The void lay in eerie stillness. No divine quills, no burning decrees, no rifts tearing across the horizon. Yet Clara felt less safe now than when the Author had been present. Silence, after all, was not peace—it was the inhale before the scream.
She sat apart from Yurin, her wings folded tightly, as if hiding them would keep the foreign words etched into her flesh from spilling free. Evelyn sat beside her, legs swinging idly over the fractured ledge. The trickster's grin was softer this time, though no less unsettling.
"You're trembling," Evelyn murmured.
"I'm fine." Clara lied.
Evelyn raised a brow, her voice dripping with mocking sympathy. "Darling, you're shaking like a Wi-Fi signal in the mountains. Don't insult me."
Clara hugged her knees, her Codex eye glowing faintly in the shadows. "I shouldn't even be here. I shouldn't exist like this."
"And yet," Evelyn said, leaning in close, "you're the only one who can exist like this. Don't you see? You're already a paradox. That makes you dangerous, even to him."
Clara stiffened. "To who?"
Evelyn tilted her head toward Yurin, who sat several paces away, unmoving. His crimson aura swirled like a storm in a bottle, controlled but terrifying. "To your savior. Your tether. Your crimson puppeteer."
"He kept me alive," Clara snapped, but her voice lacked conviction.
"Oh, absolutely," Evelyn chuckled. "He held you together like a broken toy he refuses to let go of. Isn't that romantic? Except it's not love, darling. It's ownership. And deep down, you already know it."
Clara bit her lip until she tasted blood. Her thoughts churned. The warmth Damien once gave her felt like a memory slipping away, replaced by Yurin's iron threads binding her tighter with every breath.
"What choice do I have?" Clara whispered.
Evelyn's smile thinned. "Choices are illusions, but rebellions? Those are real. Listen, darling—if the Author writes you as a weapon, and Yurin uses you as one… then maybe you stop being a weapon altogether."
Clara turned sharply. "You mean die?"
Evelyn laughed so hard it echoed. "Oh no, sweet paradox. I mean decide. Decide when to burn, when to obey, when to refuse. The moment you choose—not because of Yurin, not because of the Author, not even because of Damien's leftover campfire spark—that's when you stop being anyone's tool."
Clara stared at Evelyn, heart racing. A part of her wanted to dismiss it as manipulation. And maybe it was. But the seed was planted.
Across the fractured floor, Yurin finally stirred. His eyes opened, crimson flames spilling out in controlled arcs. His gaze swept over them, pausing on Clara. "What did she tell you?"
Evelyn stretched, feigning innocence. "Just girl talk."
Yurin rose slowly, his presence like gravity tightening around Clara's chest. "Do not listen to her."
Clara looked at him, searching his face for reassurance, for something human. Instead, she saw certainty—unyielding, immovable certainty. He wasn't asking her not to listen. He was commanding it.
Her wings twitched. She lowered her gaze, biting down on the surge of rebellion crawling up her throat.
The silence shattered.
The void above cracked again, light pouring through like molten scripture. This time, it didn't form a quill. It formed a hand.
A colossal, pale hand, veins glowing with ink, reaching down as if to pluck them off the page entirely.
Evelyn whistled, her grin snapping wide. "Ah, revisions are in! And guess what? It looks like the Author's hand-picked you, darling."
Clara's breath caught as the hand descended, massive and inevitable.
Yurin stepped in front of her, aura flaring crimson, his voice calm and absolute. "It will not take you."
Clara's heart pounded, torn between dread of the hand and dread of Yurin's claim. She whispered, almost too quiet for even herself to hear:
"But what if I don't want you to be the one who saves me?"
The hand broke through the void.