The light retreated. Not willingly, but staggered, like a hand yanked back from fire. The fracture sealed just enough to dim the radiance, leaving the void scarred and trembling. The colossal quill withdrew into the rift, its stroke unfinished.
For the first time since its arrival, the Author hesitated.
Clara collapsed, her wings folding inward like broken parchment. Smoke rose from her flesh side, ink bled from her Codex half. She could barely breathe, every exhale scraping her throat like torn pages.
Evelyn sprawled across the cracked floor, laughing weakly, as though the fight had wrung her dry but also left her drunk on spectacle. "You two—ha—look like a bad fanfic adaptation, stitched together and too angry to die. Truly… iconic."
Yurin knelt beside Clara, his crimson aura dimming to a steady pulse. He placed his palm against her chest once more, not to push, but to steady. His voice was low, steady, meant only for her.
"You defied it."
Clara's human eye was glazed, tears streaking down her cheek. Her Codex eye still glowed faintly, its script twitching with residual fire. "I couldn't… I shouldn't have survived that."
"You didn't survive," Yurin corrected, his tone sharp, clinical. "You endured. That is different."
Her lips trembled. "I can feel it inside me. The words it tried to write. Like… parasites crawling under my skin. Damien's fire burns them back, but the Codex side—" She gagged, clutching her throat. "It wants to obey."
Evelyn rolled onto her side, black tears smearing across her cheek. "Of course it does, darling. You're half script. The Author writes, the script follows. You're a paradox that thinks it can rebel—no wonder you're in constant agony."
Clara shot her a glare, but it broke into a wince as another wave of rewriting pressure tore through her. Her wings spasmed, scattering half-formed words that burned to ash before they left her skin. "Then what's the point? If I can't… even exist without splitting in half—"
Yurin's hand tightened on her shoulder. His crimson eyes burned with unwavering intensity. "The point is that you did exist. That you refused when refusal should have been impossible. That alone proves the Author's hold can break."
Clara stared at him, trembling, her breath shallow. "And if I fall apart completely?"
"Then," Yurin said evenly, "I will hold you together. As many times as it takes. Even if I must stitch you with my own threads."
Her heart jolted, torn between fear and an ache she couldn't name. His words were steady, but there was something darker beneath them—something possessive, binding. She could feel it in the way his aura wrapped around her body like silk that was also chain.
For a moment, Clara wished Damien were here instead. Damien would have wrapped her in warmth, told her she was free even if she burned. But Damien was gone—his fire only a shadow inside her. Yurin was all she had now, and Yurin was not warmth. Yurin was control.
Evelyn clapped slowly, mockingly. "Adorable. You sound like a husband comforting his wife after she's been struck by lightning. Except in this case, the lightning was God, and the husband is secretly planning to murder God and steal the throne."
Neither Yurin nor Clara responded. The silence pressed heavy around them, the void still quivering from the clash.
Finally, Clara whispered, voice breaking: "I'm scared of myself."
Yurin studied her, his expression unreadable, though his hand lingered at her back. "Good. Fear is awareness. Awareness is control. Use it."
Clara closed her eyes, fighting tears. "You make it sound so simple."
"It is." His gaze never wavered. "Either you use it. Or it uses you."
Above, the fracture sealed further, the radiance dimming to a faint scar. The Author had not spoken again. But its silence was not mercy—it was a pause, a calculation.
Evelyn finally sat up, brushing soot and ash from her hair. Her grin returned, too wide to be human. "Ohhh, it's going to rewrite a bigger ending now. You've forced it to draft revisions. That's… catastrophic fun."
Clara slumped against Yurin's shoulder, exhausted. Her body shook with every breath, but her wings flickered faintly with residual ember-script. "If it comes back stronger, I won't—"
Yurin interrupted, his voice calm but absolute. "You will. Because next time, you won't be alone. I will not let it erase you."
His words should have soothed her. Instead, they chilled her to the bone. Because she realized he didn't mean saving her. He meant owning her survival.
And deep in her chest, where flame and script collided, Clara knew that was true.
The void had gone silent. The Author was gone, for now. But in its absence, another truth pressed on Clara like a whisper she didn't want to hear:
Yurin had not fought for her. He had fought through her.