Kavari slammed her shoulder into the ornate, filigreed door of Chatura’s study, the wood splintering against the strike. The room within was barren: spartan, stacked with tottering columns of unbound scripts beside a single scarred desk. Director Chatura sat behind the timber, candlelight carving sharp trenches into his cheekbones. He looked up, his gaze calm, almost expectant, as Kavari stormed across the polished floorboards. “You!” she snarled, the prop sword cold in her grip, its dull iron edge catching the taper flame. “You call this art? You call nearly murdering your actors an audition?” Chatura merely inclined his head, a gesture that only stoked Kavari’s fury. “A dramatic entrance, Kavari. Though I prefer a less… splintered approach to my study door.” “Don’t deflect!” Kavari advanced, her boots thudding. “This isn’t about the door, it’s about that wire! The fall! Devdan’s coughing blood, Laveni’s terror. You’re sacrificing us for some twisted vision!” Chatura sighed, a sound like rustling parchment. “And what precisely do you intend to do with that theatrical sword, child? Re-enact a play of your own devising?” Kavari ignored the condescension. “I intend to know what you’re doing, and then I intend to stop it. No more accidents. No more falling lights, no more haunted fabrics, no more cut wires. What *is* this place, Chatura? What is this curse you spoke of?” She took another furious step forward, her boot landing squarely on a loose floorboard. There was a sudden, sickening lurch. The floor beneath Chatura’s desk gave way with a screech of rusty hinges, not just a board, but an entire section of the floor collapsing into darkness. Kavari instinctively reached out, her hand clamping around Chatura’s wrist, pulling him down with her as the world spun into a dizzying plunge. They crashed into a heap of moldering velvet drapes and splintered shipping crates, kicking up clouds of chalky lime dust. Kavari coughed, shaking her head, the prop sword still clutched tight. When the dust settled, she found herself in a cavernous, forgotten space, choked with discarded props and the rusted armatures of stage automatons. Rusting gears jutted from vacant eye sockets, and discolored fur peeled from limbs frozen in mid-grotesque gesture. “The Prop Vault,” Chatura murmured, dusting cobwebs off his raw-silk robes. “A rather fitting stage for this particular conversation, wouldn’t you agree?” “Fitting?” Kavari scrambled to her feet, her voice hoarse. “You’re telling me you just *fell* into your own secret basement? Another accident? Another elaborate set-piece?” Across the flagstones, a towering, three-headed brass hydra jerked upright. Its glass eye sockets sparked with dull vermilion light. A low, grinding whir emanated from its dusty throat. It slowly began to unfold, revealing rusted joints and fraying wires. “See?” Kavari yelled, pointing her sword at the awakening monster. “More of your traps!” She spun back to Chatura, knuckles white on her grip. “What is this curse, Director? What is the silver nitrate heart? Why is Devdan dying? And why are you trying to kill us?” Chatura tracked the brass frame, his brow twitching upward. “Ah. It seems the monsoon damp has shorted its old relays. Inconvenient.” He then turned his serene gaze back to Kavari. “I assure you, child, I am not trying to kill you. Quite the opposite. I am attempting to save you, and perhaps, everyone else.” The center viper snout snapped forward, missing Kavari's ear by inches. She sidestepped with the agility of a seasoned stage performer, bringing her prop sword around in a wide, sweeping arc. It clanged uselessly against the creature’s metal scales. A second construct, an eight-legged metal arachnid bearing a cracked porcelain mask, clattered across the stones. “Save us from what?” Kavari demanded, ducking under the snapping bronze snout. “From your definition of ‘art’?” She spotted a theatrical costume rack nearby, its contents a jumble of outlandish garments. Her gaze caught on a garish, oversized latex fowl with weighted lead claws. She snatched it off the peg. The weighted claws whipped around with an abrupt crack against the hydra's central neck joint. The assembly screamed in shearing brass and buckled back. Chatura, watching her batter the machine with a stage prop, let out a dry cough of amusement. It started low, a rumbling in his chest, then burst into full, booming laughter that echoed through the cellar. He pressed two fingers to his temples. “Oh, Kavari,” he gasped, wiping a tear away. “You truly are a blazing star. Untamed. Unquenchable.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “The curse… it is not mine. It is a parasite. An ancient, malignant spirit that feeds on the raw, consuming jealousy of those closest to a soul of exceptional brightness. It tethers itself, growing stronger with every bitter thought, every act of betrayal.” Kavari froze, the prop dangling from her grip. Jealousy. Someone close to her. Her mind, racing through the faces she knew, found no answers that made sense. Above ground, in the quiet, empty hallway leading to Chatura’s room, Laveni stumbled. Her vision swam. The air around her turned frigid, then scorching, then frigid again. An invisible hand seemed to seize her scalp, yanking. A searing pain ripped through her, making her bite back a scream. Her hands flew to her head. When she pulled them away, strands of her raven-black hair clung to her fingers, now utterly stark white, bleached of all color. [FAILURE. PRIMARY TARGET REMAINS UNHARMED. KARMIC DEBT INCURRED. SOUL CONSUMPTION: ACCELERATED.] Laveni swayed, feeling as if her very essence was being drawn out, leaving behind a hollow shell. Below, in the subterranean vault, the metal constructs herded Kavari and Chatura against a rotting canvas flat. The three brass necks coiled backward, while the arachnid clicked across the flags. Kavari raised the weighted fowl, planting her boots wide. Chatura, for the first time, drew his shoulders tight. As the bronze coils struck forward, blinding white light blasted through the brickwork across the chamber, spitting mortar and brick dust. A massive hole appeared, showering dust and debris. Standing in the breach, braced beneath a heavy brass arc-lamp wired to a shoulder rig, stood Devdan, staring straight at her.

The Prop Dungeon