I never intended for Caelum Veritas to speak to the main cast.
He wasn't supposed to have lines. In fact, I'd written him specifically to be invisible. A quiet assistant in the background of a library scene—there to make the world feel lived in, and then gone.
So when someone knocked on the archive door with three sharp, impatient raps, I froze.
No one should've been coming here.
Not for another five days.
This wasn't the plaza. This was the forbidden archive on Sublevel 3, where only Truthweavers or Fourth Circle scholars had access. Not students. Not duelists. Not even teachers unless summoned.
Unless something had changed.
I took a breath, then walked quietly to the door and placed my hand against the sigil-etched lock.
It glowed. The glyph recognized my touch.
That was another problem. Caelum Veritas should not have access to this room. According to the manuscript, only truth-bound magi could open Archive 407. Caelum never made it past the Second Circle.
Yet the door had opened the moment I awoke.
Was the system rewriting his credentials to match my knowledge?
Was I the reason the lock gave way?
Tap. Tap.
The knocking again. Louder this time. Less polite.
I squared my shoulders, braced for a misunderstanding, and opened the door.
A boy stood there. My height, maybe a year older. Silver-blonde hair fell in neat layers across his forehead, and his cloak bore the Stormveil crest—a swirling cloud pierced by a streak of light. He carried himself with the natural arrogance of nobility and the casual indifference of someone who'd grown up expecting the world to move aside.
My pulse spiked.
Alaric Stormveil.
The story's main protagonist.
Genius combat mage. Son of the Third General of the Continental Alliance. First place in the national qualifying trials. Possessor of the hidden artifact Aethercore.
He was never supposed to be here.
"Are you the archivist?" Alaric asked, eyes scanning me with disinterest.
I swallowed. "No. Just… organizing."
Wrong answer. Caelum wouldn't be organizing anything. He was a glorified courier.
"You're Caelum, right?"
My stomach dropped. This was bad. Way too early for Alaric to even learn Caelum's name. He didn't even speak to him until chapter seven—and only then to demand a missing book.
"Yes," I said slowly. "How do you know that?"
His brow furrowed. "I overheard two professors talking. Said a Veritas opened a restricted chamber."
That explained it.
Sort of.
The system must've triggered a flag. My unscheduled presence in this room… it had already drawn attention.
I cleared my throat. "I wasn't trying to break rules. The door opened for me."
Alaric raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it.
"Do you know where I can find Volume IX of the Elementa Concord?" he asked, ignoring my excuse entirely.
Another deviation.
That volume wasn't supposed to be relevant for another three chapters. It was how Alaric unraveled the link between fire-type incantations and the truth-sigils of the Old Tongue. But that plot thread wasn't due for weeks.
Why was he asking about it now?
"I… think it's shelved in Sector 3. Bottom right," I answered cautiously.
He gave me a brief nod, walked past, and made his way toward the hovering shelf columns.
I stood still, watching him.
Alaric Stormveil—my own creation—was here, alive, and already deviating from the path I'd written for him. He was acting ahead of schedule, seeking out knowledge early, and interacting with a character he wasn't meant to acknowledge.
That meant only one thing.
The timeline was unraveling faster than I thought.
[System Notification]Narrative Entropy: 15.2%Deviation Amplified: Named Character Interaction (Tier 1)Plot Stabilizer InactiveRecommended Action: Limit future entanglements with Named Cast
Too late for that.
The real question was—why was the system trying to preserve the story I wrote? If I was inside it, shouldn't I be able to alter things freely?
Unless…
Unless the story was trying to correct itself.
I stepped back into the chamber, rubbing my temples.
This wasn't just transmigration. This was narrative conservation. A living world actively resisting deviation.
And I was a walking paradox.
Ten minutes later, Alaric returned. The book floated beside him, pages fluttering as he kept one hand lightly raised in a basic levitation charm.
"This was helpful," he said simply.
I didn't answer. I didn't trust myself to.
He paused at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Be careful," he said. "Rooms like this have memory. They tend to open only when something important is about to happen."
And then he left.
I stared after him for a long time.
Was that a warning?
Or a test?
Later that night, I sat on the ledge of my shared dormitory window, staring at the stars overhead. The sky was identical to how I described it in the prologue—the Twin Moons casting silver shadows, the trailing path of the shattered comet belt marking the northern horizon.
Beautiful.
Fictional.
And real.
I had no idea what had brought me here, or how long I could survive. But one thing was becoming terrifyingly clear:
This world didn't want to be changed.
And yet… I had already started writing a new page.