---
(A Man Running, A City Watching)
The night was cruel.
Footsteps pounded against wet stone.
A man—
**wild-eyed, breathless—**
staggered through the empty streets of a city that refused to hear him.
His arms trembled under the weight of the woman he carried.
Her lifeless body, draped in a thin white gown, shifted limply against his chest.
Her dark hair trailed behind them like ink spilling over his arms.
He gasped for air, his voice hoarse and breaking as he slammed his shoulder against a heavy wooden door.
MAN (desperate, voice cracking)
"Please! Open up!"
No answer.
He pounded harder.
MAN (shouting, breathless)
"She needs help! You know me! Open the door!"
A pause.
A shuffle from inside. A candle flickered beyond the cracks of the window.
Hope.
Then—
the light was snuffed out.
A slow creak of floorboards. The sound of someone walking away.
He stared.
His breath hitched.
MAN (whispering, disbelieving)
"No… no, please—"
He turned, half-stumbling as he rushed toward the next house.
Another door.
Another chance.
He slammed his palm against it, his bloodied fingers leaving smears across the wood.
MAN (frantic, voice breaking)
"Help me! Please! I'll do anything, just—"
From behind the door,
a whisper.
Not to him.
Someone speaking to someone else inside.
A quiet voice.
Then—
laughter.
Soft at first.
Then growing.
Not just from inside the house.
From everywhere.
The flickering lanterns overhead shook with the wind.
The city around him,
the lifeless windows, the empty streets—
They were laughing.
Not outright. Not loud. But it was there.
A quiet, distant mockery, curling through the alleys, slipping between the rooftops.
Like the city knew something he didn't.
Like it was.. watching.
The man staggered back.
His breath came in shaky gasps.
His wife's body shifted slightly in his arms, her fingers brushing against his wrist.
Cold.
Too cold.
MAN (choking, pleading, looking upward now)
"Why?
Why won't anyone help me?!"
The sky above him stretched, vast and uncaring.
And the city—
its streets, its doors, its empty homes—
Laughed.
.
.
.
[The Book Opens]
Silence.
Then—
A page turned.
Fingers pressed against the aged parchment.
A single flame,
flickered in the quiet.
---
The Festival had begun.
The stone hallway echoed faintly with the sound, wrapped in the golden warmth of lanternlight.
Shadows from the festival lights outside flickered across the walls—dancing faintly, like they too were celebrating.
Sally and King walked side by side.
Not hurried.
Not slow.
Just… walking.
Sally's dress shifted gently with her steps. She had tied her hair differently tonight.
It felt strange. Formal. Too neat.
King, beside her, kept his hands at his sides. His posture firm, his eyes scanning everything.
Every sconce. Every archway.
Every passing servant.
A voice drifted in—smooth, calm, familiar.
"Enjoying the evening?"
They stopped.
The Governor stood ahead, hands behind his back. No guards. No advisors. Just him.
And somehow, that made him stand out more.
Sally blinked.
King offered a polite nod.
"Sir."
"No need for that," the Governor smiled.
"It's a festival, after all."
He stepped closer.
Not imposing. Just… present.
The hallway suddenly felt smaller.
"I'm glad I ran into you two. I was hoping to check in before the night became too crowded."
His gaze drifted toward the faint music in the distance.
"It's an old tradition, this festival. Older than the city itself in many ways.
Every hundred years… we celebrate what's endured."
Sally nodded.
"I-it's beautiful," she said.
"The whole city looks like it's glowing."
"It does, doesn't it?" the Governor smiled again. "That glow is earned. Through peace. Order. Unity."
His words lingered a moment too long.
Then he turned slightly, studying them both.
"Come,"
he said.
"Let me show you something."
Sally and King exchanged a glance.
Not confused.
Just cautious.
Still, they followed.
The Governor walked ahead—
his steps slow, deliberate.
"This must be your first time attending something like this?"
"We've seen.. festivals before."
King said, raising an eyebrow.
The Governor gave a faint chuckle.
"Yes...
