unique and thoughtful challenge. And I believe I understand the creator's intention perfectly.
One by one, the one-act plays conclude. Playwrights in the audience respond with warm applause, already extending offers to the actors who brought their words to life.
The theater gradually empties as the excitement spills outside, where actors and creators mingle, exchanging congratulations and posing for photographs.
Amid the exodus, a single figure remains. The playwright is dressed in gray, sitting in patient solitude, waiting for the leading lady who belongs to them.
Backstage, Bianca stands in silence. Her fingertips trace the delicate feather pattern embossed on the paper in her hands. A tender smile graces her lips as she presses it close to her heart.
Finally, the curtains part once more. The spotlight blooms, illuminating the stage as the leading lady, resplendent in her costume, ascends to take her place.
Through the glare of the lights, Bianca can barely make out the face of the waiting figure. But her gaze is drawn to the gray feather emblem adorning their attire, and a sudden, profound familiarity strikes her.
It is an emblem that has been woven throughout all of Gray Raven's works—a subtle signature, a secret known only to the most devoted of readers.
At last we meet, Maestro Gray Raven.
Your gaze locks on the silhouette center stage, and a sense of familiarity stirs once more in your heart.
Indeed, they have not. And yet, I feel we are already acquainted.
You've woven the "Gray Raven" into more than just your signature; it is the soul of your stories, your personal emblem in the world.
Though you shun public appearances and offered no introduction today...
Forgive my forwardness, but if you wish to preserve your mystery, you might be more discreet with your "Gray Raven" symbol.
That blank page, the emblem you wear now... they have been your introduction. Was that always your intention? A test?
You break into a knowing smile.
Bianca bows her head for a long moment. When she lifts her chin, the girlish clarity is gone from her eyes, replaced by a woman's knowing, beguiling gaze.
Then allow me to return to your side, just as I was on the day we first met.
At her soft whisper, the "Duchess of Night" returns, her form weaving a tale of inescapable fate and profound solitude.
Like a sorrow borrowed from another destiny, she materializes within the silent, magnificent darkness.
She descends from the stage, drawing near you, seated in the audience. The longing in her eyes is a silent testament to the Duchess' yearning for her beloved who waits by the River Styx.
My beloved, have you waited for me here, on the shores of the Styx, through all these centuries?
The light in Bianca's eyes has completely changed from moments before. As her face draws nearer to yours, a silent, magnetic pull seems to emanate from her, making resistance feel unthinkable.
Hey, esteemed author, literary luminary, [player name]. The masses await your presence for a commemorative photograph...
Suddenly, a young man pushes the theater door open, his voice slicing through the subdued atmosphere as he leans inside.
Ahem... My statistical analysis of the ambient tension suggests my timing is... suboptimal. So, shall I execute a tactical retreat, or will you two require a few more...?
Very well, I've allowed a three-second response window. Based on your micro-expressions, the correct course of action is clearly "I'll wait outside."
Hmm, another subtle change in your micro-expression. Right eyebrow elevation of approximately 0.2 centimeters, combined with a faint nasolabial fold shift... The internal monologue now reads: "Why is this guy so phenomenally annoying?"
Sensing no verbal response from you, Wilder turns to Bianca, continuing his eager analysis.
A stellar performance, ma'am. And judging by the non-verbal synchronicity I'm observing, the probability of you two convincingly portraying "lovers" on stage is extremely high...
You clear your throat, a feeble attempt to hide your embarrassment, and rise to extend a hand toward Bianca.
She doesn't accept it. Instead, she stands with her back to the dim glow of the stage, her face an unreadable mask in the shadows.
Perhaps my form is better suited to shadows than to the sunlight that illuminates all things.
Then, leaving only those enigmatic words hanging in the air between you, her silhouette melts into the waiting darkness.
A peculiar unease settles in your chest. You sensed it then, a shadow that had clung to her from the very start. But as you draw a breath to call her back, the other playwright's voice cuts through your thoughts again.
A brilliant choice. She is, without a doubt, the optimal candidate for the female lead in your new play. A 100% match.
