The child did not speak again for a long while.
She walked beside him in silence, her small feet moving soundlessly across the path that did not yet exist—until he stepped, and then it did. Each footfall of Ketzerah forged reality. Each breath Lian took anchored her more firmly into being.
Though the world was still reluctant.
It pulsed around them in fragments: a grove here, a ruined statue there, a broken river frozen in midstream. The skies above flickered between gray and gold, unable to decide which day they belonged to. There were no birds. No sound but their steps. No wind unless they moved.
As if the world was watching them—but refusing to admit it.
Ketzerah paused near a skeletal tree.
Its branches clawed at the sky, not in agony, but in defiance. It hadn't been given leaves yet. No one had described them. No one had authored spring. And so, it stood barren—yet proud.
Lian stared at the tree.
"Is it alive?" she asked.
"Only halfway," Ketzerah replied.
"Like me?"
He looked at her.
Her silver eyes still shimmered with half-existence. Every time she moved, reality hesitated. A faint afterimage followed her, like the world wasn't fully convinced she belonged.
But she did.
Because he said so.
"You're more alive than most things here," Ketzerah said quietly. "More than this tree. More than the sky. Because you were given a name, and no one took it back."
She blinked. "So if I lose my name, I disappear?"
"Yes."
"But… if I give a name, do I make things real too?"
Ketzerah tilted his head.
"...That remains to be seen."
---
They continued walking.
At times, the land welcomed them. At others, it tried to forget their footprints. Entire hills vanished when they turned their backs. A tower they'd seen in the distance never materialized once they got closer. Reality here was not stable—not because it was breaking, but because it had never truly formed.
It was like stepping through the sketch of a world—one the Author had once imagined, then abandoned midway.
And yet… fragments of memory clung to the air.
---
At a fork in the path—though no one had built the road—Ketzerah stopped.
In the distance stood a structure.
Not tall.
Not grand.
But old.
It looked as though it had once been described in vivid detail—then rewritten, redacted, and finally left alone. Its bricks shimmered with half-deleted lines. Doors stood, but only from certain angles. It was both a building and a grave.
Lian gripped his hand tighter. "That place feels… wrong."
Ketzerah nodded.
"It's where forgotten ideas go."
She frowned. "Is that where you came from too?"
The question hit harder than it should have.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he walked toward the structure. Each step caused ripples in the ground—fragments of story trying to remember whether this place had once mattered.
The door opened before he touched it.
Inside was dust.
And not just the kind that chokes the lungs—but the kind that remembers.
Shards of names hung in the air. Sentences that had once begun but never ended. Fragments like:
"The flame princess who would have—"
"He was meant to destroy…"
"—but the chapter was lost."
They floated like static. He passed through them, unbothered.
Lian followed closely behind, eyes wide.
"Are these ghosts?" she whispered.
"No," Ketzerah said. "They're regrets."
---
At the heart of the room was a single desk.
Atop it, an ink bottle with no quill. A parchment with no text. And a small sphere—dimly glowing—hovering just an inch above the surface. It pulsed faintly in Ketzerah's presence.
He reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed the sphere, a low hum filled the space. The ghosts—no, regrets—shivered.
[REACTIVATION EVENT: DETECTED]
[SOVEREIGN ANOMALY: PRESENT]
[WARNING: LEGACY CHARACTER INTERFERENCE MAY OCCUR]
Ketzerah frowned. "Legacy?"
The sphere flared—
And then…
They appeared.
---
Five figures.
Not flesh. Not spirit. But intent—manifestations of characters the Author once planned, then discarded.
A swordswoman with no face, but a blade made of poetry.
A hunter with broken arrows and a heartbeat made of punctuation.
A mother with wings sewn from footnotes.
A twin whose other half had never been written.
And lastly, a child in a hood whose story had been erased before it began.
They stood in silence.
No hostility. No welcome.
Just… waiting.
Ketzerah faced them.
"I did not summon you," he said.
The twin spoke first—its voice like wind flipping old pages.
"We are echoes. You tread where stories were denied. And yet you remain."
The swordswoman added, without a mouth:
"We remember what was never allowed."
Lian peeked from behind Ketzerah.
"Why do you look so… sad?"
The child in the hood tilted their head. "Because we were not finished. But you were."
That stung more than it should have.
Ketzerah's fingers curled into a fist.
"I was not finished," he said. "I was refused. There is a difference."
The mother with wings took a step forward.
"You carry weight. Authority. The world begins to follow you again. But beware…"
She pointed to Lian.
"…when you name, you create. And when you create, you awaken what was meant to sleep."
Ketzerah turned fully toward them.
"What do you want?"
The hunter responded.
"To be remembered."
Ketzerah's eyes narrowed.
"And if I don't?"
The figures began to fade.
But the child in the hood whispered, before vanishing:
"Then the next time we meet… we will not be echoes."
---
The room dimmed.
The sphere returned to silence.
Lian looked up at him.
"…What were they?"
He stared at the place they had stood.
"Drafts. Old ones. Abandoned by the same will that tried to erase me."
"Are they dangerous?"
"Not yet."
---
They left the ruin without another word.
Outside, the sky was slightly clearer. The land more stable. For a moment, it felt like something had settled.
But Ketzerah knew better.
They hadn't made peace.
They had simply postponed the reckoning.
---
Hours—perhaps moments—passed. Time was still relative.
Eventually, they found shelter beneath an ancient archway. It had no purpose, no inscription. But it provided shade. Enough for Lian to sleep.
She curled beside him, fingers still clutching the hem of his robe.
Ketzerah did not sleep.
He stared into the distance.
Not toward danger.
But toward possibility.
For the first time since the beginning, the world was no longer resisting him. It was listening. Still cautious. Still wary. But listening.
And in the silence of that unstable reality, he whispered:
"If no one will finish the story… I will begin it again. On my terms."
---
Far away—somewhere in the shell of what once was a story-world—a shadow stirred.
Not evil.
Not divine.
Just… delayed.
And it turned toward the place where Ketzerah walked, and smiled.
---
End of Chapter 2
🕯️ To be continued…
---