Clara awoke to silence.
The void no longer trembled, no thunder of decrees echoed overhead. The Author had retreated, leaving nothing but scars across the endless black—gashes where the light had burned away entire chunks of reality. Yet she couldn't breathe without tasting ash. Her throat stung with the phantom sensation of quills carving her insides.
She sat up, wings trembling, every joint screaming with stiffness. Yurin sat not far from her, legs crossed, his crimson aura folded neatly inward like coals banked in a firepit. His eyes were closed, his breathing perfectly even. If she hadn't seen him stand against the Author itself, she could almost believe he was just… meditating.
Almost.
Evelyn, sprawled lazily a few feet away, twirled a strand of blackened hair between her fingers. "You know, most people wake from near-erasure sobbing, begging, or praying to whatever god still tolerates their existence. You—" she tilted her head at Clara—"you just look nauseated. That's either bravery or denial. My bet? A spicy mix of both."
Clara didn't answer. Her hand hovered over her chest where Yurin's threads had kept her alive. The fire inside her flickered unevenly, trying to warm her, while her Codex half pulsed with foreign words—remnants of what the Author had tried to inscribe. She could still feel them, like stains that couldn't be scrubbed clean.
Damien's flame urged her to burn them away. The Codex whispered to yield. And in between them was her, Clara, unsure if she even had a voice of her own.
She turned to Yurin, her voice hoarse. "Why didn't you let me fall?"
His eyes opened at once, crimson irises locking on her like blades finding a target. "Because you are necessary."
The words should have been cruel. But his tone—calm, unwavering—made it sound like a fact, as though she were the hinge on which his entire war rested. It should have made her feel important. Instead, it made her feel trapped.
"I'm not… your tool," she whispered.
"Correct," Yurin said smoothly. "You are more than that. Tools break. You do not. You defy. That makes you… irreplaceable."
Irreplaceable. The word almost warmed her, until she noticed Evelyn grinning like a cat who'd cornered a mouse.
"Oh, darling," Evelyn drawled, "that wasn't romance. That was possession with extra syllables."
Clara flinched. Yurin didn't move. His gaze never left Clara's face.
"You fear me," he said plainly.
She swallowed hard. "Shouldn't I?"
A silence stretched between them. For a moment, she thought he would deny it. Instead, he tilted his head, expression unreadable. "Yes."
Her stomach dropped.
"But you also need me," he continued. "That duality is your strength. Fear binds you. Need drives you. Both sharpen your edge."
Clara's fists clenched. "I don't want to be sharpened. I want to live."
"You can't," Yurin said. His voice wasn't cruel—it was steady, terrifyingly steady. "Not as you are. You're a paradox. Fire and script. Human and rewritten. Life for you will never mean peace. It will mean defiance, every breath. The Author will see to that."
Clara's throat closed around her next words. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to tell him he was wrong. But deep inside, under layers of fire and ink, she knew he was right. Every breath was already a refusal. Every moment of existing was an act of rebellion.
Evelyn clapped her hands together like a delighted child. "Marvelous! She wants freedom, he offers chains disguised as survival, and the Author above is rewriting the next apocalypse draft. Oh, the tension!"
Clara shot her a glare. "Why are you even here?"
Evelyn winked, tapping her temple. "Because every story needs a chorus. Someone to laugh while the tragedy writes itself."
Clara turned away, sick with exhaustion. Her wings folded close, smoldering faintly, words flickering across them in broken fragments. Refuse. Burn. Unwritten. She hugged herself, whispering to no one: "Damien would have told me I was more than this."
Yurin's gaze softened just slightly—not pity, but something colder, sharper. "Damien gave you fire. I give you survival. Choose which matters more."
Clara couldn't answer.
For the first time since the Author had retreated, she realized the real fracture wasn't in the void. It was inside her—between the girl who wanted warmth, and the weapon Yurin was forging.
And she didn't know which one she wanted to win.