A puppeter

The sky cracked.
It wasn’t thunder. It wasn’t magic.
It was something else—
—intent.
Three territories trembled, and from each one, their lords rose.
Lover from Hell stood still for a moment longer than usual.
His hand hovered over the grave—the one that once anchored Beauty from the East.
The spear hummed behind him.
The flames of his wing curled in anticipation.
He tilted his helmet to the night sky. The stars above seemed to flee his gaze.
“The puppeteer reveals herself… and thinks we won't pull back.”
His voice was low, poetic.
Then he turned.
Walked.
Not rushed. Not in fury.
But with a soldier’s calm—
The calm before extinction.
Beauty from the East stared into her broken mirror.
The illusions around her began to shift.
The flowers twisted. The air thickened.
She snapped her fingers, and her gloves vanished—no more distractions.
Her bare hands curled into fists, magic dripping like perfume from her fingertips.
“She thinks she’s beautiful behind the strings… Let’s peel the skin off the stage and see what remains.”
With a swirl of red and blue light, she vanished—heading east of east, toward the cold hills where the strings hummed.
Jack of No Trade stood atop his puppet stage, scythe lazily thrown over his shoulder.
The remaining fake Jacks stared up at him, dead-eyed, grinning.
He sighed.
“I’d feel insulted if I didn’t find it all so cheaply amusing.”
He bowed to no audience.
No lights.
No script.
But the way he spun, twirled, and vanished mid-air—it was art.
He left behind a card.
Scrawled on it:
“I know who’s holding the strings. Let’s cut her fingers. – J”
Across the world, in the forgotten ruins of a kingdom that never existed, the strings vibrated.
A tower stood there—built of bones and sorrow.
And at its peak, she sat:
A figure, neither dead nor living. Her body a shell. Her hands full of invisible threads. Her smile stretched wide—but without joy.
Her head twitched.
Eyes blank.
“They’re coming.”
From the walls, thousands of puppets began to twitch and jerk.
The show wasn’t over.
But the monsters were no longer passive.
They were the audience no one wanted.
And they were walking toward the stage.