The stars had not faded when I woke.They still hung above the horizon like shards of living ink, pulsing faintly to the rhythm of my heartbeat. Each throb drew lines across the sky—sentences forming, erasing, reforming again.
And every pulse whispered my name.
"Lucien…"
I turned toward Sera's sleeping form. She was curled beside the fire, her hair tangled against her cheek, breathing slow and peaceful. For a moment, I envied her. She could sleep through silence. I could only listen to it talk.
I reached out my hand. The symbol in my palm glowed—a faint blue light bleeding through skin and bone. I thought about the city we'd left behind, the people who had stopped mid-motion, the blank walls where streets used to be. They had been waiting.
Waiting for me to write.
I picked up a piece of charcoal and pressed it against the ground.
The dawn breaks over the sleeping city.
The light responded instantly. The horizon flushed with color, the air warmed, and birds began to sing—real, living sound.
My throat tightened. So this is what it means to be a writer.
Sera stirred as sunlight touched her face. "You did that, didn't you?" she asked, sitting up.
I nodded. "Just the dawn."
She smiled faintly. "It's beautiful."
"It's dangerous," I whispered. "Every line I write becomes truth. And every truth asks for something in return."
"What do you mean?"
I didn't answer right away. The world had begun to shimmer faintly around the edges, like a page that had been erased too many times. When I focused, I felt the cost—a hollow space behind my memories. Something missing.
When I reached for it, I couldn't remember my mother's face.
We traveled north for two days, following the river. Each village we passed was half-complete—houses without doors, people with voices that looped their greetings. I wanted to help them, to fill the empty space, to finish what the Author had abandoned.
So I wrote.
The river flows clean and full. The villagers remember their songs.
The world shimmered and obeyed. Water rushed; laughter returned. But afterward, I felt lighter—not in relief, but in loss. My hands trembled.
Sera noticed. "You're pale. What's wrong?"
I forced a smile. "Just tired."
She frowned but didn't press.
That night, as she slept, I sat by the campfire with the charcoal again. The temptation was a living thing. If I could restore villages, why not more? Why not fix everything the Author destroyed?
Sera dreams peacefully. She never fears again.
I hesitated over the last words. When I wrote them, the mark on my palm burned—and Sera sighed, smiling in her sleep.
And in that moment, I forgot the sound of her laugh.
By the fourth day, the sky had begun to cloud over—pages darkening with unwritten storms. I tried to stop myself, to rest, but the world called for ink like a starving beast.
Every blank corner begged to be filled. Every silence asked for words.
We reached the edge of a vast forest, the trees half-formed, their outlines fading into mist. Sera looked uneasy. "It feels wrong here."
"It's unfinished," I said softly. "Like it's waiting for description."
She turned to me. "Then don't write it."
"I have to. If I don't, it will collapse."
She grabbed my wrist. "Lucien, you're changing. You don't see it, but I do."
Her touch was warm, real—and for a moment, I saw the faint glimmer of the letters wrapping around her, the same light that surrounded the world I wrote. I stepped back, terrified.
"Sera…"
"What?"
I swallowed hard. "When I write, the world listens. But it's listening through you."
That night I dreamed of pages—endless, white, whispering pages. I walked among them, barefoot, my footsteps leaving trails of ink. From the shadows, voices called: the Erased Ones, the characters who had vanished when the Author died.
"You stole his pen," one hissed."You wear his mark," said another."You think you can write without paying?"
I turned, shouting into the void, "I didn't ask for this!"
But the pages closed in, covering me, smothering breath and sound. In the last instant before waking, I saw a single phrase written across the sky:
Every writer becomes his story.
I woke gasping, my body drenched in cold sweat. Sera was kneeling beside me, shaking me awake.
"Lucien! You were screaming."
I grabbed her arms, my heart pounding. "Sera, listen to me—if I start to forget you, you have to stop me. Promise."
She blinked in confusion. "Forget me?"
"Promise!"
She nodded, frightened. "I promise."
I let out a shaky breath and looked at my hands. The mark was darker now, spreading faint veins of ink up my wrist. The cost was increasing.
And yet, even knowing that, I wanted to write again.
