I learned very quickly that there are worse fates than being erased from existence.
One of them is being judged by professionals.
The bridge of solid light carried us into the heart of the largest Spire, depositing us onto a vast open-air terrace carved from crystal and ambition. The architecture here wasn't just beautiful—it was aware of it. The walls subtly shifted to catch the light better. The floor hummed in a flattering key.
Before I could make a single, ill-advised comment, we were surrounded.
They descended from balconies and doorways like elegant vultures—Harpies, but not the screeching, corpse-eating kind. These wore flowing silks and carried measuring tapes, mirrors, and expressions of pure disdain.
"The beige must go," one said immediately.
"The cut is archaic," another sighed, poking my cardigan like it had personally offended her.
"And is that…" a third inhaled sharply, "…polyester?"
"That's a very strong accusation," I said. "I haven't even been formally charged yet."
Puck had already defected. He'd leapt onto a velvet chaise and was being fed jewel-encrusted salmon by a fourth Harpy, who cooed at him like he was royalty.
"I hate all of you," I told the cat.
"You're just jealous," Puck purred. "I have presence."
Valerius watched the chaos with arms folded, her expression torn between irritation and assessment. Her gaze flicked—not to my clothes, but to the faint gold pulse under my skin, the Ninth Shard humming like an unfinished sentence.
"He's a Conceptual Sponge," she said finally. "His attire must reflect adaptability, intent, and aesthetic authority."
The Harpies froze.
Then they smiled.
I did not like that smile.
They moved as one.
Fabric touched my skin, and the world lurched.
It wasn't just clothing. It was context.
The silver tunic slid over me like a second thought—cool, responsive, alive. As it settled, I felt something click inside my skull, like a new tab opening in my mind.
The boots followed—obsidian black, impossibly light. When my foot touched the ground, the terrace subtly adjusted its angle, as if reality itself wanted to flatter me.
"Oh no," I muttered. "This is doing something."
My vision shimmered.
I didn't see the Spires anymore.
I saw intent.
Beauty wasn't decoration here—it was law. The most elegant thing had priority. The most confident thing existed harder than everything else.
I felt it soaking into me.
Absorbing.
Editing me.
I caught my reflection in a crystal pillar and nearly dropped to my knees.
The cardigan was gone.
In its place was a dark, flowing coat threaded with shifting patterns—subtle, sharp, dangerous. My hair had streaked silver at the temples, swept back like it belonged to someone who made decisions. My posture had changed. Not taller—decisive.
"Oh absolutely not," I whispered. "I did not consent to cheekbones."
Puck snorted. "You absorbed the Aesthetic Intent, Artie. Congratulations. You're legally hot."
Valerius didn't comment.
She just looked at me—really looked—and for half a second, the rapier in her hand dipped.
The sky screamed.
Not thunder. Not wind.
A flat, sterile absence.
The light above the Spires didn't dim—it vanished, replaced by a spreading smear of white, like an eraser dragged too hard across a painting.
"They're here," Valerius said, all humor gone. "The Janitors."
They descended silently.
Featureless figures made of static and lint, carrying long glowing staffs that hummed with the sound of deletion. Where they passed, bridges flickered. Towers blurred.
One raised its staff toward the foundation of the Spire.
"Arthur!" Valerius shouted. "The Spires are built on Beauty. If they erase the base, the whole realm will never have existed!"
"With what?" I yelled back. "A runway walk?"
"Use the Aesthetic!" Puck screeched. "Make reality too fabulous to delete!"
The Janitor fired.
The beam wasn't light.
I saw it.
A paragraph.
Jagged, overconfident, stuffed with aggressive adjectives that had no business existing on a Tuesday afternoon. Erasing. Absolute. Final.
I reached into the air.
My fingers caught on the edges of the sentence. It burned—not heat, but authority. Reality did not like being touched.
I focused.
Too loud.
Too blunt.
Zero subtlety.
With a mental red pen, I slashed through Erasing Light and scribbled Waterfowl into the margin.
Reality buckled.
The beam curdled, feathers exploding outward as six furious geese burst into existence, honking with righteous outrage.
They immediately attacked the Janitor.
"I cannot believe that worked," I breathed.
The Spire responded.
The bridge beneath my feet brightened. The crystal walls hummed louder, rallying behind me.
In this realm, beauty defended itself.
The Janitors hesitated.
A larger shape emerged from the void.
Twenty feet tall. Draped in heavy grey robes. Carrying a pillar of obsidian.
"EXCESSIVE DETAIL DETECTED," it boomed. "COMMENCING TOTAL FLATTENING."
The Overseer swung.
Nothingness rolled toward us.
I didn't run.
I walked.
Every step was a statement. Every movement soaked deeper into the law of the Spires.
I wasn't fighting anymore.
I was curating.
"You're boring," I told the Overseer, voice dripping with absolute disdain. "And in this realm, that's unforgivable."
I clapped my hands.
I didn't erase the void.
I overdesigned it.
Color exploded—impossible hues, layered intent, memories masquerading as light. The grey ash reformed into flowers made of sapphire. The Overseer began to… change.
Eyes.
Hair.
A very loud Hawaiian shirt.
"I FEEL—" it stammered. "—TACKY."
With a final pop, it burst into glitter.
Silence fell.
I stood there, breathing hard, coat rippling, confidence already beginning to fade.
"That," I said weakly, "was deeply irresponsible."
Valerius stared at me.
Not like a soldier.
Like a woman seeing something dangerous and fascinating for the first time.
"You didn't just defend us," she said quietly. "You redefined him."
Puck hopped onto my shoulder. "You rang the dinner bell, Artie."
Far above, the white void twitched.
Something had noticed.
And it was not amused.