Lady Seraphine's eyes scanned me like a customs officer who already knew I was smuggling lies.
Her veil fluttered as she stepped closer, heels clicking against the chapel tiles like a countdown timer.
"Lord Solvane," she said, voice like silk soaked in poison. "How… miraculous."
[She's either going to kiss you or kill you. Possibly both.] Glyph whispered.
I bowed, half out of habit, half to buy time.
"Call it divine intervention," I said. "Or a very convincing coma."
Her smile didn't reach her eyes. Her hand rested casually on the dagger at her hip.
The same kind as the one I'd woken up impaled with.
[Spoiler: she knows.]
[Sub-spoiler: she's deciding if stabbing you again is tax-deductible.]
Nobles in dark robes watched from pews, whispering behind gloved fingers.
An old priest blinked in confusion, mid-eulogy.
A few merchants were checking their pocket ledgers, visibly irritated their investment opportunity had returned from the dead.
"Is this a joke?" one of them snapped.
"We paid for a burial, not a curtain call."
"Well," I said, "you'll get a performance either way."
Glyph snorted.
[Okay, that was kind of iconic. Mild slay.]
Lady Seraphine circled me.
"You were pale, cold, not breathing. I had the body examined, Audric."
"And I woke up."
I gestured to the sky. "Maybe the gods had second thoughts. Or maybe I have unfinished business."
Glyph groaned.
[That's your improv? This isn't a CW show from 2009.]
"Do you doubt me, my lady?" I asked, tilting my head just enough to hint at offense.
"I doubt everything you do," she said sweetly. "But I'd love to see your proof."
Crap.
I had no relic, no evidence, no plan B.
But I did have something Audric never had: theater training and a shapeshifting skill with a questionable safety rating.
"Glyph," I whispered. "Give me Method Actor."
[Careful. You don't know this body's tolerance. First use might glitch.]
"It's glitch or stabbed. Pick one."
[Ugh. Fine. Loading Mask Subroutine…]
[Method Actor: Partial Shift Engaged.]
Target Identity: Father Edran (High Priest)
I'd watched him long enough in the crowd to mimic the essentials—posture, voice, accent.
The energy hit me like a punch. My chest constricted. My ears rang. My skull itched.
My skin rippled. My voice dropped. My throat burned.
"Lady Seraphine," I said, my voice suddenly older, raspier, laced with holy certainty. "The gods spared this man. I saw it in a vision, clear as dawn."
The priest gasped. "My voice…?"
[Shift's unstable. You're glitching between forms. Abort soon or you'll forget which one you are.]
"He must not be buried!" I continued, ignoring Glyph, eyes on the crowd. "His purpose is unfinished!"
"But—" the priest began.
"The gods spoke. Would you question their will in their own house?"
Seraphine narrowed her eyes.
"That voice…" she whispered. "That's not yours."
[Abort. Now. You're slipping.]
I collapsed forward, coughing violently. My face buzzed, rippling back into Audric's.
[You just speed-ran an identity crisis. That's gotta be some kind of record.]
A silence settled across the chapel like a fog.
The nobles exchanged looks.
Then the priest stumbled forward. "If the gods truly spoke…" He looked shaken. "Then we must obey. He cannot be buried today."
A few merchants groaned.
Lady Seraphine's expression didn't change. But her hand finally left her dagger.
"Very well," she said. "We'll delay the rites." She smiled at me with dagger-sharp warmth. "But I'd like a word. Privately."
[Don't go with her. She's got main character murder energy.]
"Of course," I said, and followed her out anyway.
The side corridor smelled like wax and expensive betrayal.
Seraphine didn't speak until we reached a stained-glass alcove—angels and devils locked in some ancient drama overhead.
She turned, veil lifted.
Up close, she was… stunning. In a way that said she'd been beautiful before money, and weaponized it after.
"You are not Audric," she said softly.
"I—"
"Spare me the pantomime. Audric never bowed unless bribed. And he couldn't lie without twitching."
[Welp. There goes that Tony Award.]
"Who are you?" she asked. "And why are you wearing his skin?"
I hesitated. My mind scrambled. I needed a new angle, fast.
"He owed you debts," I said. "Unpaid, right?"
"A fortune." She crossed her arms. "Land, artifacts, reputation."
"Then let's say he's gone. And I'm what's left."
I met her gaze. "A clean slate. New actor, same stage."
[Bold. Insane. Possibly genius.]
"You're admitting you're not him."
"I'm something better. I know how to lie well."
She stared at me for a long, long moment.
Then… she laughed. A soft, bitter sound.
"You know what the worst part is?" she said. "You might actually be an improvement."
"Does that mean I get to not die today?"
"It means," she said, walking past me, "you get one chance."
[She's not not into you.]
"One chance to fix the damage he left behind," she said. "The debts. The forgeries. The curses."
"Curses?"
"Start with the Guild. You owe them five relics, or the real version of the last one you faked. They're not picky."
She paused. "Deliver something by week's end—or they'll gut you in public."
"Noted."
"Also," she added, already disappearing into the shadows, "you should know: one of the nobles at that funeral wasn't invited. And they were watching you… too closely."
"Who?"
She smiled. "Figure it out, impostor. Or die like the last one."
I exhaled. My knees shook. My stomach throbbed.
"Glyph?"
[Yeah?]
"How screwed are we?"
[On a scale of 1 to therapy?
We're at 'fake five relics, survive political blackmail, and dodge an uninvited assassin.'
So… vibes are not ideal.]
"What's Plan A?"
[Steal a relic. Fake three. Blame a rival. Get famous enough to be untouchable. And maybe—just maybe—seduce your widow.]
"And Plan B?"
[Die. For real this time. Again. But messier.]
I looked out the chapel window.
The sun was setting. The nobles were scattering.
And in the far courtyard, a cloaked figure stared up at the chapel doors… unmoving.
[Oh great. That's either a spy, an assassin, or your agent from another life.]
END OF CHAPTER 2