After that, no more conversations took place in the bathroom.
Finishing the bath, clad in the clothes Godric had provided, I returned to the bedroom in silence.
As before, I wasn't allowed to set foot on the floor—an excuse to prevent escape—but trivial details like that were the least of my concerns right now.
'The protagonist's role was originally his?'
What did that mean?
'There's no way Godric was supposed to be the original protagonist of this story…'
After all, the character Godric and the Sub-writer 1 were entirely different entities.
Godric was nothing more than a shell.
'He must be talking about his real identity.'
Neither a mere character nor a writer—his true self.
His Eastern manner of speaking and behaviour, his elegant gestures, the arrogance that made it seem only natural for him to sit in a seat of power ruling over all—those were the roots of his being.
An anomaly, a foreign presence, and the protagonist.
Butier called Godric a foreign substance—an external force that had ruined the stage.
Those things consumed characters, stealing their importance as their own. They discarded their original forms and lived as someone else. And even that wasn't enough for them. In the end, because the lives they stole were never truly theirs—because they were always someone else's—they writhed and struggled, desperate to claim a proper role for themselves.
And now, standing before me, was someone who claimed that the protagonist's place had originally been his.
A thunderous realization struck me.
"You… you're not actually a writer, are you?"
The moon, which had risen and set more times than I could count, cast a faint glow. Backlit against it, Godric's face was shrouded in shadow.
In the darkness, his deep red eyes darkened further, turning into bottomless pits.
"A protagonist… from another stage."
With the room so dim, I couldn't read Godric's expression. My vision dulled, but my other senses sharpened in its place.
Since a corpse does not breathe, the only sound I could hear was the faint rustling of fabric sliding over his skin.
Lost in thought, Godric tapped his fingers lightly against the bedsheet before finally speaking.
"Have you ever heard what happens to those who learn more than they should?"
"…"
"There's a famous saying in the imperial family."
His voice was calm, like someone reciting an old folktale.
"Those who see what must not be seen shall have their eyes burned."
A cold hand touched the corner of my eye.
"Those who hear what must not be heard shall have their ears cut off."
His thumb, which had grazed my eye, slid down playfully, brushing against my earlobe.
"And those who speak secrets that must not be told shall have their tongues torn out."
Fingers trailed down my cheek and pressed firmly against my lips. Before they could slip into my mouth, I hastily shoved his shoulder.
Godric withdrew without resistance.
Only then did I see his face. He raised both hands in mock surrender, a playful smile curling his lips.
"It was a joke. If this were a secret you truly weren't meant to know, I would have done a much better job keeping my mouth shut, don't you think?"
"…"
"Are you sulking?" His voice was teasing. "Ah, come on, I'm sorry, okay?"
Leaning in closer, Godric grinned and poked my cheek.
"Don't. Touch. Me."
The cold fingers of a corpse slithered across my skin, sending a damp chill down my spine. I barely managed to knock his hand away and force the words out.
Godric blinked slowly, then let out a drawn-out hum.
"Hmm. But you let that Leovald fellow do as he pleased with your body."
As if someone like you and Leo could ever be the same.
'Leo is different.'
That guy… he's not like you.
When I stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder, when our skin brushes—there's always a sense of safety. Like no matter what happens, I'll be okay as long as I'm by his side.
Even if the stage collapses, even if monsters swarm in, even if disasters come crashing down—just his warmth alone makes me feel as if I'm inside the strongest fortress in the world.
Especially at night.
When I toss and turn, only to jolt awake without realizing it.
When cold sweat seeps into my skin and leaves a lingering chill.
When the darkness before me tightens around my chest.
Every time, I lie there, enveloped by the steady rise and fall of his breath beside me, the quiet weight of his hand resting on my waist. And in those moments—
'I feel like I have someone to lean on, just like everyone else.'
My heart churned.
It felt like seasickness—my stomach roiling, something rising from deep within, lodging itself just beneath my throat, thick and unbearable.
'No.'
This isn't good.
Relying on someone, leaning on them, letting myself believe I had a place to return to—a person to go back to. That kind of delusion never ended well.
Because in the end, when that empty space returned, it would feel even lonelier than before.
"…"
Sensing Godric's gaze, I hurriedly lifted my head.
He wasn't smiling, nor was he expressionless. His face hovered somewhere in between, unreadable.
And yet—just as the thought 'he saw through me' crossed my mind—his lips curled.
"I see."
The ominous weight of his words lingered, but he made no further comment. Instead, as if the conversation had never happened, he rose from the bed with ease.
"It looks like you'll need some ointment for your wounds. I gave the attendants orders earlier, but it seems they've lost their way again. Wait here. You won't get into any trouble just because I leave you alone for a moment, will you?"
