Without author, without restraint.
The soil here was soft with unborn consequence. With each step, the Steward disturbed not dirt, but dormant arcs—threads that immediately tried to wrap around their ankles, begging to be woven.
The scroll behind them resisted.
The Sword of Becoming hummed its low warning again.
But this time, the Steward did not draw it.
This was not a place for blades.
This was a place for binding—not in the sense of chaining, but gathering. Like thread into fabric. Like words into song.
At the center of the field stood a figure.
Not made, but being made.
Constantly rewriting. Skin shifting between genres, hair changing color as emotions rose. They had too many eyes and none. They breathed tropes. They bled subtext.
They were the Chapter Unclaimed.
A living draft.
Their voice, when they saw the Steward, was raw with need.
"I have no name."
The Steward nodded.
"I was never given a purpose."
Another nod.
"And yet I am writing. Even now."
