The light from the cracked throne spread slowly — not like fire or water, but like understanding. It filled the room not with heat, but with decision. Time stuttered, tripped, and bent backward.
Elías didn't step forward.
He was pulled.
---
His body hung in the center of the Tower's top floor, surrounded by floating fragments of unwritten realities. Words rotated like moons around him. Possibilities collapsed into verbs. Every breath he took became a sentence in a language no one had ever spoken — but somehow, always known.
Below, Remembra held its breath.
Above, the sky of forgetting wept.
And before Elías, a doorway opened.
No frame. No hinges. Just absence — shaped into invitation.
---
Tirian called his name.
But the sound folded, eaten by the silence that ruled this place.
Still, Elías heard him.
Still, he turned.
And for the first time in many chapters, he hesitated.
---
"What if I forget myself?" Elías asked.
The woman with bleeding eyes stood at the base of the tower.
"You won't forget. You'll remember differently."
---
Elías entered the door.
Not walked.
Became.
And the world inverted.
---
Now—
He stood on an ocean of letters.
Each wave was a phrase never finished.
Each ripple, a memory revised.
The stars above were not stars — they were drafts of suns, bright with potential, fragile as ink in rain.
And there, at the heart of the ocean:
A mirror.
---
But not of glass.
Of self.
It showed not what Elías looked like.
But what he meant.
A boy with a scythe too large for his soul.
A scream hidden behind soft eyes.
A thousand futures curled inside a spine that still trembled at night.
---
And something else.
Beneath all of that.
A shadow.
It smiled.
---
"Do you know me?" it asked.
Elías didn't answer.
Because he did.
It was not another being.
Not even a reflection.
It was his intention.
Made sentient by the weight of his choices.
---
"You cannot write without cost," it said.
"I don't care," Elías replied.
"Then write," it whispered.
"But know — what you write next cannot be undone."
---
The mirror split.
From within, a quill emerged — different than the Feather.
This one was silver, burning with contradiction.
Not given.
Earned.
It hummed with doubt and destiny.
---
Elías took it.
And the ocean began to burn.
Words caught fire.
Meaning screamed.
Time fell apart and reassembled as meaningless moments, stitched only by hope.
He wrote his name into the sky — not for pride.
But for defiance.
---
And then, he was falling.
Or maybe rising, again.
---
He landed in the center of a field.
Quiet.
Still.
Flowers that remembered pain bloomed at his feet — petals made of parchment, stems that wept.
Tirian stood beside him.
But his eyes were changed.
He remembered too much now.
---
"What did you do?" Tirian asked.
Elías didn't answer.
He looked to the horizon.
And saw them.
Others.
Figures walking toward them.
Some human.
Some broken.
Some wearing old versions of Elías's own face.
---
The woman with bleeding eyes appeared once more.
She no longer bled.
But her gaze held storm.
"They heard the word," she said.
"They're coming now. All of them."
"Who?" Tirian asked.
She smiled without kindness.
"Everyone who ever wanted to rewrite."
---
They stood at the edge of a war not yet named.
A battlefield built from belief.
And Elías held the first weapon:
A word.
---
He breathed in.
And spoke:
"Come."
The wind obeyed.
The field bowed.
And the sky unfolded like a book on its last chapter.
---
Question for the reader:If every word you spoke became real — what would be the first sentence you'd dare to say out loud?