As dawn broke over the restored hills of the Bookborn realm, the peace was short-lived.
A crack tore through the sky—not like ink or shadow this time, but code—glitching red and static white. Letters scrambled in the clouds. Pages twisted unnaturally. And from the breach, a figure descended, cloaked in digital flame, crackling with corrupted data.
The Glitchfire.
He wasn't from the world of stories or magic, but a virus from another domain—a realm of forgotten programs and abandoned AIs. His body was molten text fragments, his voice a chorus of error messages.
Mira backed away instinctively. She reached inside herself to summon her Dryad power… but nothing came.
No vines.
No bark.
Just her — breathless, human.
"Why now?" she whispered. Her pulse raced. "Why can't I transform?"
The Glitchfire noticed her hesitation. He laughed — a cruel sound like rewinding cassette tape.
"You've spent your power rewriting lost tales," he said. "Now you face one that was never meant to exist."
He lunged.
Mira dodged. Barely. She rolled aside, dirt kicking up behind her. The ground he landed on immediately fragmented — the grass turning into binary digits, dissolving.
She didn't need strength. She needed strategy.
He came again, swinging an arm like a corrupted firewall. Mira ducked, slipped under, and threw her quill at him. It bounced off harmlessly, melting in mid-air.
Okay. Not that.
He charged again. This time, Mira ran toward the forest of paper trees nearby. Their pages flipped in the wind like whispers — she had no plan, just instinct.
He followed — glitching branches breaking as he passed, the world becoming unreadable where he walked.
Inside the forest, Mira stopped. Eyes darting.
She spotted it — a mirrorleaf tree. Pages reflective like polished glass.
"Come on, monster," she muttered.
The Glitchfire crashed into the clearing.
Mira stood with her back to the mirrorleaf.
He hurled a digital blast — Mira ducked at the last second.
The blast hit the mirror.
Reflected, right back at him.
It didn't destroy him — but it stunned him, briefly glitching his form into exposed code.
She saw it: a vulnerable core — a line of red text looping endlessly.
if (story == null) { destroy(); }
That was his weakness. He existed to delete what wasn't written.
Mira pulled out a hidden parchment. Quickly scribbled a story—just three lines:
> There was once a lost being of fire and code.
> But someone saw him.
> And gave him a new story.
She threw it at him.
It hit his core.
The script shimmered.
The loop broke.
The Glitchfire screamed, shaking violently — until his form softened, flickered… then reset.
He collapsed, flames extinguished. Not gone — but no longer corrupted. Breathing. Real.
Mira stood, exhausted.
Still human. But victorious.
She looked at her hands — no vines, no bark — just ink-stained fingers.
"I guess I don't need power to rewrite stories," she said quietly. "Just belief."
From the trees, the Bookborn watched in awe.
And somewhere above, the library's stars began to realign.
(Fun stories by Gabrielle Ehi).