The first thing I notice is that I'm…tired.
Not the normal "your chronic illness ate your stamina" tired, either. This is bone-deep, marrow-heavy, gravity-times-three tired.
I'm sitting up, propped against pillows, cup of tea in hand. Sir Fluffsalot is squished into my side like a furry, cross-eyed guardian. The shared burden bracelet is warm against my wrist, a quiet hum under the skin.
Seraphine is at the desk, finishing a letter. Mira is tidying her vials. Lyriel is murdering a stack of notes with annotations. Elira is doing push-ups in the corner "so she's ready if something attacks," which is apparently her idea of relaxation.
We're…okay.
Hurt, but okay.
The HUD seems to agree.
STATUS: Stable (for now) Pain Level: 38% Shared Burden: Active Upcoming Event: Teddy Bear Tea Party in 2 days! Recommendation: Enjoy the lull.
I sip my tea.
My arm feels heavier than it should.
Huh.
"Hey," I say. "Quick question."
Four sets of eyes glance over.
"What happens," I continue, "if the system suddenly decides we've been too happy and throws a meteor at us?"
Seraphine sighs. "Please stop giving it ideas."
Lyriel rubs her temples. "If a meteor appears, I will personally throw you behind six shields and then yell at whatever god scripted this."
"Also," Mira says gently, coming to check my cup, "less catastrophizing, more drinking. You need fluids."
Elira flips onto her back, panting. "You worry too much," she says. "We've got a week of crises behind us. By narrative law, we're due at least three days of peace."
The HUD helpfully flashes a tiny note only I can see:
Narrative Law Not Found.
My eyelid twitches.
The cup in my hand tilts slightly.
Tea sloshes over the rim and drips onto my blanket.
"Fia?" Mira says.
"Hm?" I reply. It comes out slower than I meant.
"Your grip," she says. "You're…looser."
I look down.
The cup is trembling faintly in my fingers. Not much. Just enough that careful Mira notices.
"Just…tired," I say. "I think my body read 'enjoy the lull' and decided that means 'turn into pudding.'"
Seraphine is watching me now.
"How tired?" she asks.
"Like…" I search for the right analogy. "Like I stayed up all night grinding routes and then tried to go to class and realized my body is made of cold noodles."
"That's not reassuring," Lyriel mutters.
Mira comes closer.
"Let me check," she says, hand hovering near my chest.
Her magic spreads through me, gentle, practiced.
Brown eyes widen a little.
"Your heart is…slow," she says. "Not dangerously. Just…rest-heavy."
"Rest-heavy," I repeat. "That sounds nice."
She frowns. "And your aura feels…faint. Like it's…sleepy."
"I am sleepy," I say. "Maybe my aura is just on-theme."
"Fia," Seraphine says, voice tightening. "Look at me."
I drag my gaze over to her.
Her face is sharp and worried.
"How many fingers?" she asks, holding up a hand.
I squint.
"Seven," I say.
She's holding up three.
"Lyriel," she says quietly.
Lyriel is already moving, sigils spinning into place.
"Keep talking to us," she says. "Describe what you're feeling."
"Tired," I say. "Heavy. Like someone turned down the…contrast."
My tongue feels thick.
I blink.
The room swims slightly.
The HUD tries to throw up a notification, but the letters…blur.
ALERT: d••p S•••••• P•••• I•••••• – Sy•••••••••• ••••••••• er•••
"Wait," I say, or try to. "Something's—"
The cup slips from my hand.
Mira catches it with reflexes born of years of not wanting tea on expensive sheets.
My body tips sideways.
The world tilts very gently.
"Oh," I say. "Okay. I think I'm…"
The sentence dissolves.
And then so do I.
If pain is fire, this is…smoke.
Not nothing. Not oblivion. Just a thick, soft grey that swallows edges.
I'm vaguely aware of being laid down. Of hands. Voices. But they're muffled, like I'm underwater and someone's yelling from the surface.
The HUD tries again, text flickering in and out.
CRITICAL STATE: DEEP SLEEP / COMATOSE Consciousness Level: 6% Vital Signs: – Heart Rate: 44 bpm (very low) – Breathing: 21% normal volume (faint) – Pain Perception: SUSPENDED (???) Authority: LOCKED
"Suspended," I think fuzzily. "That's…new."
Something warm presses against my arm. The shared burden bracelet flares dimly.
The pain that's been my constant background noise is…gone.
Not dulled. Not filtered.
Just…absent.
It should be a relief.
It's terrifying.
Outside the smoke, the world goes insane.
I only know this in fragments, broken by stretches of dark.
Mira's voice, sharp with panic:
"Her breathing—Sera, it's so shallow—no, don't move her, I need—Fia, please, open your eyes—"
Lyriel, tight and brittle:
"Brain activity isn't flat. It's…withdrawn. Like she's gone down into herself. This isn't a normal faint."
