My body came back before I did.
The weight wasn't in my limbs—it was behind my eyes.
Like something had been scraped out and halfway put back.
I woke to the taste of ash and the feeling of something warm beneath my head.
It took me longer than it should have to realize it wasn't the ground.
It was her.
Miyako sat against a fractured slab of stone, spine straight, eyes distant.
My head rested in her lap.
And her hand—light, unmoving—rested against my cheek.
I hadn't really looked at her before. Not like this.
Her hair was silver, cut just below the shoulders, tangled and ash-dusted like wind-worn metal threads.
And her eyes—deep violet laced with glimmers of blue and gold—looked like the heart of a nebula. Distant. Burning. Watching something I couldn't see.
She didn't flinch when I stirred.
Didn't speak right away.
Just kept looking at the horizon like she was watching for the next thing to go wrong.
I didn't move either.
Didn't trust the feeling crawling up my ribs.
Didn't trust what she'd seen.
But I didn't pull away.
Her hand stayed where it was.
Then finally, without looking down, she said—
"He's a part of you, isn't he?"
No judgment. No fear.
Just quiet understanding.
And I hated how much that hurt more than anything else.
I exhaled through my nose, kept my eyes on the cracked sky.
"I prefer the term unwanted roommate," I said, voice rough.
"He just refuses to pay rent."
She didn't smile.
Didn't roll her eyes or bite back a joke.
She just looked at me.
Not with pity.
Not with fear.
Just…clarity.
"Must be exhausting," she said softly.
"Carrying something like that around."
Her hand was still on my cheek.
She didn't move it.
And I didn't make her.
For a while, the silence held.
Not heavy. Not light.
Just there—settling between us like something that wasn't ready to break yet.
Then, quietly, she lifted her hand from my face.
"You deserve to know what kind of story you're in," she said.
Her voice had weight again. Not cold—measured. Like she was choosing each word carefully, knowing I might not like what I heard.
"You weren't sent here to die, Averic…at least not yet."
Her eyes didn't leave mine.
"You were sent here to start something."
She looked up, like speaking to the sky.
"And what brought you here… doesn't want this story to be boring."
I didn't answer.
Instead, I pushed myself upright—slow, unsteady.
The world didn't tilt, but it felt like it wanted to.
Dust clung to my clothes. My thoughts didn't cling to anything.
The creek still ran along the edge of the village—quiet, steady.
I made my way over to it.
I knelt beside it and leaned forward, just enough to catch my reflection.
It was still me.
Same pale skin—almost colorless in the light.
Same dark hair, falling in long, uneven strands that looked more deliberate than they were.
And my eyes—vermillion, rich and strange. Too vivid for the rest of my face. Too alive.
Sharp. Clean. The kind of face that draws looks—until it doesn't.
There was something hollow in them now. Like beauty built from absence. From edges that had never been softened.
I looked like someone carved to be distant.
I splashed my face anyway.
once. Twice.
Hard enough to sting.
It didn't clear my head.
But it gave me something to feel that wasn't… everything else.
Behind me, the silence shifted.
I didn't turn, but I felt her—Miyako, moving closer. Her footsteps were soft, but not uncertain. Like she'd walked this path before. Like she knew how people looked when they were trying not to come apart.
She stopped a few feet away.
Didn't say anything.
I kept my eyes on the water, watching it fold around my hands.
"Is she watching?" I asked. My voice came out lower than I meant—raw at the edges.
The question didn't need a name.
Miyako understood exactly who I meant.
She hesitated.
Then:
"Probably."
A pause.
Then her voice came again—quieter this time, like speaking it aloud might make it worse.
"But she's not the only one."
That made me look up.
Miyako's eyes were on the sky now. Not searching—just knowing. Like there was something up there with weight, even if we couldn't see it.
I turned toward her, slower this time.
Not just listening to the words—watching how she held them.
Like they cost something.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
She didn't answer right away. Just exhaled through her nose—slow. Controlled.
"It means some things in this place are older than her. Older than me."
Silence.
Her gaze stayed upward, like she was looking through the sky instead of at it.
"They don't walk or speak. They don't intervene."
"They just…observe. From somewhere beyond."
"They created this place. Or maybe they just maintain it."
"Either way…"—she looked at me now—
"…they're the ones who decide whose story gets rewritten."
She went quiet after that.
But only for a breath.
Then her voice cracked through the stillness—sharper now. Bitter.
"But the one who grabbed you—the one who killed you…"
Her lip curled, and when she spoke again, the words were nearly a growl.
"That wasn't one of them."
My blood ran cold.
"She doesn't follow their rules. She doesn't belong here. I don't even know how she got in."
Her breath caught, then came out through clenched teeth.
"That—"
She bit the word off like it burned.
"That thing!—"
Her voice shook with loathing.
"—should not exist."
She looked like she wanted to spit the name out, but couldn't.
Like saying it would make the world dirtier.
I swallowed hard. My voice came out quieter than I meant it to.
"Why?"
I met her eyes.
"What makes her different? From the others?"
She didn't answer right away.
Didn't look away either.
Just stood there—still burning—like the question didn't surprise her.
Like she'd been dreading it.
"Because the Plateau was never meant to be chaos."
Her voice was firm now—measured, but thrumming with something cold beneath it.
"It was crafted to test the soul—and drag the truth into light."
She stepped toward me, slow, deliberate.
"The Plateau was created for one reason."
Her voice had shifted again—lower now, steadier.
"To give those chosen a chance to change their stories."
She stopped a few paces from where I stood.
"To see what they become when everything else is stripped away."
A pause. Her eyes didn't waver.
"Some survive. Some don't."
She glanced toward the horizon.
"But all of them leave a story behind."
She looked at me, and the weight in her eyes had shifted—grief sharpened into judgment.
"But her?"
Her voice dropped—tight, bitter.
"She doesn't care about what this place is for."
A beat passed.
Then her tone darkened.
"She doesn't care about change, or survival, or the weight of the story. She doesn't give a damn what you become."
Her lip curled like the words themselves tasted foul.
"To her, the Plateau isn't sacred. It's a game board."
She turned, looking out at the sky like she wanted to tear it down.
"She's not watching to see if you rise or fall."
"She's watching to enjoy it."
I looked at her for a long moment.
The anger was still in her—quiet now, but smoldering.
"…Then why are you here?" I asked. "If you know all this… if you weren't brought the way I was—then what are you doing in a place like this?"
She didn't answer right away.
Didn't look at me either.
Just stared at the sky like the question reached further than I meant it to.
Then, softly—almost like she was remembering it out loud—
"I'm your guide," she said. "Not to lead, not to save—but to walk beside you, step by step, until the shape of your story begins to show itself. Until you see what you were meant to become."
She looked away then, toward the far edge of the ruins—where the sky didn't quite meet the land.
"But this time… the story isn't clean."
Her voice had changed—low, strained, like she was choosing words with care not to shatter something.
"She's changed it. Bent the Plateau into something it was never meant to be. The rules haven't broken. But they've started to bleed."
Her jaw clenched. For a moment, it looked like she might spit just saying it.
"This isn't how it's supposed to go. The Plateau tests, yes—but it's never been cruel. Not like this. Not deliberately."
She finally looked at me again.
"This is the first time anyone's twisted it into a spectacle. The first time it's been used to feed something so sick and selfish."
A breath. Cold and bitter.
"She's not just watching you, Averic. She's trying to rewrite what this place is—and you're the ink."