It was late in the city between worlds. The twin moons hung above the towers of Irynon, casting silver patterns along the ever-shifting streets. Most of the city had gone quiet—its usual murmur of drifting bridges and refracted whispers slowed to a solemn stillness. The stars shimmered, but tonight they did not dance.
On the rooftop of a tall spire, away from the gates and glowing maps of universes, three figures sat beneath the sky. Leven had found the place—a peaceful perch where the light couldn't quite reach and the wind didn't carry sound. Mira leaned against a low rail, eyes half-shut, listening to the faint song of the wind. Silas sat with his legs pulled close, arms wrapped loosely around them. His gaze lingered somewhere far away.
Leven broke the silence. "You ever think about where you'd be if none of this ever happened?" she asked, throwing a pebble into the void below. "Like… just a regular life."
Mira laughed softly. "I did once. But then a gate dropped a dragon on my school."
Silas cracked a smile. Just a small one.
Leven grinned, her tone light but honest. "I think I would've been a theater kid. Can't you see it? Me, a lead actor—dramatic cape and all."
Mira elbowed her. "You'd be awful. You can't act for anything."
"I can act! Watch this." She cleared her throat and burst into a woeful imitation of an old play: "'Alas, the world is cruel, and I am but a jester!'" She fell backward with exaggerated flair.
Silas chuckled. It surprised even him.
Then Mira's eyes softened. "What about you?" she asked him.
The air stilled.
Silas looked up. He didn't answer right away. He seemed to be weighing something. His mouth opened—then closed again. The pause stretched. Leven, for once, said nothing.
And then, Silas spoke.
"I don't know where to begin," he said, voice thin. "But I think… I need to say it."
⸻
I should note, reader, that I—the Narrator—was listening then, too. After all, it is my role to tell you this story. I remember what I wrote in the first chapter. I remember the lonely child, the dark room, the flicker of grief. I remember the facts I told you.
But what Silas said next—I did not know.
⸻
"My mother used to call me a curse," Silas said, staring ahead. "Said I was born wrong. Said I ruined her life. I remember the first time she hit me—I was four. I cried too loud when I fell. She said it was embarrassing."
Neither Mira nor Leven moved.
"She didn't want a child. She wanted someone to scream at. My father wasn't any better. He'd come home drunk and… and he'd laugh while she did it. Sometimes he joined."
Silas's voice didn't tremble. It was steady, like retelling the weather.
"One day he just snapped. I was seven. He grabbed a knife. Said he was tired of the noise. She screamed at him—told him he was worthless—and then…"
A pause.
"He killed her."
The words landed like stone.
"He didn't even run. Just stood there, blood on his hands. I was in the corner. He looked at me like I didn't exist. And then he walked out the door. I never saw him again."
⸻
Wait. That's not right.
I wrote his childhood differently. I checked. I remember the orphanage, the silence. But this—this is new. I don't remember writing this.
Let me verify…
…
I cannot see it.
⸻
Silas continued. "They took me to an orphanage. Said I was lucky to survive. But I wasn't. I was fed, sure. But only when they remembered. The kids there… they weren't kids. They were wolves. Bullies. Monsters."
He pulled his sleeves down slightly, as if covering something. "They hurt me. Laughed while they did it. Took turns. The caretakers looked the other way. Once, one of them even watched."
Mira's hand covered her mouth. Leven stared at the ground.
"I ran away when I was ten. Hid in a trash truck. Ended up two towns over. Slept in alleys. Ate from dumpsters. Once a man offered me food, then tried to sell me to traffickers. I escaped, barely. That happened seven times."
Mira looked like she might cry.
Silas's voice broke—just once.
"I lived like a dog. People looked at me like I wasn't human. Like I was a disease. One winter I got so cold I couldn't move. I thought I died. I hoped I did. But I woke up in a hospital. No name. No visitors. When they realized I wasn't insured, they threw me out."
Leven clenched her fists. "That's not fair," she whispered.
"It's not," Silas agreed. "Nothing was."
⸻
I don't understand.
How did I miss this? I—The Narrator—see all. I am woven into the ink. I know what happened. I watched him from the start.
Why… can't I see this?
Every time I try to check, it blurs. Like static in the story.
No, worse—like something won't let me look.
Who…?
What has the authority to block me?
⸻
"I tried ending it once," Silas said quietly. "Bridge over the river. High enough to vanish. But I saw a girl crying nearby. She looked like my sister. I never had one. But she cried like I used to. So I sat down beside her. We talked for hours. I forgot why I was there."
He laughed. Hollow. "She left when it got dark. I never saw her again either. But I think she saved me."
Silas closed his eyes.
"After that… it all becomes a blur. I moved. Drifted. I worked odd jobs, lived in old buildings. I thought that would be my life. Just… surviving."
"And then?" Mira asked gently.
Silas shrugged. "Then one day I found a pen. I picked it up. The world changed."
He didn't elaborate. He didn't say what the pen could do, or why it mattered. Just that it did. The truth was still his alone.
⸻
I am trying again to see it. I am—
Still blocked. Not hidden. Denied.
What power…?
He is just a boy.
Isn't he?
Silas stood slowly. "I'm tired," he said. "I think I'll sleep."
He didn't look at them. Just walked to the stairs, soft footsteps fading into the tower's silence.
Mira stared after him. Her eyes were red, her breath shallow. She didn't say anything.
Leven wiped her eyes. "No one should have to live like that."
"No one," Mira agreed.
⸻
I do not know what to tell you, reader.
For the first time in this story, I—its author and overseer—have encountered something I did not write.
Something I cannot read.
This boy…
He is not what I thought.
Or maybe… he never was.
And I simply saw what I was allowed to.
I will find the truth.
I must.
But tonight, I do not understand.
And that, more than anything, terrifies me.