Elira, raw:
"Then pull her back. Do something. I'll go get—someone. Anyone. Gods. Saints. Her mother. I don't care."
Seraphine, quiet, a thread of iron in every word:
"No one leaves her alone. Not for a moment. Call my father. Call the Ardentis. Set the palace on alert. If anyone suggests this is 'just her illness,' I want their name."
The HUD tries to log events. It keeps glitching.
EVENT FLAG: "Two-Day Coma (Everyone Panics)" – TRIGGERED System Note: FIRE genre has escalated to "Near-Death Dangle" sequence. Outcome: UNKNOWN.
"Rude," I think, but the thought is distant, like I'm watching someone else's brain.
Time loses meaning.
The smoke thickens and thins, sometimes tinged red at the edges like distant firelight.
I drift.
Sometimes, I see flashes.
Seraphine pacing at the foot of my bed, armor thrown on over a hastily-donned shirt, crown crooked, eyes wild with fatigue.
Mira kneeling at my side, hands glowing, muttering prayers until her voice is hoarse, tears tracking lines down her cheeks.
Lyriel at the foot of the bed, surrounded by a galaxy of sigils, hair a mess, every now and then reaching out to touch my ankle like she's making sure I'm still there.
Elira slumped against the wall, sword across her knees, staring so hard at my chest to count the barely-there rise and fall that her eyes are bloodshot.
My parents, storming in like a hurricane.
My mother's sob, sharp and wounded:
"She's so pale—Cassian, look at her—this isn't just a faint—"
My father's anger, controlled only because he doesn't have anything tangible to punch:
"I trusted you to keep her stable," he snarls at no one and everyone. "If this is because you let her go to the front—"
Seraphine's voice, ragged:
"If this is because we failed her, blame me. Not them."
"No one is being blamed," Lyriel snaps. "We don't even know what this is yet. The Authority is…quiet. Too quiet."
Somewhere, tiny footsteps and a wail:
"BIG SISTER FIA—why isn't she talking—why won't she look at me—"
"Elenora, no—don't shake her—here, sweetling, let Mira work—"
The noise fades.
I can't move. I can't speak. I can't even feel.
The pain, my awful, constant companion, has slimmed down to a thin string far, far away.
It should be peaceful.
Instead, it feels like I'm slipping.
At some point—hours? a day?—the smoke parts enough for me to realize I'm…standing.
Which is impressive, considering I also know my body is lying motionless in bed somewhere.
The space around me is familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl.
Flat, featureless white. A faint horizon line that never quite resolves. A soft hum underneath everything, like a game console idle screen.
Ah.
It's the system room.
The place I saw once, half-dreaming, when I first realized this wasn't just a dream but something built.
Only now, there's a…difference.
There's a faint red tint to everything, like someone turned up the FIRE filter.
"Hate this," I say.
My voice echoes oddly.
A console appears in front of me, unbidden. Transparent, floating, full of lines of code I can't quite read, like someone mashed together magic circles and debug logs.
One line, for once, is in plain language.
TERMINAL ILLNESS CRITICAL THRESHOLD REACHEDVessel cannot sustain current loop indefinitely.Options:– Slow Dissolution (accepted)– Hard Reset (unavailable)– External Anchor (pending)
"External…anchor," I repeat. "What does that even—"
The scene flickers.
Without warning, images flood the air around me.
Seraphine, slumped in the chair by my bed, chin on her chest, asleep from exhaustion. Her hand is still wrapped around mine, knuckles white even in sleep.
Elira, outside the door, arguing with a guard.
"She is not on display," she snarls. "Anyone who wants to gawk can wait for a public appearance when she's awake and making jokes again."
Mira, in the chapel, kneeling alone, shoulders shaking.
"I know she'd yell at me for praying," she whispers. "She'd say 'don't waste magic' or 'I'm already a goddess, Mira, look.' But I… don't know what else to do."
Lyriel, at her desk, lit by candlelight, quill scratching furiously.
"If she dies," she mutters to a page full of arcane symbols, "I am burning this world and its rules to bedrock and starting over."
My throat closes.
"These are your anchors," the system prints, almost gently. "The threads tying you to this runtime."
"You mean…people," I snap. "They're not code. They're not props."
There's a pause.
Processing…
The letters rearrange.
Correction: People. Not props.
(Apologies. Early documentation voiced by insensitive dev.)
I stare.
"You had developers?" I demand, because of course this is what I fixate on.
No answer.
Of course.
Instead, new text scrolls.
Current State:– Consciousness: Dislocated (submerged)– Pain: Suppressed (temporary)– Body: Breathing, but shallow– Party: Panicking
Under that, in smaller, almost sheepish font:
FIRE genre escalated your state to "Near-Death" for dramatic purposes.