I imagine most celebrations don't come with this much… polish."
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Nor this much pressure."
They passed a pair of tall wooden doors—
one slightly ajar, revealing musicians tuning their instruments within.
The sound trailed after them.
Harp strings.
Soft percussion.
Laughter tucked behind velvet.
Sally looked around as they walked.
"So many people already..."
"Just the early ones,"
the Governor replied.
The hallway turned, then opened—
a small overlook balcony, gazing out over the city.
From the high vantage point,
the city below glittered like a bed of stars come alive.
Firelights bobbed through the streets.
Strings of lanterns swayed lazily in the breeze. Laughter rose from far-off corners of the square.
The music was soft here.
Distant enough to be gentle.
Close enough to feel.
Sally stood beside the railing, her hands lightly resting on the edge.
Her dress—simple yet elegant—caught a passing flicker of orange light, casting patterned shadows over her skin.
Beside her, King stood straight.
Neat.
Nervous, in that quiet way only those who rarely showed nerves could be.
"Quite the view, isn't it?"
They turned.
"I always forget how beautiful this city becomes at night… until the festival reminds me."
He joined them at the railing.
"It's a good night for celebration. A good night for memory."
Sally replied, smiling politely.
"It's our first time seeing something like this. The whole city seems to glow."
"Ah, your first Hundred Year Festival?"
King nodded with a small grunt. Sally answered more warmly.
"...We've obviously heard of it before,"
King looked at her,
"It's just that… I've never thought we'd actually be a part of it."
The governor chuckled,
"Many don't.
And yet, here you are.
History brushing past you in lantern light."
A pause.
He turned to them.
"There's nothing to worry about tonight.
The city is safe. All eyes will be on the celebration."
The Governor's eyes lingered on the city a moment longer.
Then—
"By the way,"
he said, almost casually.
"Are the others not joining you?"
Sally blinked.
King's posture didn't shift,
but Sally could tell he was now very much alert.
"They're around,"
Sally said, a little too quickly.
She caught herself, and added—
"They've… been meaning to explore a bit on their own.
Tonight seemed like.. a good excuse."
The Governor smiled.
Not suspicious.
Just… reading.
"Ah. Let them enjoy it, then."
His voice was smooth as ever.
He turned slightly—
just enough to gesture at the view behind him.
"If you get the chance,"
he said,
"bring them here too."
"There aren't many nights like this one.
It'd be a shame if they missed it."
Sally nodded faintly.
King didn't say anything.
"Well," he said,
"I do wish I could stay for longer…"
He turned toward them fully now—
his expression still light, but more formal beneath the smile.
"Alas, I'll be quite tied up tonight."
He gave a short nod—part apology, part excuse.
"But—"
he raised a hand slightly—
"I've arranged someone to keep you company.
A soft sound of approaching boots followed.
From the arch behind them,
a figure appeared.
Young.
Clean posture.
Sharp uniform.
A silver clasp shimmered on his shoulder—marking his rank.
An attendant, stepped forward with a shallow bow.
He stopped beside the Governor without a word.
"Callum," the Governor introduced,
"one of our most capable attendants."
The attendant gave a slight bow.
Sally offered a polite smile.
King gave a courteous nod.
His eyes flicked toward King—just for a second.
The Governor continued, as if he hadn't noticed.
"Callum," the Governor continued,
"see that our guests enjoy themselves.
And if they need anything—anything at all—
they are to receive it."
He nodded.
"Of course, sir."
"Again, do forgive me for not joining you myself.
As you know, tonight is a very.. special night.
nights like this come only once in a century—and I'm afraid they require more of me than usual."
"Of course," Sally replied.
"But do enjoy yourselves. Truly. Rely on Callum if you need anything. He knows the estate better than anyone."
Callum gave the faintest bow.
A pause followed.
Quiet.
Still.
Then—
"…Well,"
Callum muttered.
"Shall we, then?"
Sally hesitated—just for a second. Then glanced at the Governor.
"Thank you."
He nodded once, gently.
"Enjoy yourselves tonight. That is the one duty I will demand."