Deduction, my friend! Pure, logical deduction! I swear on every detective novel I've ever written. The intensity of your gaze when looking at her confirms it. She is, algorithmically speaking, your destined leading lady.
Although... I must note, a secondary observation has been forming since I entered. A rather... unsettling atmospheric pressure...
Before he can finish, a strange, metallic groan echoes from the dark dome above. Your conversation cuts off as you both instinctively look up.
(Chuckles)
Before your eyes can adjust to the gloom, a swift, heavy pressure descends, like an invisible beast lunging straight for you.
The theater seats are packed tightly, offering no escape. In that split second, the oppressive force materializes with a violent rush of air.
You shove Wilder backward with all your strength. He stumbles into the seats behind you, and you use the momentum to throw yourself sideways.
Boom—
A deafening crash rips through the theater, the concussion throbbing in your eardrums. A hail of sharp shards whips past, grazing the air where you stood.
The "culprit" behind this attack turns out to be an enormous crystal chandelier, now a wreck of glittering fragments and twisted metal. Where it fell, the seats are utterly demolished.
For a frozen moment, there is only the settling dust and the ringing in your ears. Then, the theater staff burst in, their frantic footsteps halting as they take in the scene of devastation. A moment too late, and you would have been part of the wreckage.
What in the world... I-I'm terribly sorry for giving you both such a fright!
Please leave the area immediately for your own safety! We'll take care of everything else!
After leaving the theater, you wander the streets, but the memory of the falling chandelier holds you in a tight grip.
You haven't confessed the true reason for your unease: in the split second before the crash, you heard something—a whisper of ghostly laughter, faint and cold, threading through the darkness.
After a moment of contemplation, you turn and retrace your steps to the theater.
The building now stands in hushed silence, its daytime clamor gone. The chandelier has already been repaired, hoisted back to its majestic position. The only evidence of the chaos is a few stray crystal fragments glittering like forgotten tears on the floor.
You sink into the same seat you occupied earlier, your gaze sweeping across the empty rows. It must be your imagination, and yet... you can still hear it. The echo of that phantom laughter seems to linger in the still air.
But instead of fear, a profound calm settles over you. You pull out your unfinished script, and the words begin to flow. Today's terror has become a twisted muse, giving the story you thought was finished an entirely new direction.
Your pen has barely traced its way down half the page when a whisper of footsteps sounds behind you. You don't turn, letting the scratch of your nib continue its steady rhythm as a deliberate answer.
The night is so beautiful... and yet, you are here alone.
The voice that called out to you earlier finds its way to your ears again. You watch as she descends the theater steps, her silent, deliberate figure halting just a few paces away.
Do not let your thoughts become a cage that keeps you in solitude.
There is no need to wait for a "phantom"... The one you have been waiting for is already here. Your "leading lady."
She offers no answer. Instead, a single fingertip presses gently against your lips—a silent, definitive end to your questions.
Shh. No more words. Simply surrender to the beauty of the night.
Cloaked in shadow, Bianca's face holds a confidence unseen in the daylight as a subtle smile graces her lips.
With a touch that is both tender and unyielding, she takes the unfinished script from your hands. Then, she places her own fingers in your palm.
Without a word, she leads you onto the vast, empty stage. Her hand rests on your shoulder as she draws near until the world narrows to the space between you.
That was a moment of indulgence. I prefer our time together without interruption. But now... we have the entire, quiet night.
Noticing your reluctance to join her dance, she softens her voice even more.
Why? Do you not enjoy being alone with me like this?
The empty theater is shrouded in ambiguous shadows. Bianca stands so close her breath ghosts your skin, yet her face remains a mystery, obscured by the darkness.
The memory surfaces—that strange, unexplained interruption that abruptly ended your time together earlier today.
What's wrong? Are you unaccustomed to me taking the lead?
The protagonists in your stories seize every opportunity without hesitation. I wish to be the same.
Just as I am now, taking your hand.
She moves even closer, narrowing the distance between you.
No more words. All that is left is to dance with your leading lady.
Let this "phantom" tale continue... Tonight, this story belongs to you and me alone.
