The door of ink and light opened without sound.
A soft wind blew through it, carrying with it the faint scent of burned pages and something… sweeter. Lavender and parchment. Like the first time I cracked open a new notebook. A mix of fear and promise.
"Are you ready?" Veyra asked beside me.
"No," I replied honestly. "But I'll go anyway."
We stepped through.
And everything changed.
We stood in a world of floating prologues.
Yes, prologues—countless first chapters suspended midair, shimmering like stars. Each one was a beginning, paused before it ever had the chance to become a story. I reached out toward one and immediately pulled my hand back. It was alive, vibrating with unspoken tension.
And then we heard her voice.
"So many authors write, and forget. So many characters live, and are erased. I remember every one."
A figure descended from above—floating down with her feet barely touching the ground.
She was dressed in a robe made of stitched-together book covers. Her hair was long, a dark auburn fading into ink at the tips. But it was her eyes that held me—they glowed like ancient candles and shifted with the colors of old paper: yellowed, torn, bloodstained.
"I am Mira Quill," she said."The Prologue Witch. And I know what you were supposed to be."
Veyra moved protectively in front of me. "Be careful. She exists between stories. She remembers all the things you forgot."
Mira gave a crooked smile. "No need for fear. I'm not your enemy—unless you choose to rewrite what was never yours to claim."
Her gaze drifted toward me. "You've already awakened the Core Draft. That's impressive. Most Authors never make it this far. But… are you ready to meet the others?"
"Others?" I asked.
Mira twirled her finger—and a spiral of paper appeared behind her, opening like a doorway to another world.
"This story isn't only yours, Arin.There are other rewritten.Other fallen authors.Other broken drafts.And every one of them is trying to shape this world in their own image."
She raised her hand—and five silhouettes flickered into view:
A masked swordsman who fought with two blades: one that erased, and one that restored.
A blind girl with butterflies of light floating around her—said to "see" stories before they happen.
A king with no name, whose identity changes depending on who looks at him.
A trickster boy who speaks only in lies, yet every lie somehow becomes true.
A silent woman who carries a coffin—said to be the resting place of a deleted protagonist.
"These," Mira whispered, "are the Ghostwriters. Characters who became their own authors. Some want to help you. Some want to replace you. Some… want to burn everything."
The air grew heavy.
Then Mira's tone shifted—sharper, like a pen scratching too deep into paper.
"But before you face them, Arin Kael, you must face your own first lie.The first chapter you ever wrote... and buried."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
She flicked her wrist—and suddenly I was no longer standing in that world of floating prologues.
I was in a classroom.
My old high school classroom.
The windows were cracked open. The dusty fan spun lazily overhead. The chalkboard still had my handwriting on it—notes from the first and only time I presented my idea for a story in front of a class.
"A boy who wants to become someone else… so he writes himself into a hundred different people."
I remembered it now.
That was my very first draft. My first protagonist. My first lie.
His name was Elin.
Suddenly, the door opened.
And there he was.
A boy with my face… but younger, sharper, colder. His eyes were mismatched—one gold, one violet—and his smile was perfectly rehearsed.
"Elin," I whispered.
He sat on the teacher's desk and crossed his legs.
"Hey," he said, as if we were old friends. "So… you finally remembered me. I've been waiting."
"What are you doing here?"
He shrugged. "You gave me life. Then you gave me nothing. So I took what I needed from other drafts. Other fragments. Other characters." He smirked. "I made myself real."
I stepped back. "You're… just a memory. A failed idea."
His smile widened. "Then why do I know your memories? Why can I see what you're afraid to write?"
The lights in the room flickered.
And for a moment—I saw it.
A second Arin, standing behind Elin, bound in chains, eyes shut. A sealed part of myself?
"If you want to keep rewriting this world," Elin whispered, "you'll have to free the part of you you've spent years trying to erase."
I clenched the Binding Quill in my hand.
Because I finally understood what made this world unlike any other.
This wasn't just a fantasy.
This was a war between every version of myself I abandoned… and the ones who had learned to live without me.