As they turned to leave, the Governor looked back out toward the city.
And said, softly—
"It may be… the last time the city is ever quite like this."
Sally paused at the doorway.
King didn't.
She looked back.
But the Governor was already watching the horizon.
---
Callum stood quietly for a moment.
Then turned toward them.
"This way, if you'd like."
His voice was calm. Measured.
Not cold, but not particularly warm either.
He led them down the corridor—
a step ahead, but never too far.
Professional. Attentive.
Sally glanced at him briefly.
Then at King.
Neither said much.
The hallway curved gently, and the music from the square began to grow louder.
At the end of the corridor,
they reached a set of marble steps—wide and elegant, descending into the heart of the estate.
Callum paused.
Then turned, just slightly.
"If the crowd grows too much,"
he said flatly,
"I suggest keeping to the west side.
The nobility tend to gather there.
Less noise. More wine."
Sally blinked.
"…Thanks?"
He gave a small nod.
Whether it was genuine or just out of routine—hard to say.
They began to descend.
Step by step,
stone underfoot,
Music drifting stronger with every level.
Sally adjusted the folds of her dress.
She glanced down,
gripping the edge of it as it caught slightly under her foot.
King noticed.
Without a word,
he reached out a hand—calm and confident, offering support.
A pause.
Sally looked at his hand.
Then King looked at her.
Then at his own hand, following her gaze.
Both looked at Kings hand for a solid ten seconds.
Sally swatted it away with the back of her wrist.
She gave him a look.
"I'm descending some stairs, not crossing a battlefield."
King didn't react at first.
Then, with a small shrug—
"Fine. Fall off and die. What do I care."
Sally snorted.
A few steps behind them, Callum's voice cut in—dry and flat:
"For the record, if she does fall, I'm not catching her."
They both glanced back.
He kept walking, arms behind his back, not even looking at them.
"…W-Was it you?"
"…Nope. Didn't even look at him."
A beat.
Sally looked ahead again, deadpan.
"What's his deal?"
And they both continued down,
steps now easing into rhythm once again.
A few stairs later—
Sally's dress kept catching underfoot.
And,
Despite the earlier fuss,
somewhere along the way,
Sally took King's hand anyway.
Halfway down—
The air..
suddenly felt different.
Not colder.
Not warmer.
Just…
different.
A hum began to build beneath the festival music.
Not from instruments—
but from voices.
Boots.
Movement.
Sally slowed, glancing over the banister.
Below—figures had begun to filter in.
Not locals.
Their robes were stitched in ways unfamiliar.
Their dialects strange and thick.
Even their laughter—
too loud. Too formal.
The guests from beyond Vashkael…
had arrived.
---
The staircase opened wider the lower they went.
The crowd below growing steadily,
like ink blooming in water.
King watched them sharply.
Measured.
Almost like he was keeping count.
Sally leaned toward him slightly.
"…You recognize any of them?"
King's answer was short.
"No."
From below,
Callum didn't turn—
but his voice drifted up.
"They're mostly from the outer provinces.
Noble lines.
All invited."
Sally blinked.
"Were they… expected?"
"...And, who.. are they-
Callum didn't pause his walk.
"Yes."
A beat.
"Not all are welcomed.
But, they are.. expected."
...
...
...
The estate pulsed with life.
The night air carried the warmth of torches, the hum of distant music, the murmur of conversations.
Servants rushed through the halls,
nobles sipped fine wine in the gardens,
and,
the festival outside..
continued like nothing was about to change.
---
Meanwhile—elsewhere, behind closed doors.
A small study.
A single lantern flickering against the wooden walls.
The five of them stood in a tight circle,
The book—
rested on the table between them.
Its cover weathered.
Its pages still sealed.
Harry's eyes stayed locked on it.
He adjusted his stance slightly, but didn't say a word.
Jake tapped his foot once, then stilled it.
Aurora stood with her arms crossed, half-leaning against Finn.
Finn—hands in his pockets—bounced lightly on his heels, eyes flicking between the book and John.
