The stage of The Luminara Show is alive with shifting starlight, casting reflections of forgotten stories and yet-unfolded fates. The air hums with an energy that lingers on the edge of knowing, as if the universe itself holds its breath.

  Luminara moves across the space like she’s part of it, her presence effortless, a quiet gravity drawing every eye toward her. The crowd is restless, not impatient, just eager. Hungry for answers, or at least the illusion of them. She lets the moment stretch.

  "Here we are again," she says, her voice a thread of silk through the charged air. "One spread closer to understanding. One card deeper into the river of fate."

  The celestial tapestry behind her stirs, shifting with the memories of past revelations. Fatidicus, the whisper of fate inescapable. Judgment, the weight of choices that cannot be undone. Invictus, the unyielding force of those who refuse to fall. And now, the newest scar upon the weave.

  "Ereshka," she breathes the name, and the lights seem to dim, shadows stretching just a little longer than they should. "The card of endings that are not endings. The threshold that only moves one way. Fire that consumes but does not destroy instead it transforms. It does not ask for permission. It does not wait for acceptance."

  She lets the weight of the name settle, then gestures. The tapestry shifts, revealing the great, labyrinthine skyline of The City of Ereshka, a place of towering spires and ruins locked in an eternal struggle between decay and rebirth. Streets paved with the bones of forgotten civilizations, alleys burning with ghostlight. A city that is a living thing, its heart still beating beneath layers of ash and memory.

  "The spread was clear," she continues. "The city is both a place and an entity. Not exactly the goddess, but not exactly not the goddess. A paradox, much like those who walk its streets. Some call it a graveyard of those who were, others a proving ground for those who will be. But what do you see, Ventrix?"

  A scoff cuts through the quiet, just on the edge of the stage. Reality bends—not with grandeur, not with spectacle, but with the subtle shift of something that had already been there, unseen. Ventrix steps forward, arms crossed, his expression the kind of smirk that says he isn’t buying what she’s selling.

  "Ah, here we go again," he says, settling into his usual irreverence. "The grand monologues. The cryptic metaphors. You know, Luminara, not everything is an unfathomable cosmic truth. Sometimes a door is just a door. Sometimes a city is just a city."

  She tilts her head, her expression unbothered. "And yet, here you are, stepping through one. When was the last time you crossed a threshold without looking back, Ventrix?"

  He exhales sharply, moving toward the chair that appears behind him as if conjured by his own inevitability. He drops into it like he’s been here before, like he’ll be here again. "Please. You know me. I don’t look back. I just make sure no one's standing behind me with a knife."

  Luminara laughs, settling into her own seat across from him, the glow of the set catching in her eyes. "Caution masquerading as wisdom. Classic."

  He shrugs, as if to say, What else is new? "Call it what you want, but Ereshka doesn’t give second chances, does it?" He leans forward, elbows on his knees, expression shifting—more intent, more real. "You step through, and that’s it. Burn or be reborn. But what if you don’t get to choose? What if someone else is holding the match?"

  The weight of his words settles over the room, thick and tangible. The audience doesn’t move. They barely breathe.

  Luminara considers him, her expression unreadable. "An interesting thought. But tell me, Ventrix, if that’s the case… then why are you still here?"

  It’s small, almost imperceptible, but there it is, a hesitation, a flicker of something that doesn’t fit the shape of his usual certainty.

  Then, just as quickly, he smirks again. "Guess I just like the company."

  She mirrors his smile, tilting her head. "Or maybe, just maybe… you’re still deciding whether or not to burn."

  She shifts her gaze toward the second, empty chair. The air bends, something stirring at the edges of existence. "And we’re not done yet. We have another guest—someone who has felt the pull of Ereshka, who has walked its streets and come out... changed."

  A breath, a pause, the silence before the next revelation.

  "Let’s begin."

  Luminara exhales, leaning back slightly, the weight of the moment pressing down like the hush before a storm. Then, her lips twitch, amusement glinting behind her eyes.

  If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  "But before we dive deeper into the abyss of revelation, a word from our generous patrons. After all, even prophecy has bills to pay. And speaking of suffering…"

  The screen flickers. Static crawls across the feed before resolving into a dimly lit room. A lone figure sits hunched at a desk, their face illuminated only by the cold glow of a monitor. Stacks of energy drink cans teeter on the edge of collapse. The coffee pot abandoned long ago, has congealed into something that could qualify for sentience. Scribbled notes litter the floor, some simply reading delete everything in frantic, looping ink.

  A voiceover cuts through, smooth but devoid of hope.

  "Have you or someone you love fallen into the LitRPG Pit of Despair?? Do you wake up sweating over stat recalculations? Has your sense of self-worth become entirely dependent on Royal Road algorithmic validation? Have you spent so long building a magic system that you forgot to write a plot? If so, you may be entitled to compensation. Unfortunately, that compensation is exposure, and no, not the paying kind."

