Chapter 15 – The Editor's Margin (Part 2)
Liora crouched next to the fallen Editor's robes. They were empty—no body, no trace of presence, just a faint aroma of burnt vellum.
"This wasn't the Final Editor," she whispered.
Kael nodded grimly. "Only a fragment. An appendage. Like a footnote sent to test the narrative."
The air had grown thicker. Bran muttered, "We just used story as a weapon."
Kael stared at the page, which was now entirely blank except for a single, fading glyph at the center—something neither of them could read, but all three felt.
It hummed with intention.
It wasn't over.
That night, they sheltered in a disused passage of Metaphoria—an abandoned Realm within the Realms, where old drafts went to decay. The ground was made of half-written sonnets. Cracked statues of once-heroes lined the streets, each with a plaque beneath reading: "Irrelevant."
Liora wandered through the ruined square. "I remember this place," she said softly. "My father brought me here once. Said this was where stories died when no one believed in them anymore."
She turned to Kael. "Do you believe in our story?"
Kael hesitated. Then, "I believe it's fighting to survive. Which is enough."
A sound stirred.
Footsteps—made of commas.
Bran raised his hand, eyes narrowing. "We have company."
From the darkness emerged a small figure. Hooded, limping, holding a torn notebook. A child?
No.
A Scribeling.
One of the ancient recorders of proto-tales—part oracle, part mirror. Extinct. Or supposed to be.
The Scribeling stopped before Kael and held out the notebook.
On its first page were scrawled just four words:
"The Preface Has Ended."
Then it bowed—and collapsed into a heap of letters that scattered like ash.
Kael picked up the notebook. Its cover was worn leather, bound in silver glyph-thread. Inside, the ink shimmered with unstable syntax.
"What's it mean?" Bran asked.
Kael read aloud from the next line:
"The Real Chapters begin now. And so do the erasures."
A chill ran through them.
Liora looked skyward—and saw that the stars were no longer fixed.
They were shifting.
Forming letters.
Spelling out a name none of them recognized.
Kael closed the notebook. "We need to find the Author. Before the Final Editor finds us."
And somewhere, far beyond their reach, in a place without time or narrative—a quill paused mid-air.
A hand hovered.
Watching.
Waiting.
Preparing to write them out.