And John,
stood the closest.
Quiet.
Focused.
Like the weight of the moment hadn't quite reached him—
or maybe,
it had already settled there.
---
"Soo…" Finn broke the silence first,
his voice low, uncertain.
"This is it,
Let's touch the ancient book, and get magically yeeted into the past."
Jake side-eyed him. "...Very scientific."
Harry cleared his throat.
"The scroll worked.. might be because it was designed that way."
He gestured to the book.
"This… I'm not too sure."
Jake muttered, "A lot of things we're not sure of lately."
John smiled at that,
The edges of his lip twitching.
Aurora stepped closer.
She tapped the surface of the book lightly, once.
Not enough to open it—just to feel it.
"It still doesn't feel real that we're doing this."
Finn nodded.
"Emphasis on 'feel'—
I mean 'real'—
Wait no… the word 'doing'?"
They all turned to look at him.
Then immediately regretted wasting valuable eye energy,
and looked away.
Harry stepped forward.
Picked it up.
Opened it.
The aged parchment crackled.
Inside—
Faint ink.
Faded sketches.
And—
Thin lines of script,
Winding between the drawings.
Stuff they couldn't fully understand.
But the style…
It was familiar.
Same as the scroll.
Jake leaned in.
"What do you think…?"
Finn glanced between them all.
"So… what now? Do we just jump in?"
Jake:
"Jump in? It's a book, Finn.
Not a fricking pool."
John exhaled.
His eyes narrowing slightly.
He reached forward—
Then paused.
"Harry," he said.
A beat.
"You were the one who… 'activated' the scroll, right?"
Harry nodded once.
"Let's try again."
John stepped back slightly.
All eyes shifted to Harry.
He didn't hesitate.
Fingers steady,
He placed his hand—flat—on the open page.
The moment lingered.
Still.
Silent.
Then—
The parchment beneath his palm…
Stayed..
exactly the same.
---
Jake frowned.
"…Was that it?"
Harry didn't move his hand.
"I… don't know.
Maybe it needs more time."
Finn leaned in.
"Or maybe it needs more hand."
He placed his palm next to Harry's on the page.
Nothing.
Aurora squeaked,
"Hey, not fair—I wanna try too."
She added her hand on top of theirs.
And,
Still… nothing.
Finn and Aurora leaned in harder, both now pressing down on Harry's poor hand with all their strength.
Harry yelped,
"OW! Hey—stop that!!"
And when Jake started examining his hand,
with a face that meant "my time has finally come at last,"
"John!! Do something about this!!"
John tilted his head.
"…Try flipping a page?"
Harry did.
Crackling paper.
Same ink. Same sketches. Same silence.
No glow. No shift.
No mysterious magical light show.
Finn:
"...Have you tried talking to it?"
Harry blinked slowly.
"I'm gonna burn you."
He pointed at Aurora.
"And you!!"
They both shrugged.
A beat of silence.
Aurora looked at John.
"So, what now?"
They tried everything.
Hands.
Both hands.
Two hands per person.
At one point, Finn even tried elbowing the book open.
Jake attempted a polite knock.
Aurora whispered a very gentle, "Please?"
John tried staring at it very seriously.
(It didn't help.)
Nothing worked.
After several failed attempts—
including holding hands in a circle, chanting nonsense, and someone (Finn) dramatically yelling "I summon thee, ancient secrets!"—
the energy in the room started to… dull.
The excitement dimmed.
The humor faded into quiet.
Now,
only Harry remained at the table.
The others had taken a seat around the study—tired, thinking, waiting.
Finn was sprawled over two chairs.
Aurora leaned back, arms folded, watching the ceiling like it might provide answers.
Jake flicked through a nearby book that wasn't ancient or magical, just boring.
John stood near the window.
Still alert. But quieter now.
And in the middle of it all—
Harry.
Still flipping slowly.
Still tracing lines with care.
Still trying.
His brow furrowed.
The candle beside him flickered.
But the pages did not.
Not yet.
---
The room had settled into a low murmur.