…As if I could do anything in this state.
With a clink, I deliberately rattled the shackles around my ankle. Not in jest. Just to make a point.
"Yeah, don't cause any trouble."
By the time the moon, moving like the ticking of a clock's second hand, had set and the sun had risen again to brighten the surrounding, I was already left alone in the bedroom.
'I have to get out of here.'
The thought that surfaced after being left alone was clear. I needed to find a way to escape. But was it possible?
I could endure a little pain and slip out of the shackles easily enough, but could I really cross this broken stage and make it back to the Vernis Mountains?
'How did I even end up here from the mountains in the first place?'
Clink. I dragged my feet toward the window. In the distance, beyond the ever-collapsing and reforming scenery of the stage, I could make out the shape of the mountains.
They must all be there. On the stage where the story is unfolding.
…Had they noticed my absence? I wanted to return before they started worrying, but that didn't seem likely.
I measured the distance by following the uneven, snow-covered ridges with my gaze. It would take days on foot. Even on horseback, escaping quickly wouldn't be an option.
Had I really been unconscious for that long? With day and night shifting ceaselessly, my sense of time had become warped.
I moved toward the rough-edged mirror standing in the corner of the bedroom. Beneath my weary eyes, a wound was visible. A fresh mark on my neck was neither bluish nor yellowed; instead, it was an even shade of red.
It hadn't been long since it formed. It hadn't darkened into a deep crimson, nor was it in the blotchy process of healing.
That meant it hadn't been more than half a day. In that case, Godric must have had a way. A method to travel instantly from the Vernis Mountains to this place, Kargasthol.
'Was it his power as a writer, or did he use something else?'
I didn't know yet, but I had to find out soon. It was the only way to get back.
The moment I gripped the window frame tightly, words flickered into my vision.
[Assistant Writer: Isaac, can you see this?]
"…!"
Orlie.
You really made it. At the very least, Godric hadn't lied. And more importantly, the text wasn't broken.
Maybe that shattered messenger I saw in the Vernis Mountains had been cut off because it was isolated from the world beyond the stage.
But now—was the connection stable because we were in the same space?
Maybe…
'I might be able to escape with Orlie.'
***
It was suffocating.
Raul curled in on himself as he thought.
No one was physically strangling him, but it was the same instinctive reaction as when crawling across thin ice or passing in front of an agitated beast—you held your breath without thinking.
Everything felt off.
With cautious side glances, he studied the man leading their group.
Leovald was acting strange.
Ever since Archbishop Butier—someone they seemed to encounter at least once in every place they passed—had appeared before them, the commander's demeanour had completely shifted.
Raul swallowed dryly and took a step back.
'He's lost it.'
There was an old rumour among the field soldiers.
That no one had ever seen their commander truly angry, truly sorrowful, or truly joyful.
When that inexperienced little brat rose to the position of commander, there were many who tried to challenge him and nearly paid with their lives. They argued violently, but… in reality, back then, Leovald remained calm.
For Raul, who had been one of the reckless ones to directly challenge the rookie commander, the instinctive fear still lingered deeply. However, objectively speaking, that was the truth.
Leovald didn't lose his temper.
He didn't become agitated.
He wasn't swayed by trivial matters.
Even when fighting, he only seemed briefly lifted by the excitement of battle, but if you looked closer, he was always quick to keep his balance, his focus sharp.
That was the Leovald Raul knew—the commander of the past.
The Leovald before he learned to consider others as his own, before he understood how to desire something like everyone else.
Amidst the battle, Raul occasionally heard the faint voice of Archbishop Butier addressing Leovald.
"Orlie… he'll be safe, so for now, focus on the troops…"
The sight of Leovald silently listening to the conversation felt ominous. After the archbishop's explanation, Leovald responded succinctly.
"Archbishop, did you already know?"
"…"
"You knew what was going to happen to Isaac."
Leovald's voice was as calm as usual, but beneath it, something ominous lingered.
Raul had never witnessed his superior's passion in any form, but he knew that when the most critical moments came, Leovald was calmer than anyone.
'Is this really calm?'
But just because someone appeared serene didn't mean their inner thoughts matched the surface.
Raul felt a sudden headache at the mention of the familiar name, Isaac. He realized how foolish he had been not to have noticed the reason for the commander's strange behaviour earlier.
After all, there could only have been one reason.
Archbishop Butier fell silent for a moment before responding slowly.
"We've been planning this for a long time. And everyone is fulfilling their roles in the positions they've been assigned. Isaac is no different."
The archbishop's tone was no longer formal and detached, but sincere and desperate.
"Can you do the same?"
Leovald silently looked down at the archbishop.