Lyra stepped forward.
The page wasn't a floor.It wasn't even air.
It was potential—soft and formless, stretching in all directions like a story waiting to be written. Her boots didn't land on ground. They chose where to land, as if her will gave shape to each step.
Around her, ink hung in the air like mist. Sentences half-formed and dissolved again. Voices murmured in languages made from punctuation.
She turned her head. There was no sky. No sun. No sound.
Only concepts.
And then—She saw it.
A field of discarded scenes.
Thousands of them.
Some were burning.Some frozen mid-sentence.Others hovered like ghosts, suspended in quotation marks.
Lyra's breath caught. Her wings vanished into her back. There was no use for them here.
Because this wasn't a place where power ruled.
It was where possibility died.
She walked through the fragments, reading what she could.