John leaned back slightly in his chair, arms crossed.
Jake was crouched by the wall now, half-skimming through a pile of discarded notes that definitely didn't matter.
"Y'know," he muttered,
"For something that was supposed to and i quote "go according to plan",
so far, it's really underperforming."
"It's not a toaster, Jakey," Aurora replied, arms folded, pacing idly by the bookshelves.
She peeked over at the table.
"…How's our wizard doing?"
Finn shrugged, flopped back onto the couch beside John.
"I think he's entered the.. bargaining phase."
Jake snorted. "Great. Next is despair then."
John gave a light chuckle,
"Hey, cut that out. He's the only one still trying among us.
And, honestly.. the only one here who's capable of pulling if off."
Harry, still standing by the table, didn't say anything.
He'd been still for a while now.
Leaning forward.
One hand on the book. The other pressed lightly to the edge of the page—just barely grazing it.
"…Maybe it's just broken you guys," Jake muttered.
Finn, leaning back,
"Or, its just too shy."
Aurora immediately added,
"S-Should we give it some room then?"
A voice,
from the table.
Soft.
Barely above a whisper.
"…That's it…"
It was Harry.
Back still turned to them, hunched over the parchment.
His voice was low. Almost… like he was speaking.
To the page?
To himself?
Or… to something else?
No one caught the full sentence.
But something about the tone—
Made them sit up straighter.
Then,
Still facing the book,
Harry called out—
"Guys."
They all looked up.
His voice was calm.
A little too.. calm.
"…Come here."
---
(The Last Look at Reality)
John was the first to stand.
The rest followed, quiet now—
They circled around Harry slowly.
He didn't look at them.
Finn's voice broke the silence—soft, unsure.
"…What? What happened?"
Aurora leaned in beside him, eyes flicking to the page.
"Did you… did you do it?"
Harrys eyes stayed on the page.
Fingers hovering... steady.
He drew in a breath—
Then, extended one finger.
Just a single point of contact.
Pressed down.
At first, nothing.
Then—
The ink twitched.
Just once.
A pulse—like breath beneath skin.
Then again.
Tiny spirals of gold shimmered beneath his touch, curling outward in delicate loops.
Alive.
Finn's breath hitched. "...Oh no."
Aurora leaned in, eyes wide. "Wait—wait, that's—!"
The glow spread—
Not fast.
But intentional.
Curling from the tip of Harry's finger like it knew the way.
The pages shifted, not physically—but visually.
Images surfaced from beneath the parchment like oil rising through water.
Sketches. Paintings.
Moving.
Alive.
Familiar… or, not.
Jake took half a step back. "Oh you've got to be kidding me…"
Harry finally spoke—
Barely above a whisper.
"…It's working."
He looked up at John.
And John—
who'd seen so much already—
still felt his heart hitch.
"…John, we have to go.
Now."
A beat.
Then—
Finn lurched forward.
"Okay okay, wait—wait—get us to the good part!"
He reached for the edge of the glowing page—trying to flip it like it was a menu.
Jake grabbed his wrist. "What does that even mean?!"
Finn: "You know! Like, the beginning beginning! Don't just drop us into the middle of—"
Harry swatted at both of them. "Stop touching it—!"
Aurora leaned over Finn's shoulder, eyes darting across the glowing parchment.
"Wait, wait, go back—what was that drawing?"
"Let me see—!"
"Guys!" Harry barked.
But it was too late.
The book twitched.
Then—
The pages turned.
Fast.
Not by them.
Not anymore.
Flipping, fluttering, snapping through like a storm tearing through paper.
The light surged—gold and white and blinding—pouring from the seams of the book like it couldn't hold back anymore.
"Okay that's not normal—" Jake began—
And then the table cracked.
A wind burst outward from the book—no source, no direction, just force.
The room blurred—melted.
Harry reached back instinctively, trying to grab the edge of the table—but it was gone.
The glow tore upward in spirals now—pages snapping open like wings—
Finn: "Oh COME O—"
And then—
They were gone.
Swallowed.
