"The quill may belong to the Author, but the ink... belongs to the readers."— Mira Quill
The lake shimmered like a mirror forgotten by time.
Veyra stood beside me, her cloak fluttering in windless air, her gaze fixed on the horizon.Mira sat on a rock nearby, flipping through the wanted page we'd found — a parchment that hadn't come from any known world.
Zane, still unconscious, murmured faint fragments of old character dialogue in his sleep.
The world was still. Too still.
"You're marked," Mira finally said. "By those who should not exist. By those who chose to become fiction... and then rewrote themselves as divine."
I took the paper.
My name was scrawled across it in bleeding gold ink.
Below it:
Crime: Illegitimate Rebirth. Unauthorized Pen Possession. Narrative Disruption.
And in bold crimson:
Status: To Be Unwritten.
"Who are they?" I asked.
Veyra answered first.
"The Council of Self-Written Gods. A collective of characters who rewrote their own destinies so well, so thoroughly, that even their Authors forgot creating them."
Mira continued.
"They ascended. Became deities inside the page. And now, they govern what stories are allowed to survive."
My fingers tightened on the page.
"Why me?"
"Because," Mira whispered, "you're the only Author to ever return within a living story. And now, with the Final Epilogue's echo... you threaten their narrative sovereignty."
Veyra turned.
"We can't stay here. Apostrophis is bleeding into the Upper Realms."
I helped Zane up, who groaned but managed to stand.
Together, we left the lake behind — stepping into a rift gate Mira had opened using her stitched robe.
On the other side, the world had changed.
📍 Location Unlocked: Lux Orbis — The Realm of Gilded Thought
Imagine a cathedral turned inside out — gold pillars rising from skies instead of floors, with upside-down trees blooming clouds. Roads were made of flattened letters. Statues floated, whispering fragments of old chapters.
And everywhere you looked, characters walked — not as people, but symbols, wearing masks of their defining trait.
We had entered a place where themes became real.
We barely took five steps before we were stopped.
A figure floated down from the sky on a glowing bookmark — long silver robes, a crown of dialogue tags orbiting his head.
He held a book scepter, made of layered genre covers.
"Arin Kael," he said, not unkindly. "You stand in violation of Canon Directive 4.2: No Reentry After Authorial Death."
I stepped forward.
"I never died. I just… never finished the book."
He studied me.
Then smiled.
"Then you are more dangerous than we feared."
The being introduced himself as:
Lord Ethrael, Chapter-Lord of Symbolic Purity, 7th Seat of the Council.
With him came his companion:
Lady Riveya, the Annotated Judge — a woman clad in notes, her eyes blank except for revision marks.
They didn't attack.
Instead, they invited us.
"The Council has requested an inquisition. Not to kill you, Arin Kael. To... interrogate the intent of your return."
Mira scowled. "They never play fair."
Ethrael bowed lightly. "Neither do Editors. And yet, here we are."
We agreed.
Because what choice did we have?
The Council existed beyond narrative law. To run was to invite deletion without appeal.And part of me wanted answers.
As we walked through Lux Orbis, Veyra whispered to me:
"Do you feel it? This world doesn't like me."
She was right.
The streets cracked where she stepped. Signs flickered when she passed. Statues turned to face her.
Because Veyra was a choice.A rejection of expected arcs.And this realm thrived on order.
We arrived at the Council Spire.
A tower made of a million overlapping books, eternally rewriting their titles. Each level was dedicated to a genre — I saw the silhouettes of gods from romance, war, horror, and tragedy above us.
Inside, the chamber was vast and circular. Twelve thrones. Only nine were occupied.
Each figure radiated impossibility.
There was:
Vael the Cliffhanger, a goddess who never finished a sentence.
Domir the First Twist, whose shadow whispered spoilers from other timelines.
Mourin the Retconned, wearing chains made of "what-if"s.
Klyra the Flame Ending, who wept fire with every truth she told.
And at the center, rising higher than all:
The Silent Seat.Reserved for the First Character Ever Abandoned.
It was empty.
Ethrael took his place.
A scroll floated to me.
"Speak your truth, Arin Kael. Why have you returned?"
I looked around.
Then raised the Binding Quill.
"I came back… because the story didn't end right. Because there were characters suffering in silence. Because something deep inside me whispered, they're still waiting."
The Council stirred.
Mourin leaned forward. "You admit guilt."
"I admit regret," I replied. "But not guilt. Because now I understand — a story never ends until its characters are free."
Klyra wiped a tear of flame. "That… is not the answer we expected."
Then—
A ripple passed through the chamber.
The Binding Quill glowed.
And above us, a hole opened in the ceiling.
Something was falling.
A body.
It hit the floor with a thud.
A girl. Barefoot. Bleeding ink from her eyes. Her mouth sewn shut with golden thread.
Around her neck, a broken tag:
"Character 000.1 — Pre-Authorial Error."
Mira gasped.
"That's… impossible."
Ethrael stepped back.
The Council stirred for the first time in centuries.
Because this girl wasn't part of any book.
She came from before books.
Before writing.
Before Authors.
And she had come here to speak.
But her mouth was sealed.
She looked at me.
Tears of ink streaked her cheeks.
And the Binding Quill in my hand began to write:
"She remembers what came before language. Before story. Before self."
Veyra's hand found mine.
"We need to find where she came from.Because wherever that is…It's rewriting us all."