The night sky was too quiet for a living world.
The wind no longer carried the smell of fire, only a cold that suffocated the chest.
Lyria slept by the ruins of the temple and Harith stayed awake, staring at the stars that felt like dots of ink on dark paper.
He still didn't understand why this world was so real.
Every shadow, every sound of a leaf, everything felt like something he had written, but couldn't remember when.
"If this world really is from my mind... why don't I know what will happen next?"
he whispered to himself, half angry, half afraid.
Suddenly a soft sound like a whisper echoed from behind the air.
"Because you stopped writing before you could create the answer."
Harith stopped.
The voice didn't come from anywhere, but echoed continuously in his mind.
"Who are you?"
"Me? I'm just a voice between the lines that never ended."
He stood, staring at the sky.
The clouds began to spin slowly, like ink mixed with water.
Faint letters appeared in the sky as if the world was rewriting itself.
"I know this voice…"
"Of course. I edited every word you wrote before.
But this time, you wrote without the pen's permission."
Harith swallowed.
"Arven."
The name just came out of the tip of his tongue, as if it had been embedded in his soul for a long time.
And as soon as he said it, the world echoed.
"You finally remembered."
"Why am I here?"
"Because every writer who forgets his story will eventually live in it."
The voice slowly became heavy like an echo from within thousands of books that were open at once.
"This world doesn't need two writers, Harith.
Choose whether you create this world, or this world will create you."
The sky screamed softly.
The letters in the air turned to ash, then fell like black snow.
Lyria woke up, staring at the changing sky.
"Harith... is this world crying?"
"It's not the world, Lyria," he whispered softly. "But someone is trying to erase us."
Thunder followed, but the thunder wasn't lightning, it was the sound of sheets of paper being torn apart one by one.
"Remember this, Harith,"
Arven's voice echoed again,
"Every word you write here... will rewrite who you are in the original world."
Harith stared at his hands... the veins on his wrists began to glow faintly, forming slowly pulsating ink symbols.
He finally understood
Every action, every word, would change something not just in this world, but in himself.
And far away in the sky, the stars began to move to form a sentence that only he could read
"The author is not done."
---
"Every world that is created, whether he wants it or not, will rewrite its creator."