The pen pulsed in Verena's grip like it was alive, trembling with the weight of worlds, of countless rewritten chapters and buried arcs. Ink oozed from its tip, not black but a deep iridescent blue—the color of choice, of possibility. Around her, the battlefield that once obeyed the Author's design began to glitch, cracking under the pressure of free will.
The Author screeched, its voice warping. "Give it back! That is the instrument of order. You don't know what you're doing!"
Verena's expression didn't waver. "You're right," she said. "But I know what I won't do—force anyone else into your script."
She raised the pen and slashed it through the air like a blade. The Dreamgate behind them—once a mechanism of control—flickered, then twisted open into something unrecognizable. Not a portal, but a path. One that didn't dictate where it led, only offered the freedom to choose.
The Author lunged—but it didn't get far.
