Mira sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of her attic room, the dim glow of a single candle casting long shadows on the cluttered walls. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and ink, a scent she had grown strangely fond of over the years. Around her, piles of half-finished stories and scribbled notes lay scattered like fallen leaves.
Her hands trembled slightly as she uncapped a vial of ink, the liquid inside shimmering with a strange, almost otherworldly light. The glass caught the candle's flame, sending tiny flickers dancing across the room. With careful precision, she dipped her quill into the ink. A soft plink sounded as a droplet clung to the tip before falling onto the parchment below, leaving a small, iridescent stain.
Mira's breath hitched. She had read countless stories about Inkbinders—the rare few gifted with the power to write magic into existence—but no tale had ever prepared her for the weight of the ink in her own hands. Each word she wrote now was more than just a sentence; it was a thread weaving reality itself.
Her quill hovered uncertainly over the page. The story she was about to finish was one that had haunted her for weeks—a fragment of a tale left incomplete by a long-forgotten author. She had never dared write it down, fearing the consequences of awakening what had been left to slumber. Yet tonight, something compelled her forward.
"Come on, Mira," she whispered to herself. "You have to finish this."
The quill finally moved, scratching across the parchment in smooth, deliberate strokes. Silver words formed letters that shimmered faintly, glowing as if alive. The room grew colder, and a faint hum filled the silence, like the whisper of a thousand voices just beyond hearing.
Suddenly, a breeze slipped through the narrow crack of the attic window—whoosh—scattering loose sheets across the floor. Mira's heart jumped, her eyes darting toward the source.
A dark shape shifted near the doorway. "Who's there?" Her voice was calm, but every nerve was taut with caution.
From the shadows emerged a man, stepping slowly into the candlelight. His dark eyes gleamed with a strange mix of wariness and curiosity. He was tall, with a lean frame wrapped in worn, travel-stained clothes. His black hair was tousled, and a faint scar traced the line of his jaw.
"I suppose this means I'm… summoned?" he said, voice low and steady.
Mira stared, disbelief knitting her brows. "Summoned? By me?"
The man gave a wry smile—heh heh—that seemed out of place in the quiet room. "More or less. You wrote me into your world."
"Impossible," she breathed, though deep inside she knew otherwise.
"I'm Jace," he said, stepping fully into the light. "A character from a story you were never meant to finish."
The weight of his words settled heavily. Mira's fingers gripped the edges of the parchment as if anchoring herself to reality.
"Why are you here?" she asked, voice trembling.
Jace looked around the cramped room, then back to her. "Because your ink brought me to life. And because the story I belong to… was never finished."
Before she could reply, the book on her desk trembled violently. The wooden surface rattled beneath the sudden surge of power. A sharp crack echoed as the pages fluttered wildly, symbols glowing and shifting like living things.
Blue sparks burst from the edges—zzzt—lighting the chamber with eerie, flickering hues.
Jace moved swiftly, eyes narrowing. "Looks like trouble never stays quiet for long."
Mira's heart raced. The warmth of the candle was swallowed by the cold light washing over the room. The glowing runes on the book pulsed rhythmically, as though breathing.
"What is that?" she asked, voice barely a whisper.
"A protective seal," Jace explained. "An ancient ward to keep unfinished stories… and their dangers… contained."
The symbols pulsed brighter, then snapped—snap—and the energy exploded outward in a sudden burst. Mira stumbled back, catching herself on the edge of the desk.
From the shadows, a low growl rolled—a deep, threatening sound—grrr—followed by soft footsteps padding quickly toward them—tap tap tap.
Jace drew a slender blade from beneath his cloak. The metal sang with a sharp shing as he raised it defensively.
"They're here," he said grimly.
Mira's eyes darted to the dark corner where shifting figures began to emerge—twisted forms, half-shadow, half-solid, flickering in and out of focus like bad dreams.
"Monsters," she breathed, barely able to move.
Jace took a step forward, blade ready. "Inkbound creatures—born from incomplete tales. They feed on the ink's magic and grow stronger with every stolen word."
One lunged, claws scraping the floor—scritch—before Jace swung his blade in a clean arc—thwack—sending it crashing against the wall.
Mira's mind raced. She needed to act. The quill was still in her hand, the glowing ink ready to write the words that could change their fate.
"Help me!" she shouted, voice steady despite the pounding in her chest.
Jace glanced back at her. "What are you thinking?"
"Finish the story," she said, voice firm.
Together, they began to weave a new tale—a dance of words and steel. Mira's quill scratched across the page, writing new paths, new outcomes, while Jace fought off the encroaching shadows.
The ink flowed fast now—swoosh—each sentence forming barriers, shields, and weapons that shimmered into existence.
The creatures howled in frustration—aaaargh—as their forms dissolved under the magic's light.
After what felt like hours, the last shadow vanished, leaving the room eerily silent.
Mira dropped the quill, her hands shaking.
Jace sheathed his blade, breathing heavily. "Not bad for a first collaboration."
She laughed softly, a sound of relief—hehe—and sank to the floor.
"Who are you really, Jace?" she asked quietly.
He looked away, eyes shadowed. "A story waiting to be finished. And maybe, just maybe, someone to write a new ending with."
Mira smiled, the weight of her loneliness easing just a little. For the first time in years, she felt the stirrings of hope.
Their story was beginning.