“The Scion's Last Monologue”
The studio backlot stank of fake blood and desperation as I flubbed the incantation—again. “Cut!” roared Director Carmichael, his cigar stub trembling like an epileptic divining rod. My co-star Ryder smirked, adjusting his prop sword with that infuriating I-trained-at-Julliard flair. “Maybe try acting next time?” he whispered. The enchanted spotlight above us pulsed—an actual goddamn will-o'-the-wisp they'd rented from Prague. I wiped my palms on the doublet. One more take. The script's eldritch runes shimmered. The wisp screamed. Ryder's perfect hair caught fire. Carmichael dropped his cigar. “No,” I corrected, stepping over the burning diva, “method acting.”