The mark on her palm didn't fade.
Not with time. Not with magic. Not with denial.
It stayed etched into Syra's skin as she and Riven moved north, across the breathless expanse of the ruined Realm of Measures. The word Prepare seemed to glow more when she hesitated, like the mark itself knew fear and refused to let her forget it.
Riven: "That wasn't a normal fragment."
Syra: "It wasn't a fragment at all."
She didn't explain further. How could she? The red-star woman had vanished, the bone quill had dissolved into nothing, and Author had walked away without a final word. What lingered wasn't clarity—it was echo. A warning dressed like a promise.
They passed beneath a sky split into three layers—day, dusk, and starlight—each stitched together with divine thread. It was not a natural sky. It was written.
Syra was starting to see the seams.
They reached the edge of the Ninth Horizon, a shattered bridge once used by the gods to travel between realms. Now, it served as the broken path to a buried city: Vairuul, domain of Xethra, the Fifth God and the next to fall.
But something was wrong.
There was no divine presence. No defenses. Just dust.
And silence.
Riven (drawing his blade): "Too easy."
Syra (quietly): "Too late."
They found the first corpse at the entrance to the city. Not mortal. Divine. A minor god of wind, eyes burned to ink. Dozens more followed—guardians, emissaries, scribes—all dead.
Not slain.
Erased.
Riven: "Someone's collecting ahead of us."
She knew who.
They found Xethra inside the Echo Cathedral, slumped over his own altar. His spine had been removed—not physically, but narratively. The concept of his posture had been deleted.
Syra stared down at him, heart tightening.
Syra: "He never even fought."
A single word hovered above his head, glowing red and unstable.
"Skipped."
That was all that was left of a god.
Riven (stunned): "He was skipped over. Like a paragraph the story doesn't want anymore."
Syra: "Someone rewrote around him."
She turned to the altar. The Fifth Fragment hovered above it, no longer guarded, no longer sealed.
She reached out—
And it came willingly.
No flash. No pain.
Just weight.
Syra clenched her teeth. "That's five."
Riven: "And the gods haven't come yet?"
Syra: "They're not waiting anymore."
They left Vairuul and headed toward the Temple of Reflection, hoping to use its crystal mind-wells to search the future threads. But as they reached the border of the temple lands, the storm greeted them.
Not rain.
Not lightning.
Words.
An atmosphere made of broken sentences, clawing at Syra's skin.
Voice (booming): "Five fragments. And still you walk free."
She turned toward the horizon.
A divine army approached. Not mortal. Not metaphor.
Four gods. All at once.
Each glowed with their respective dominion:
Izen the Flame Reader – God of Stories Already Told
Virea the Scale Keeper – Goddess of Balanced Fate
Kelthin of the Crooked Oath – Lord of Forgotten Promises
And behind them, not walking—but shaping reality as he came—The First God.
Izen: "You should not have made it this far."
Kelthin: "And yet here you are, branding the sky with your disobedience."
Syra: "And here you are, finally scared enough to come together."
Virea (flatly): "Return the fragments. We'll let you live."
Syra: "Liar."
She reached for the Sword of Rejections.
It did not hum. It howled.
Syra: "You all worship the same lie. That power belongs to those written by the first sentence. But I'm the proof that stories choose themselves."
They attacked.
And the storm obeyed.
Syra moved like a spark within scripture. Riven lit the sky with flame that bent toward her will.
Kelthin vanished in the first clash, his form rejected before it even struck.
Virea's balance cracked—her scales shattering as Syra flipped cause and effect with a single twist of thought. She made the goddess fall before she struck.
Riven: "That's two."
Izen faltered. Not from pain. From fear.
Izen: "You're not rewriting anymore… You're replacing."
Syra struck once.
And the storm ended.
Three gods down.
The First God remained.
He had not moved.
Syra: "You're not going to fight?"
The First God lowered his eyes.
First God: "This battle was never mine to win. I came to see if you understood what happens when the divine fall."
He pointed behind her.
Syra turned—and saw it.
Where the gods had died, new things grew.
Not evil.
Not chaos.
Alternatives.
First God: "When we fall, we do not leave holes. We leave doors."
Syra: "To what?"
First God: "To things that were never meant to be."
He stepped forward—not with hostility, but caution.
First God: "You have two fragments left. But the world is no longer real. You've made it potential."
Syra: "Then I'll choose what it becomes."
He smiled sadly.
First God: "Just don't be surprised if the world chooses back."
He disappeared.
Not vanished—archived.
Syra turned to Riven, shoulders shaking.
Syra: "They're not trying to stop me anymore."
Riven: "No. They're waiting to see what you become."
She looked at her hand.
The mark still burned.
And now, a second word had appeared beneath Prepare.
It read:
"Deserve."
End of Chapter 13 – To be continued in Chapter 14…