The city breathed around him again.
Silas walked without direction, just grateful for the sound of footsteps not made by his mind. He passed beneath high-arched bridges, through plazas that twisted under the shifting towers, under signs written in scripts that changed depending on who looked at them. He didn't care where he was going. It was enough to not be everywhere at once.
And then, without warning—there she was.
Mira.
Standing by the glasswork rail of a sky-path. Her white coat fluttered in the wind. Her hair had grown since he last saw her, tied now in a thread of glowing wire. She laughed—really laughed—at something someone said.
Next to her stood a woman, shorter than Mira, with copper skin and wild orange eyes that shimmered like polished stone. She was dressed in layered scarves and dark armor half-concealed beneath them, as if she'd stepped out of a dozen climates at once.
"…and then the guy actually tried to climb the fire-creature. Like, physically. I thought his arms were going to combust. I mean, I respect the confidence, but still—what kind of idiot—?"
"You're one to talk," Mira said dryly. "You jumped off a cliff and threw a rope after you."
"Strategic improvisation," the girl said proudly.
Silas approached, unsure of what to say.
Mira turned, catching the movement.
Her eyes met his. They widened.
"Silas?"
He stopped. "Hi."
"Where… how long have you been back?" she asked, stepping toward him.
"A while," he said. "I… went into one of the Gates."
Mira studied him carefully. Then nodded once, a rare softness passing across her face.
"You made it back. That's what matters."
"Who's the quiet one?" the other girl asked, sliding up next to Mira and peering at Silas with amused curiosity.
"Silas. A friend," Mira said. "Silas, this is Leven. She just returned from a Gate."
"Just returned?" Leven laughed. "Try three minutes ago. I haven't even eaten yet. But Mira always gets the first debrief."
Silas tilted his head. "Debrief?"
Mira folded her arms. "Some Gates… aren't just passages. They're structured. Like tasks. Challenges."
"Quests," Leven interrupted. "The good ones, anyway. Rules, objectives, rewards. One even had an end-credits scene."
Silas blinked. "Seriously?"
"Dead serious," Leven said, grinning. "Last one I cleared gave me this—"
She held up a black coin that shimmered with purple rings. The moment Silas looked at it, he felt as if time slowed briefly around them.
"It's a Chrono-Tether," she explained. "Lets me rewind my own personal time by six seconds, once per day. Can't even buy this kind of stuff. Only way to get 'em is the quest-Gates."
Mira nodded. "Others offer longer life. Strength. Some grant objects that alter the way reality behaves around you."
"And some," Leven added, "just throw you into hell for a week and spit you out with a cool rock. You never know."
Silas glanced at Mira. "Do you… go into them?"
"I have," she said simply. "But I don't chase them like Leven does."
"What's the point of staying in one place when you could see everything?" Leven beamed. "Besides, I've died three times already. Not doing that again without good loot."
Mira rolled her eyes. "She always comes back. Usually louder."
Leven winked. "Some Gates do that, too."
The city buzzed quietly around them as the conversation faded. Silas looked out over the plaza below. He felt grounded, and yet… distant.
"Do all of them… change you?" he asked quietly.
Mira turned her gaze toward him.
"No," she said. "You change yourself. The Gates just test how far you're willing to go."
Leven checked her satchel. "I've got to report this one in before the sigil expires. You two catch up. Silas, nice to meet you. You're cute when you don't talk."
She vanished into the crowd before Silas could reply.
He stood beside Mira in silence.
Then she asked, "What did you see?"
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
"…I'll tell you later."
Mira nodded again. She didn't press him.
They watched the city move. Not changing at his will this time. Just living. And somehow, that was enough.
⸻
And from the space between pages, the Narrator speaks once more.
Silas has crossed a threshold, not just of worlds, but of self. He tasted the power of authorship—and rejected it. He felt the weight of silence—and found comfort in company.
He has returned with ink on his fingers and questions in his chest.
But he does not yet know:
Every Gate walked is a story opened.
Every reward, a bargain.
And every choice… watched.
For the page remembers.
And the pen is never truly forgotten.