The smell of smoke preceded the applause.
Elias Verren stood beneath the theater's golden lights, one hand raised toward the rafters as if he could hold the crowd's attention there forever. His smile—painted white for the performance—felt too wide, too brittle. Beneath the paint, sweat slicked his skin. The stage curtain trembled with the draft coming through the old building's broken vents.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, voice trembling only slightly, "for my final act—something to make you forget every trick you've ever seen!"
A few laughed. Others waited.
Elias felt the flicker of heat before he saw the flame—someone knocked over a lamp near the curtains. The edge of the fabric caught fire, the flame crawling like a red serpent up the wall. For a heartbeat, the crowd didn't notice. Neither did Elias. He only knew that the world suddenly smelled of burning oil.
Then came the scream.
The next seconds played out like an old reel: blurred, silent, unstoppable. The audience surged toward the doors. Someone pushed past the stage, knocking Elias from his mark. He tried to reach the trapdoor—his disappearing trick's platform—but the floorboards groaned, and the ceiling above cracked.
Light. Heat. A roar like laughter.
And then—nothing.
He woke to rain.
It fell softly on the stone, slow and steady as a metronome. Elias opened his eyes to a sky the color of bruised iron. Gas lamps flickered in the mist, their light stretched and warped like smudged halos. He lay on the cobblestones, slick with water and something darker.
A narrow, half-forgotten street, hemmed in by tall, crooked buildings. A sign above him read:
"Welcome to Eidengraff. Mind the fog."
His throat burned. He coughed once, maybe twice. "Is this—" His voice was hoarse, strange. The word London died on his tongue.
The air felt wrong—too thick, too heavy.
When he tried to stand, he realized he wasn't wearing his suit anymore. Instead—velvet. Black and crimson. A coat embroidered with crescent moons and tiny bells that chimed with his movements. A jester's motley, but finer than any costume he'd owned.
And his reflection—
He turned toward a puddle. The face staring back was his, yet not entirely. The paint for his show was still there, but perfect, permanent—like porcelain fused to his skin. His eyes shimmered faintly gold, catching the lamplight like candlefire.
"What… what is this?" he asked.
A laugh answered—a soft, hollow chuckle.
From the fog stepped a figure in a mirrored mask, silver and smooth, reflecting Elias's painted face multiple times. The man wore a coat stitched with pale feathers, and his voice was music dipped in poison.
"So, you've arrived. The stage remembers its players, even when the play has changed," he said.
Elias staggered back. "W-who are you?" he asked.
"Names are performances," the man said. "Mine changes nightly, but tonight you may call me the Duke of Mirrors." He extended a gloved hand. "And you, my pale fool, have fallen most spectacularly."
Elias hesitated. "Fallen?"
"Between worlds. Between truths." The Duke's tone was almost kind. "Few survive the descent. Fewer keep their laughter."
The bells on Elias's sleeve jangled as he clenched his fists. "This is a dream."
"Every dreamer thinks that," the Duke replied. "Come now, Eidengraff does not like to be ignored. The fog listens. It eats the lost."
Something shifted in the mist behind him—shapes moving, whispering, just out of sight. Elias felt a pulse beneath his boots, as if the street itself was breathing.
Reluctantly, he took the Duke's hand. It was as cold as glass.
They walked through alleys where paper lanterns burned with colorless flames. Faces appeared at windows, vanishing when Elias met their eyes. The city was alive, humming with secrets.
"The people here..." Elias began.
"They wear masks?" the Duke asked.
"Everyone wears something," he said. "Some hide from the gods. Some from guilt. Some from themselves. You'll learn."
"And what am I...?" Elias asked.
The Duke smiled behind his mirror. "A performer between lives. A fool made real."
Elias laughed once, sharp and bitter. "That's rich. I couldn't even keep my audience awake back home."
The Duke stopped. "Then learn to make them dream."
They reached a courtyard filled with statues—jesters, dancers, and kings, all frozen mid-bow. A great clock tower loomed above, its hands moving backward. Beneath it was a door carved with theatrical masks.
"This," said the Duke, "is the court of Echoes. It feeds on memory and emotion. Perform well, and it will grant you power to reshape the city. Fail, and the fog will claim your laughter... and everything that follows."
Elias looked at the door, then at the Duke. "And if I refuse?"
"Then you wake in the fire again," the Duke said softly. "You'll burn. Forever."
The jester's bells trembled. "So, those are my choices."
"Not choices," the Duke corrected. "Roles."
Elias opened the door. Inside, a theater—grand, not ruined, alive with chandeliers gleaming like stars. An audience of masked faces sat silently, awaiting a show that hadn't begun yet.
A stage before him.
A single spotlight flicked on, spilling white light over the boards.
The Duke gestured. "Your cue, Elias Verren."
Elias stared into the light. The weight of the motley settled on his shoulders. Somewhere beneath his ribs, he felt the echo of his last breath, the moment before the fire.
He stepped forward.
And the bells began to sing.