  The camera zooms in on the writer's face, hollow-eyed, twitching. They whisper: "Why did I make a crafting system this detailed? Why did I do this to myself?"

  "But don’t worry! At Write, Die, Repeat, we specialize in dragging LitRPG authors back from the brink. Our team of trained professionals will remind you that, yes, your readers will drop the series no matter how much you research medieval blacksmithing. For a limited time, we’re offering the Sanity Preservation Package, including one (1) forced hiatus, a VPN to stop you from checking your own comments, and a hand-delivered slap from an editor who doesn’t care about your worldbuilding. Act now, before your protagonist reaches the 'becomes a god' stage and your story implodes under its own weight. Terms and conditions apply. Not valid if you introduce a system shop after chapter three."

  The screen cuts back to Luminara, who steeples her fingers, watching the audience’s reaction with something between curiosity and quiet judgment.

  "And with that, we return to the illusion of free will. Now, where were we?"

  The screen flickers as the advertisement fades into the ether, and Luminara leans forward, hands folded, amusement still lingering at the edge of her lips.

  "Ah, the plight of the storyteller," she muses, exhaling like the weight of every unwritten chapter and every half-finished system lingers in the air between them. "But suffering is the currency of creation, is it not? And speaking of costs..."

  She turns slightly, gaze sliding toward Ventrix, who has made himself entirely too comfortable, one arm draped over the back of his chair, the other balancing a glass of something dark and heavy. He rolls the drink in his hand, watching the liquid move as if it might spell something out for him.

  "Why do I feel like you’re setting me up?" he mutters.

  "Because I am." She smiles, gesturing to the space between them as the celestial tapestry shifts again. "The next spread, Ventrix. If you’d be so kind."

  He exhales sharply, setting the glass aside, though his fingers linger on the rim for just a second too long. Then, with a motion too casual to be anything but deliberate, he flicks his hand, and the first card appears.

  "Spiritual Flame," he states.

  A bottle of beer, dark glass catching the low light of a bedside table. Its label flickers—a name that shifts, unreadable but burning at the edges. It sits untouched, condensation beading along its surface. In its reflection, distorted in the curve of the glass, a face lingers—white as bone, lips blackened, eyes hollow pools. Lurking. Watching. Pretending not to be there.

  Ventrix studies it, jaw tightening just slightly. "The first drink you don’t need, but take anyway. The one that’s just there, within reach. Not for thirst. Not even for the taste. Just… because."

  The second card turns.

  "Ritual."

  A geometric design sprawled across dark stone, lines of chalk sharp, measured. Above it, flames hover—soft, warm, like candlelight in an abyss. The kind of glow that makes you think you’re safe. The white face is there again, just behind the flickering light. Half-seen, half-felt, slipping between the edges of the flames.

  "The things we do to convince ourselves it still means something," Ventrix continues, voice quieter now. "Repetition. Routine. A reason wrapped in ritual. If you say it’s a choice, if you make it deliberate, it stops being a habit, right?"

  The third card falls into place.

  "Invocation."

  A hand clenched tight around something unseen. No, not unseen—unwilling. The visceral remains of something spill between fingers, pooling in the palm, staining the skin. The grip is desperate. Relentless. The white face is closest here, almost near enough to touch. Almost near enough to whisper in your ear.

  Ventrix doesn’t speak at first. Just looks at it. Then, with a sigh, he runs a hand through his hair and leans back.

  "And there it is. The moment you hold on because letting go feels like death. And maybe it is. Maybe it always was. The last act in a story that started with a single, careless reach." He taps the edge of the first card, Spiritual Flame, with a single finger. "And the thing that’s been watching? It was never lurking. You just weren’t looking at it."

  He hesitates, the air holding a question, a moment too delicate to break. And then he turns the fourth card.

  "Devotion."

  A single hand reaching toward a burning flame, palm open, offering itself willingly. The flame is bright, blinding, illuminating the grotesque beauty of the sacrifice. Tendrils of smoke coil lovingly around the fingers, caressing skin already blackening and blistering, but the hand remains steady—accepting pain without hesitation. Behind it, the white face watches now openly, the expression almost tender, eyes hollow but approving. Embracing.

  Ventrix breathes slowly, eyes narrowed in thought. "And at last, you reach willingly into the fire. You offer everything—your flesh, your life, your very soul—because comfort isn’t just a choice anymore. It's worship. It's surrender. It’s the altar you never meant to build."

  He taps softly at the last card, gaze distant. "The price isn’t just what you pay. It’s what you become."

  Silence stretches for a breath too long before Luminara speaks again, voice softer now. "The Price of Comfort."

  Ventrix nods once. "And what a price it is."

  The void swallowed them.