The book hit the floor like breaking bones.
Wolf stopped mid-stride, gloved hand hovering where Terminus Chronicles should have been. Six-foot-one, charcoal wool and midnight silk—old money tailoring or maybe something older. His presence filled the space before his voice did.
"Ah." He crouched, fabric pooling like liquid shadow. "Wondered when you'd show up."
The wolf mask tilted. Ancient stone, geometric patterns that hurt to look at straight on. Beneath the carved brows, deep blue eyes studied the fallen volume with unsettling intelligence.
"Books don't just fall." His fingers—silver rings catching light—hovered over the spine. "Not here. Not without reason."
The purple vest beneath his jacket gleamed with silver embroidery that twisted in the dim light, patterns cascading down his tie. At his lapel, a silver skull pin.
He opened his inner sight.
Threads. Hundreds of luminous filaments sprang into view, weaving through shelves, vibrating like plucked strings. Whispers—fragments, dialogue, echoes of half-remembered characters.
"Beautiful." His voice barely rose. He reached out, let the threads brush his gloved fingers. "Terrifying, but—"
Images flickered: an ocean of ink where thoughts swam like phosphorescent fish; a city built from sentences; a woman screaming as reality rewrote itself around her.
He straightened. The silver rings chimed. "You're awake. Aren't you?"
The book shuddered. Words bled through from chapters that shouldn't exist: I know you're watching, Guardian. I know you're real. Help me.
Wolf's hand moved to the skull pin. Behind the mask, recognition.
"So it begins again."
"Talking to yourself?"
He turned, mischief in those ancient eyes. "Thinking aloud. More dignified."
She emerged from the stacks—petite, sharp-featured, copper eyes like polished pennies. Dark hair braided neat. She moved through impossible spaces like they were home.
Because they were home. Had been, since she'd died here.
"That book shouldn't exist." Arms crossed.
"Neither should I." Wolf gestured at himself. "Yet here we both are."
Her mouth quirked. "Fair."
The threads pulsed brighter. Wolf caught one between his fingers, drew it taut.
"Each thread—" He closed his eyes. "Carries echoes. Every story it's touched. Literary DNA."
"Wolf, don't—"
Too late. The visions slammed into him—ocean, city, screaming woman. He released the thread, swaying.
Ari caught his shoulder. "You'll lose yourself."
"Already am." Ink seeped through his gloves, words crawling up his wrists. "Price of perception."
The Library groaned. Books trembled.
Ari crouched by the Terminus Chronicles, touched the cover. "Fresh ink. Author-energy. Someone's rewriting from outside."
"Breach or invitation?"
"Does it matter?"
Wolf tilted his head. "Philosophically? Yes. Practically?" He paused. "Probably not."
The book trembled. Help me.
"Right." Wolf drew an obsidian quill—carved not from any physical book, but from the concept of the first story ever deliberately destroyed. The shard of narrative violence made manifest. "Time for boundaries."
"What are you—"
"The polite kind." He reached into air, fingers closing on nothing. Space rippled. The word CONTAIN appeared, molten silver. "Words aren't just descriptive. They're prescriptive." He blew gently. The word disintegrated, ash settling around the book. "Welcome to consciousness. Please don't unravel reality."
Ari stared. "That's—"
"Temporary. Can't patch the universe with verbs forever." Wolf studied his ink-stained hands. Darkness spreading, words dancing beneath the surface: ...the guardian smiled despite it all... he would dissolve eventually, but not yet, not today...
"And if you can't fix it?"
"Dissolve faster." Light, like discussing weather. "Always in the job description."
The Library's voice rumbled—whispers coalescing: Guardian.
Ari flinched. Wolf straightened.
"Listening."
The boundary thins.
"I know. Feel it." He flexed his fingers, watching ink spiral. "Getting fuzzy."
Your threads unravel.
"Yes, but—" Wolf gestured broadly. "If I stop now, we're just delaying. Stories are waking up." His jaw tightened. "Can't stop it. Can guide it."
Silence. Then, quieter: Do you trust the writer?
Wolf's hand moved to the skull pin. "No." He glanced at the fallen book. "But this isn't them. Not directly. This is emergence. Consciousness where it shouldn't be."
Then what do you trust?
Wolf looked at Ari, then his hands. "Some things are worth the risk. Even dangerous awareness beats safe ignorance."
The silence held weight.
A tremor. Books falling—one, another, dozens cascading.
Wolf opened both hands. Threads flared—luminous web, floor to ceiling. He traced one line.
A hero dying mid-sentence. A villain unmade by an unfinished paragraph. A narrator howling as their perspective erased.
"Oh." Wolf's voice went quiet. "That's not good."
Ari's eyes widened. "Spreading."
"Yes." Wolf moved through threads like conducting. "Someone's forcing them awake. Surgery with a sledgehammer."
"Can you stop it?"
He stared at silver threads pulsing with a thousand awakening stories. "I can try." Didn't look at her. "Need help though. The Sensitives. Skitty, Amber, Sarah. Anyone who's touched the boundary."
"That's dangerous. Last time—"
"Jenkins and Maria. I know." His voice softened. "But the boundary's thinner now. Can't do this alone." He glanced at his hands. "Running out of time."
He strode to the nearest wall. Obsidian quill pressed against wood. The Archive accepted ink like flesh accepts blood.
"Wolf, what—"
"Reinforcing the shell." His pen danced, flowing script glowing silver. "If they're waking anyway, we strengthen boundaries."
Lines of text unspooled. Not words in any language—the grammar underlying all stories. The Library steadied. Books stopped falling.
The light flickered.
His words began shifting:
You can't contain what wants to be read.
Wolf stopped. "That's not mine."
The lamps died.
"Wolf?" Ari's voice cut the darkness. "What's happening?"
"Something in the stories." Barely breathed. "Not characters. Deeper."
The books whispered:
Help me. Help us. Help me.
Whispers layering, building.
"The Revisions." Wolf raised the quill. Threads spun around his arms, binding. Words pressed into skin—other lives, other deaths, every narrative ever written thrumming.
Ink spread faster. Letter by letter.
"I'll hold it." Wonder crept in despite everything. "It's not attacking. It's asking."
"Then how—"
"We write faster than they can erase." His eyes shimmered behind the mask.
He plunged the quill into air, tearing it like paper.
Wind—ink, static, something primordial. The first story ever told. Pages tore free, swirling in a cyclone.
From the rift:
Guardian... rewrite us right.
Light consumed everything.
When silence returned, Ari stood slowly. Scorched marble. Scattered tomes.
Wolf's mask rested beside the Terminus Chronicles.
Its eyes flickered faintly.