You don't find the Citadel.
It finds you.
The invitation came not as a thread, nor a voice — but a weight.
A pressure in Kelechi's spine as if a thousand unfinished choices had gathered behind his ribs, whispering: Now is the time.
The moment he acknowledged it, the world changed.
The Grove around him dissolved — not into darkness, but closure.
He stood before a gate shaped like a closed book.
No hinges. No lock. No handle.
Yet it opened.
Not outward. Inward.
And what lay beyond was not a place, but a decision given structure.
The Citadel of Final Drafts.
Where endings went to wait.
It was vast.
Cathedral-tall bookshelves stretched endlessly, filled not with pages but with glowing sigils — each representing the true, absolute conclusion of a life thread.
Stories written once, then sealed forever.
Some glowed with triumph. Others pulsed with sorrow. Some simply… flickered, dim and forgotten.
As Kelechi stepped into the hall, his thread quivered. Not in fear — in recognition.
It knew this place.
And it did not like it.
Iloba appeared beside him in a blink of copper light.
"This place is forbidden."
"I didn't choose it," Kelechi said. "I think it chose me."
She frowned. "Why?"
A voice answered — soft, exhausted, final.
"Because he authored deviation."
They turned.
An old man sat at a desk of glass and ink. He wore a robe made from shredded outlines and a crown of redacted text. His eyes glowed not with power, but regret.
"I am the Librarian of Last Things."
Nnadozie's voice echoed as he appeared through a rift. "You exist? I thought you were a metaphor."
The Librarian smiled. "Most truths are."
He stood slowly, joints creaking like old storyboards.
"This Citadel is where the Garden stores endings it deems canonical. Before you, every Threadbearer's fate was written here once they reached Stage Six."
Kelechi swallowed. "So I'm here to see mine."
"No," the Librarian said. "You're here to decide if you'll allow one to exist."
Iloba's eyes narrowed. "Wait — you mean he gets to choose whether he ever has an ending?"
"Yes."
Nnadozie whistled. "That's… big."
"No," said the Librarian. "That's dangerous."
He turned to Kelechi.
"Without a final draft, your influence will never stabilize. Your story will ripple endlessly — inspiring, yes, but also distorting. You'll corrupt adjacent paths. Cause spirals. Invite paradox."
"Good," Kelechi said.
"Not good," the Librarian replied. "Some stories need to end, Kelechi. Some voices only sing once."
He stepped aside.
And there, glowing on a pedestal of certainty……was Kelechi Okafor's Final Draft.
Still sealed.
Still waiting.
"I haven't written that," Kelechi said.
"You haven't," the Librarian agreed. "But the Garden did — in case you refused authorship. It is the only version where you die cleanly."
Iloba stepped back, hand on her blade. "I don't like this."
"You're not meant to," the Librarian said. "You were never written to witness it."
Kelechi approached the draft.
It shimmered, showing glimpses:
— A battle beneath the Spiral Canopy— The betrayal of an Unwritten called Joro— The breaking of the Architect thread— The final words: "Let someone else write."
He stepped away, disgusted. "This isn't truth."
"No," the Librarian said gently. "But it is safe."
And then the pressure returned — not from the Garden.
From the Old Gods.
The Pre-Tale Pantheon, sensing the moment.
They invaded the Citadel like spilled ink — not in form, but in suggestion. The parchments warped. The sigils dimmed. A heavy breath of inevitability seeped through the stone.
And from it came the Crowned One again — not angry this time.
Hungry.
"You stand in the place where stories surrender."
"You could let go. Let the Garden seal you. Let us inherit the unfinished."
Kelechi turned.
"I won't let you feed on endings that were never lived."
The Crowned One's spiral grin widened.
"Then write yours. Now. Speak your own Final Draft. Let it stabilize the echo-warp. Let it bind the Unwritten. Give this age closure."
Nnadozie hissed. "It's bait. They want you to freeze the change you started."
Iloba looked at Kelechi.
"You don't have to do anything. You already broke the loop."
But the Librarian watched with a sorrowful expression.
"If you leave without choosing… the Citadel will fracture. And with it, every thread that depends on your influence."
"The Garden will call it a glitch. The Root Mind may reboot. Or worse… seal the Tree of Unfinished Stories."
Kelechi stared at his sealed draft.
So neat. So predictable.
It ached with compromise.
Then he stepped to the pedestal.
And laid his hand on the false draft.
The sigil opened.
Not into a sentence…
…but into a page.
Empty.
Kelechi exhaled.
And wrote:
"There is no Final Draft. Only the choice to keep speaking."
The Citadel shook.
The Librarian fell to his knees, laughing and weeping.
The walls split.
But instead of crumbling… they blossomed.
Each sigil unfurled — not erased, but reinterpreted.
Because endings were not deaths.
They were pauses.
Until the story chose to continue.
The Pre-Tale Gods screamed.
Because they could not feed on something that refused to be finished.
And they were banished again — not by force…
…but by revision.
As the Citadel restructured, Iloba placed her hand on Kelechi's shoulder.
"You just rewrote the concept of closure."
He smiled.
"No. I just refused to end."
Nnadozie shook his head, grinning. "You're a terrible protagonist."
"Good," Kelechi said.
"I never wanted to be one."
Far above, in the Garden's infinite canopy…
A new branch grew from the Tree of Unfinished Stories.
And on its bark, carved by a hand that had never held a pen before, were five glowing words:
"Let them write their own."