The fracture widened until it spanned the entire sky. Light poured downward in sheets, blinding, brilliant, absolute. The void floor trembled under the weight of it. Clara clutched her head, her body torn between flame and script, wings spasming as if trying to shield her from the gaze above.
"It's coming," Evelyn whispered, her grin stretching impossibly wide. "Ohhh, the quill finally leaves its throne." She spun in a frenzy, arms flung wide. "This is history, children—an author leaving the desk to slap its characters directly."
The air bent under pressure. Words not written, but raw, primordial, flooded the void, pressing into every corner, curling into Clara's lungs, clawing at her mind. It wasn't language she could read—it was the weight of being written. A reminder that she had never been her own.
She screamed as invisible quills carved across her skin, not drawing wounds but rewriting her essence. Her parchment side convulsed as entire passages of her Codex form unraveled, letters leaking into the air before burning away. Her human side shuddered as memories flickered in and out of existence—her first laugh with Damien erased, then restored, then erased again.
The Author was rewriting her in real time.
"Stop—please stop!" Clara gasped, clutching her chest as fire bled from her veins. "I can't—"
Yurin stood before her, crimson aura flaring into a barrier that strained against the pressure. The radiance above cut against him like blades of light, but he did not flinch. His voice was calm, sharper than steel.
"You dare descend? To correct me?" His lips curled into something between a smile and a snarl. "You must be desperate."
The Author's voice fell like thunder across the void, a decree carved into existence:
"SHE IS NOT YOURS."
The words struck like physical force, slamming into Clara's body, tearing her wings backward. Her Codex side wailed, script unraveling into ash. Her flame sputtered, nearly extinguished. She fell to the ground, twitching, eyes rolling back.
Yurin caught her before she collapsed fully, his aura wrapping her like threads of crimson silk. His expression did not waver. "You erase her, and you erase yourself. Because she is proof that you are not infallible. You left cracks. And I found them."
The fracture blazed wider, as if the Author itself raged at the accusation. Entire swathes of the void floor disintegrated into blank nothing, collapsing into white absence. Evelyn danced on the crumbling edges, shrieking with joy. "Oh, Yurin, you're baiting it! Delicious blasphemy! Blame the author for sloppy writing—it hates that!"
Yurin ignored her, his focus unwavering. He pressed his palm to Clara's chest, crimson threads pouring into her, lacing fire and ink together once more. Her breath hitched, her body convulsed—but her wings ignited again, half quill, half ember, burning in defiance of the Author's decree.
Above them, the light flared brighter still. And then the quill descended.
It was not metaphorical. Out of the fracture, a colossal quill of pure radiance plunged downward, its tip sharp as judgment, its shaft as vast as a tower. It moved with no hesitation, a single stroke meant to pierce Yurin and Clara both, to write an ending.
Clara's human side froze in terror, her body locking under the Author's command. But her Codex side screamed a single word, flaring with fire-script.
> Refuse.
The word erupted from her wings like a blade, intercepting the descending quill. The clash sent a shockwave ripping through the void. Fire-ink sprayed in every direction, colliding with the Author's pure decree. Clara was thrown backward, her skin blistering, her parchment side tearing open like a page ripped from a book.
Yurin caught her again, anchoring her with crimson threads. His voice was steady, but beneath it throbbed the pulse of his defiance.
"Beautiful," he whispered. "Even against the hand that wrote you, you refuse. That is why you are mine."
The Author's quill pressed harder, splitting the ground, carving lines of blankness that consumed everything they touched. Clara's wings burned brighter, screaming words into existence, each one fighting to hold the stroke at bay. Erase. Refuse. Burn. Rewrite.
Every syllable tore her apart. Her body couldn't withstand it. Her veins ruptured with flame, her parchment side shredded with ink. Yet she stood, teeth clenched, her dual voice raw with agony.
"I won't… vanish again!"
The Author's voice thundered, shaking the void:
"YOU ARE NOT YOUR OWN."
And Yurin stepped into the clash, crimson aura flaring like a second sun. His hand rested on Clara's back, his voice low but unyielding.
"No. She is mine. And through her—I will unwrite you."
The crimson threads surged, fusing into Clara's wings, amplifying her paradox. Fire and scripture fused into something new, something even the Author hesitated to define. Together, Clara and Yurin forced the quill to halt mid-stroke.
The void screamed. Evelyn laughed until she cried black tears.
The Author had descended. And it had not won.