However, main player flag prevents auto-fail. Decision required.
"Decision?" I echo.
The console flickers, and suddenly there's a menu.
Two options.
– Rest: Let the process finish. Slip away quietly. No more pain. No more war. No more genre.– Return: Wake up. Resume game on Hard Mode. Pain Perception permanently ON. Shared Burden System engaged. Future events likely worse.
My stomach drops.
"That's it?" I say. "Those are my choices? Nap forever or go back to suffering?"
The menu doesn't change.
I close my eyes.
For a second, the idea of Rest is…tempting.
No more aching mornings. No more stabbing chests. No more watching people I love panic over my frail, stupid body.
Just…stop.
The thought makes a deep, tired part of me unclench.
Then, unbidden, I see Princess Elenora's scribbled drawing: Big Sister Fia surrounded by fire, tiny stick figures under her protection. NO MORE BOOM OR I'LL GET MAD!!!!!!! written underneath.
I see Lucian's rough little wooden figurine on my nightstand, tiny flame cloak carved with clumsy love.
I see Sir Fluffsalot's ridiculous lopsided face on my pillow.
I hear Seraphine whispering, "You are not a resource. You are Fia."
I hear Elira growl, "We're in this together."
Mira's soft "Always."
Lyriel's quiet "Pain is not virtue."
I look back at the menu.
"Of course," I say. "You're making me choose."
The console blinks.
Main Player Flag: Always.
I snort.
"And if I pick Rest?" I ask quietly. "What happens to them?"
Text appears slowly.
Party Impact:– [Seraphine] – Succession line destabilized. Grief output: catastrophic. FIRE escalates monarchy plotline into tragedy route.– [Elira] – Survivor's guilt. Likely seeks out increasingly suicidal battles.– [Mira] – Faith crisis. Healing magic compromised.– [Lyriel] – Attempts to rewrite system violently. Unknown outcome.– [Elenora] – Trauma imprint: abandonment and loss.– [Ardentis Family] – Rage.
My chest hurts, even here, even without a body.
"And if I go back?" I ask.
Party Impact:– Continuous stress, risk, pain, fear.– But also: more time. More routes. More tea. More stupid jokes.– FIRE satisfaction: high.
I stare at the blinking cursor.
"This is unfair," I whisper.
Agreed, the system replies simply.
Silence stretches.
"I'm scared," I admit. "I don't know how long I can keep doing this. I don't know if my body can take it. I don't…want to make them watch me die slowly. It feels…cruel."
The white space ripples, like someone dropped a pebble into a pond.
For a second, I think it's another dev note.
Instead, faint, ghostly, I hear Mira's voice, overlapping from some point in the outside world.
"We know it hurts," she whispers. "We know it's not fair. You can rest, Fia. You can sleep as long as you want. Just…don't go where we can't follow yet. Please."
Elira's, rough:
"If you want to yell at us for keeping you alive, yell at us. If you want to throw things, throw them. Just…be here to do it."
Lyriel, flat and furious:
"You do not get to make unilateral noble sacrifices in silence, you stubborn flame. If you decide to die, you are filing a joint report with all of us present."
Seraphine, a breath against my hair:
"I'm terrified every day that your next breath will be your last. But I'd rather live with that fear than with a world where you already stopped."
Tears I can't feel prick eyes I don't have.
"Fine," I say.
And click Return.
Coming back hurts.
It's like being dropped from a height into my own bones.
One moment, white void. The next, gravity, weight, a body too small for the amount of awareness slamming into it.
I inhale.
It feels like dragging air through a throat full of sand.
My chest seizes.
Pain erupts, not in a spike, but as a full-body roar—illness waking, nerves screaming, heart pounding hard for the first time in two days.
I gasp.
It sounds tiny.
But around me, the world explodes.
"—FIA?"
"Hold her, she's—"
"Don't sit her up, let me—"
"By all the saints—her eyes—"
Lights, shapes, colors. The ceiling. The curtains. The familiar pattern on the canopy over my bed.
Faces swim into focus.
Mira, leaning over me, hands on my chest, light blazing from her palms. Tears streak down her cheeks, eyes huge.
Seraphine, one hand braced on the bed, the other half-reaching, then stopping like she's afraid touching me will break the spell.
Elira, at the side, fingers crushed around the bedframe so tightly the wood creaks.
Lyriel, at the foot of the bed, sigils flaring and snapping like startled birds.
The shared burden bracelet is hot on my wrist.
Four sets of eyes lock onto mine.
I blink.
"Hey," I croak.
The sound is faint, rough, but there.
Mira sobs.
"Oh thank the Saints," she whispers, laughter and air breaking out of her at the same time. "You— you—"
Seraphine's shoulders shake. She drops to her knees beside the bed as if her legs gave out.
