The figure in the clown's mask looked up at him with an expression of eager anticipation, voice neutral as a still pool, as though prepared to answer absolutely anything he might ask.
That particular quality was exactly what made Raphael cautious. He didn't return the warmth.
"I don't recall signing up for any Blood Moon Game."
The clown produced a laugh with a slightly ridiculous quality to it and clapped both hands together.
"But you cleared one of the trial illusions I designed. That is the qualification. You have the right to participate, to become the final victor, to obtain a passage through the Endgame."
Endgame. The word landed with a familiar weight.
The Prophet had used it too, in that half-demolished coastal building, had said he hoped Raphael would be standing on the right side when it arrived.
He heard the invitation layered inside the clown's words. He didn't follow it.