Because without me, the world would die.
We reached a mountain ridge by dusk. Below us stretched valleys of half-colored fields and sleeping towns. The silence was heavy—expectant.
Sera stood behind me. "Are you going to fix it?"
I stared at the emptiness below. My fingers twitched around the charcoal. "I could. But every word I add replaces something in me."
"Then don't."
I looked at her, really looked at her—the way her eyes caught the fading light, the way her voice trembled with worry. And in that fragile moment, I realized the most dangerous truth:
I could make her perfect.
I could write away her fear, her pain, her scars.
All it would cost was whatever was left of me.
The mark pulsed. The world waited.
Sera smiles without sorrow.
The words almost left my lips. Almost.
Then Sera's hand covered mine. "Don't," she whispered. "If you change me, I'm not me anymore."
Her eyes met mine, steady and sad. "The Author never loved us. Don't become him."
The wind stirred. My hand trembled. And for the first time since I gained the power, I dropped the charcoal.
It rolled across the stone and fell into the dark.
When the echo faded, I heard a new sound—soft, distant, like paper tearing. From the valley below, one of the towns began to fade. Buildings dissolved into dust, streets turning blank.
Sera gasped. "It's vanishing!"
I stared at my empty hands. "Because I stopped writing."
She looked at me desperately. "Then what do we do?"
I didn't answer. I could only watch as the town vanished completely, leaving a white void where life had been.
Maybe this was the real burden—not writing, but choosing when to stop.
Part 2
For two days the void crept upward through the valley, devouring color and sound. We ran from it, but it followed—not fast, not slow, just inevitable.
At night its glow reached the clouds, silver and cold. When it touched the stars, they went dark.
Sera clung to my arm. "If you write, you'll fade. If you don't, the world fades. There has to be another way."
"There is," I murmured, though I didn't believe it yet. "Balance."
I knelt on the stone and traced a single line in the dirt.
The world sustains itself.
The ink flared, fighting against the nothingness, holding it back for a heartbeat. Then the words dissolved—like snow in fire—and the mark on my arm spread to my shoulder.
Pain lanced through me. The voice of the pages returned, whispering:
Every writer becomes his story.
Sera tore the charcoal from my hand. "Stop! You're killing yourself!"
"Then tell me what to do, Sera!" I shouted. "If I stop, you vanish. If I continue, I disappear!"
She froze, tears shining in her eyes. "Then let me write."
I stared at her. "You can't. The mark chooses one."
"Then share it," she said. "If the story belongs to both of us, maybe the burden will too."
The mark on my skin pulsed, as if listening. I took her hand, hesitating only a moment before pressing my palm against hers.
Light exploded between us—blue, white, endless.
When the light faded, half the mark had transferred to her wrist. She gasped, stumbling, but didn't let go.
I felt it immediately: the weight dividing, the emptiness lessening. The void below slowed, edges stabilizing.
"It worked," she whispered.
But even as she spoke, her outline flickered—the first sign of erasure.
"No…" I breathed. "It's rewriting you to fit the story."
She smiled weakly. "Maybe that's the balance. You write the world; I write you."
Before I could stop her, she picked up the charcoal. Her hand shook as she scrawled across the stone:
Lucien remembers love.
Warmth filled my chest, sudden and painful. Forgotten laughter echoed in my ears—the sound of her voice on the riverbank, the way she used to tease me.
Tears blurred my vision. "Sera, stop—if you write, it'll consume you!"
"Then at least you'll remember why you shouldn't become the Author," she whispered.
The mark on her arm flared brilliant white. The void screamed—an awful, tearing noise—and then it began to retreat, folding back into the horizon.
When the light cleared, she was gone.
I fell to my knees, clutching the stone where she'd stood. Her last words still glowed faintly: Lucien remembers love.
I whispered her name until my voice broke. Then I picked up the charcoal again.
The world holds her memory.
The air shimmered. In the valley below, a single flower bloomed—white and glowing—refusing to fade.
Maybe that was all that was left of her. Or maybe it was enough.
I stood, staring at the horizon where creation and void met, and finally understood the burden I carried.
Not to rewrite the world.Not to perfect it.
But to remember it.