At the heart of the grove, he saw it.
A page.
Pinned to the trunk of an ancient tree like a crucifixion.
Its ink did not flow.
It barked.
One word per line.
Each line a sentence.
Each sentence an edict.
"This story ends with sacrifice."
"This hero dies to protect the rest."
"This is the only way to give meaning."
Aiden stepped forward, sword sheathed.
He did not need a blade for this.
He drew instead from his belt the first page of the Book of What Was.
Blank.
Open.
Rebellious.
And held it up to the dictated leaf.
"Let's talk," he said aloud. "You and I. Editor to editor."
The wind stopped.
Even the Garden hushed.
The page trembled.
And from the ink stepped the second Emissary.
She wore an editor's coat—black, cross-hatched with annotations. Her eyes were red pens. Her breath smelled of deadline.
"You presume to negotiate with outlines," she said.
Aiden didn't flinch.
"I don't presume. I propose."
"And what could you possibly propose that rivals clarity?"
