The world came back in fragments.
First sound—the faint hum of wind moving through grass.
Then smell—the damp earth after a storm.
Then pain—the quiet, lingering ache that told me I was still alive.
When I opened my eyes, I lay on a field of pale petals. The horizon was wrong: the sun hung too close, its light trembling as if the sky were made of water. Sera sat nearby, back against a fallen column, eyes fixed on the distance. She looked small in the vastness—more human than I had ever seen her.
I sat up slowly. "You're awake."
Her voice was hoarse. "Barely. How long has it been?"
"I don't know," I said. "The sky hasn't moved since I woke."
For a while we didn't speak. There was peace here, but it felt fragile, as if one wrong breath would shatter it.
Then the air flickered. Words—actual words—floated above the field, glowing faintly white:
Lucien turns toward her, uncertain if the silence means forgiveness.
My stomach turned cold. The words hung there for a heartbeat, then dissolved into dust.
Sera saw them too. "What was that?"
"The Author," I said. My voice barely rose above a whisper. "He's writing again."
We walked for hours toward a line of ruins that looked like the remnants of Arden Fort. Except it wasn't the same fort anymore; the stones rearranged themselves when we looked away, doors appeared where there had been walls. Reality was rewriting itself sentence by sentence.
At one point Sera touched a fallen archway, tracing a single glowing phrase carved into the stone:
She begins to doubt the world she saved.
She withdrew her hand as if burned. "He's writing us like we're still characters."
"Maybe we are." I hated the bitterness in my own voice. "Maybe this was never our story to begin with."
She looked at me then, eyes full of quiet defiance. "Then we'll steal it."
Night never came, but the light dimmed to silver. We found shelter in what used to be the commander's tower—a skeleton of stone open to the sky. The walls pulsed faintly, each heartbeat revealing another line of text.
Sera sat beside the cold hearth. "Do you remember the first day at the academy?" she asked suddenly.
"I remember your lectures about strategy," I said. "And you refusing to partner with me."
She smiled, tired but real. "You looked so sure of yourself. Like nothing could touch you."
"I was sure," I said quietly. "Because I thought none of it was real. Just a story I was trapped in."
Her gaze softened. "And now?"
"Now I'm not sure which parts of me belong to Evan—the reader—and which belong to Lucien—the villain." I looked at my hands, still faintly stained with the curse's black veins. "Maybe I'm both."
She reached out, taking my hand. "Then let both sides fight."
Before I could answer, the temperature dropped. The air darkened. The walls began to write again—this time in red:
The villain reaches for salvation, but shadows are quicker.
A sound followed—soft, deliberate footsteps echoing from the stairwell.
He appeared in the doorway like a silhouette cut from ink. The same height as me, wearing a long coat that bled words instead of fabric. His face was indistinct, shifting between features I almost recognized.
"Lucien Vale," the figure said, voice calm, measured. "Protagonists crave mercy. Villains crave purpose. You are neither."
I stood, pulling Sera behind me. "Who are you?"
"The Author." The voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of inevitability. "Or what remains of him. Every story needs a will. I am that will."
"You're controlling the world."
"I am maintaining it," the Author corrected. "Without my words, you unravel."
Sera stepped forward despite my warning hand. "Then stop writing us like puppets."
He tilted his head, almost curious. "If I stop, you cease to exist. Is that what you want?"
She flinched. I felt her grip on my sleeve tighten.
The Author smiled faintly. "I see. The reader fell in love with his creation. How poetic."
"Say another word," I said, "and I'll cut you out of your own script."
He laughed, low and genuine. "You can't kill the one holding the pen."
The air fractured. Sentences coiled like serpents, wrapping around us—lines of text turned to chains. Sera's light flared, but each spell she cast turned into words before forming—her own narration rewritten against her.
I fought forward through the blinding lines, swinging my sword. Each slash erased a phrase, but more appeared, rewriting faster than I could destroy them.
The Author watched calmly. "Every strike you make, I record. Every breath you take, I decide."
"Then write this," I snarled, summoning the curse. Black fire roared along the blade. The air screamed as shadow met sentence. The words burned, curling into ash.
For the first time, the Author stepped back.
"You shouldn't be able to do that," he murmured.
"Guess the villain learned to edit."
The Author's shape flickered, reforming farther away. "Then let's see how far you can go before the story collapses."
He raised his hand. The world convulsed. The tower cracked apart; pages of light tore through the sky. Each page bore a line of our lives, written and rewritten faster than I could read.
Sera grabbed my arm. "Lucien—we can't stay here!"
I nodded. "We find the origin. If he's the will of the story, then there's a core somewhere—a heart."
The Author's voice echoed above the storm. "Find it if you can. But remember—every page you tear out, someone you love is erased."
The ground split. Sera stumbled; I caught her, pulling her close as the floor gave way. We fell together into the light.
When the world steadied, we stood on a vast plain made of parchment. Above us, a black sun hung motionless, and under it stood the Author, distant, waiting.
Sera looked at me. "If he's right—if tearing pages means losing people—"
"I'll risk it," I said. "Because if we don't, none of us will be real anyway."
She nodded, eyes fierce again. "Then let's rewrite the world."
We took the first step toward him.