They were trapped.
Not in time.Not in space.
But in a sentence.
The world had narrowed into a single structure—white space all around, the air thick with commas, pauses, and invisible rules.
Lyra floated across from Draft Zero. Both motionless. Both poised.They were the subject and object—awaiting the verb.
Between them, the Author hovered like a punctuation god—no face, no voice, only intent.Its robe shimmered with ellipses.Its hands curled around quotation marks.
The sentence began to write itself.
Lyra raised her blade—
She moved.
—but the perfect version of her was faster—
Draft Zero struck.
Their weapons collided in a clash of golden ink and crimson clause. Sparks burst in quotation-marks. Each sound was a keystroke.
Aelira's voice echoed faintly, even though she wasn't present.
"Lyra… don't let it end with punctuation."
Lyra's heart pounded.
This was no longer about Kael, or her mother, or even the throne.
This was about authorship.