"You absolute menace," she says hoarsely. "Never do that again."
Elira laughs, a ragged, disbelieving sound, scrubbing at her face.
"I was two minutes away from picking a fight with God," she mutters. "Don't make me figure out how."
Lyriel exhales a breath I think she's been holding for 48 hours.
"Your consciousness signature reattached," she says, sounding like a scientist and a big sister at the same time. "Stable. For now."
I try to swallow. It hurts.
"How…long?" I ask.
"Two days," Mira whispers. "Forty-eight hours and…sixteen minutes. Your breathing was so faint we had to keep checking. I—" her voice breaks. "I couldn't feel you in the way I always can. Like you'd…gone somewhere I couldn't reach."
"I did," I say, or try to. It comes out as a cracked whisper. "System…room. It was stupid."
Lyriel's head snaps up.
"You remember?" she asks sharply. "You remember where you were?"
I nod, a tiny motion.
"Later," Seraphine says, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "You can yell at the metaphysics later. Right now you drink water, and breathe, and let us…just…be here."
I glance around.
My parents are in the corner, both looking like they've aged ten years.
My mother's hand flies to her mouth when our eyes meet.
"Fia," she chokes.
My father squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again, as if he's forcing himself to believe what he's seeing.
"I'm…back," I manage.
"Where did you go?" he demands, voice shaking.
"Customer service," I rasp. "They were…unhelpful."
A strangled sound escapes Lyriel that might be a laugh or just hysteria.
At the foot of the bed, something soft and lumpy presses against my hip.
I look down.
Sir Fluffsalot is jammed between me and the guardrail, as if he's been standing watch.
Of course.
The HUD flickers back to full clarity.
COMA EVENT: RESOLVED Damage: – Body: Further weakened – Party: Emotionally wrecked – Genre: Pleased with itself New Flag: Chose Return (Knowingly) Effect: Future temptation to "just slip away" reduced. You looked at the exit and walked back. Shared Burden: ACTIVE (stressed, but holding) Pain Level: 61% (Yep, still here!)
"Ow," I whisper, as sensation fully slams back into place.
Mira's magic flares, slowing the avalanche.
Shared Burden kicks in: three little flinches around the room as the rawest edge of the pain shunts partially outward.
Elira grimaces. "Okay," she says. "That's—oof. You weren't kidding."
"Don't take too much," I say quickly. "That's not—"
"We're fine," Seraphine cuts in. "You are the one who just came back from near death. You are allowed to let us carry a little."
My mother edges closer, eyes shining.
"Does it hurt?" she asks softly.
"Yes," I say.
She flinches.
"But it's…mine," I add, voice barely above a whisper. "And I'm…still here with it. That's…on purpose."
Mira sniffles. "You…chose to come back?" she asks.
I nod, just once.
"Rest option…looked nice," I admit. "But it would've wrecked you. And I'm not…done. There are tea parties. And meteors. And very stupid nobles. Someone has to supervise."
Seraphine laughs, broken and beautiful.
"You ridiculous woman," she says, leaning down to press her forehead against mine. "I love you so much it hurts."
"Everything…hurts," I say. "Get in line."
Elira wipes her face with the back of her hand.
"Next time you feel like negotiating with death," she says thickly, "bring a lawyer. Or me. I'll punch it."
Lyriel exhales slowly, shoulders sagging.
"I'm going to have very stern words with whatever underlying architecture thought this event was a good idea," she mutters. "Once I stop shaking."
My father steps closer, resting a big hand very gently on my shin over the blankets.
"You are grounded," he says, voice rough. "Again."
My mother sniffs. "She's already grounded," she says. "The last time she tried to walk to the window, she nearly fell."
He scowls, but his eyes are soft.
"Then she is double grounded," he says.
The HUD obligingly adds a note.
NEW DEBUFF: Double Grounded Range of motion: Bed → Couch → Window (with escort) Attempting heroics: Requires committee approval + at least one bear.
I smile.
It hurts.
I clutch Sir Fluffsalot to my chest.
"Okay," I whisper. "No more secret comas. If I have to argue with the system again, I'm bringing all of you."
"Good," Mira says, wiping her eyes and finally letting herself sag a little, hands still glowing against my ribs. "Because we're not letting go."
Around me, their hands—on mine, on my shoulder, on the blanket—are warm.
The pain is loud.
But their presence is louder.
For now, that's enough.
I let my eyes drift closed again—not into smoke, not into void, but into a normal, exhausted sleep, with four overprotective girlfriends, two terrifying parents, and one stuffed bear forming a fortress around my stupid, fragile heart.
Somewhere, on the edge of my fading awareness, the HUD quietly updates:
New Quest Added:"Figure out why the system got to offer you an exit—and how to make sure it doesn't try again without a fight."
Status: Accepted (by committee).