"That was the name she gave everything she couldn't destroy."
Eris staggered back, her vision blurring. The quill in her hand pulsed—no longer metal, no longer ink, but something deeper: the ghost of authorship. It wanted her to finish the sentence. It wanted her to begin what no one dared conclude.
But behind her, the earth cracked with a sickening sigh. A sound like parchment being ripped open—not by hand, but by something that hated stories. That hated meaning.
The Unwritten had followed her.
They came in silence, of course. But not the same silence as before. This one was predatory. The absence of context. The erasure of structure. They wore no faces, only footnotes half-erased by time. They moved like ellipses… drawn out… and dangling… without conclusion…
Eris ran.
Through forests made of genres, across rivers of melting dialogue. Every place she crossed tried to rewrite her. Tried to assign her purpose. Tried to cast her as heroine, witness, final girl.
But none fit.
