The page burned in my hand as we emerged from the collapsing vision of the ballroom. A draft of the future—one I hadn't yet lived—now crackled with possibility in my grasp. The ink shimmered in ways it shouldn't, like a living thing, twisting faintly when I looked too long.
Alaira had said nothing since the vision faded.
Now, as the stone corridor reformed around us, she turned sharply. "That was a version of you, wasn't it?"
I nodded. "One who tried to change her line. And the story retaliated."
Alaira walked beside me, arms folded. Her expression was unreadable. "How many versions of you are there?"
I exhaled slowly. "I think… every time I make a different choice, one gets left behind."
She stopped. "You've died before."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," I whispered. "But not always in Chapter 10. Sometimes earlier. Sometimes later. But always… erased."
Alaira stepped forward. Her hand grazed mine. "Then let's make this one count."
I looked at her, startled. Her touch was brief, but grounding—real, in a world that felt increasingly fake. The moment passed. She stepped back, glancing down the corridor.
"We're close," she said. "The magic's thicker here."
I followed her gaze. Ahead, the tunnel split into three passages. Each marked by runes. Each whispering.
One passage pulsed with warmth—like a heartbeat.
Another glowed cold and silver, humming like a blade drawn from its sheath.
The last one was dark. But the air around it shimmered faintly, as if unwritten.
Alaira frowned. "Which one?"
I hesitated. "The Author wouldn't make it simple."
She tapped her chin, then looked at the page still glowing in my grip. "Use it."
I glanced down. The words shifted subtly—like they were reacting to proximity. The ink twisted toward the dark path. Not strongly. Barely a quiver. But I saw it.
"This one," I said, stepping forward.
The moment we crossed the threshold, the world changed again.
Not violently—but with a quiet, unnatural stillness.
The tunnel was no longer stone, but paper. Vast walls of parchment towered around us, blank and shifting. The ground beneath our feet rustled with every step, as if walking on forgotten drafts.
Then we saw it.
A library—but nothing like the one in the palace.
This place pulsed with raw, living narrative. Books floated mid-air, turning their own pages. Pens wrote furiously on endless scrolls. In the center, atop a throne of discarded chapters, sat a figure cloaked in black, holding a quill longer than his arm.
The Author.
He did not look up.
Alaira reached for her sword—realizing again that it was gone.
"I wouldn't," the Author said, his voice cold and smooth, like ink on ice. "You're already barely written. I could unmake you with a breath."
He turned to me.
"And you, little villainess. How many deaths has it taken for you to get here?"
My heart pounded.
"I lost count," I said. "But I remember every one."
He smiled, but his eyes remained distant. "Do you know what happens when a story refuses to obey?"
"It evolves," I replied.
"It fractures," he snapped. "A story that doesn't end becomes a virus. It infects the reader. It loses its shape."
He stood. The quill in his hand began to glow with a red-black sheen.
"You think you're rewriting your fate, Evelyne. But you are a glitch in a perfect arc. And I will edit you out."
I held up the page.
"This says otherwise."
He laughed. "That page is meaningless. You can't write a new ending without consequence."
Alaira stepped forward. "You're scared of her. That's why you let her come this far."
The Author turned to her, his eyes narrowing. "You shouldn't exist."
"And yet I do," she said.
I realized then—Alaira wasn't in the original novel. Not in any version I'd read. She was a deviation from the very beginning.
"She's not a side character," I whispered. "She's an error you made."
The Author's hand trembled slightly.
I stepped forward.
"You didn't write her, did you?"
He didn't answer.
"That's why you couldn't erase her. She's not yours."
The shadows behind him stirred. Faces flickered in the dark—unfinished characters, broken arcs, ideas discarded.
One of them looked like me.
The Author raised his quill. "You think you've won something by getting here? All you've done is guarantee your final draft ends in blood."
Alaira raised her chin. "Then write it. But you'll have to go through both of us."
I stepped beside her.
"No," I said. "He doesn't write the ending anymore. I do."
The page in my hand flared. The silver quill from before pulsed in my pocket.
The Author blinked.
"You're bluffing."
"Try me."
The world began to shake. Not violently—but as if reality was resisting.
Alaira grabbed my hand. "You don't have long."
I gritted my teeth, opened the page, and brought the quill to parchment.
And then—
I began to write.