Erased in light.
The room was empty again.
The only sound left behind:
The rustle of a single page…
slowly settling shut.
---
The door creaked open.
A janitor peeked in—broom in hand, eyes half-lidded.
He looked around the empty, perfectly quiet room.
No kids.
No mess.
Just the faint smell of… smoke? Burnt paper?
And, a book on the table closing by itself.
He blinked.
"Huh."
Then slowly closed the door again.
Click.
A pause.
Then from outside:
"…I am not cleaning that."
.
.
.
A faint ringing filled the air.
Then—light.
Not blinding, not harsh.
Soft, warm, golden.
Like the glow of a candle reflected across endless water.
John opened his eyes.
They were no longer in the study.
The five of them floated in a vast, open space.
Below,
the ground was smooth and reflective, like glass, but their feet made no sound against it.
Above them,
the sky stretched endless and unmoving.
But there were no stars.
Instead—pages.
Floating, shifting, whispering as they turned themselves in midair.
Some blank.
Some filled with ink.
And,
Some bleeding words into the empty sky, rewriting themselves before their eyes.
Jake out a low whistle.
"…Okay," he said softly, glancing around,
"Gotta admit... didn't expect this."
Aurora's voice followed, quiet.
"This is… different."
She took a slow dive forward, watching the pages ripple under her boots like stepping on the surface of a lake.
"…This place feels…"
Her breath caught.
"…weird."
Harry's gaze stayed fixed on the sky above.
"That scroll we touched—" he murmured,
"it was smaller. Contained. This…"
His voice trailed as his eyes tracked the shifting pages overhead.
"…This is something bigger."
A beat.
"And whatever it is…"
he lowered his voice further, almost reverent—
"…we're inside something important."
He glanced at John. "A story being told."
John gave a slow nod.
The ink shifted again, forming something new.
A doorway?
An entry?
An invitation?
John turned, his eyes moving across the others.
The story they were never meant to see…
had begun.
---
[The First Breath Inside]
John's boots touched solid ground.
No more floating pages.
No shifting ink.
The world steadied.
Normal—
but not quite.
The air felt thin, like it might peel away if they moved too quickly.
The light was soft, hazy.
Muted in sepia tones, washed gray like an old film left to crackle and fade.
Everything around them carried a faint grain—
edges blurred, shadows trembling like the flicker of a projector.
They stood in the middle of a narrow cobblestone street.
Stone buildings leaned in on either side, their rooftops dark with age.
Signs swung gently overhead:
a bakery.
a tailor.
a watchmaker.
It was a city.
But a city caught in someone's reel.
No footsteps.
No voices.
No people.
Not yet.
A breeze whispered through, tugging at the fabric of abandoned market stalls.
The sound was hollow, stretched thin.
Like background noise.
Then—
a bell tolled in the distance.
Low.
Lonely.
Its echo crackled strangely in the air, like sound pressed through static.
Finn exhaled.
The mist of his breath drifted white, then broke apart into faint, grainy specks before fading.
"…Alright," he said softly, glancing up the street.
"…that was… smoother than I expected."
Even his voice felt like it carried too far, as though projected across the space.
Aurora took a slow step forward.
Her boot scuffed against the stone—
the sound tinny, like it didn't belong here.
She raised her hand, flexing her fingers as if checking they still obeyed.
Her eyes lingered on the empty stalls, the stillness.
"…It feels strange," she murmured.
Her voice was hushed.
"…like we're inside a memory that hasn't decided to move yet."
Jake glanced back down the street, arms folded.
His tone was flat, though even his words seemed to ripple oddly in the air.
"Yeah, well… real or not, looks like we're stuck in the reel for now."
His gaze shifted back to John.
"…What's the plan?"
John stood quiet a moment longer.
Letting the silence settle.
Letting the scene breathe around them.
Then, steady, calm—
"…Let's walk forward."
No one argued.
Aurora nodded faintly.
Finn rolled his shoulders, hands sliding into his coat pockets.
Even Jake didn't press back.
Harry lingered just a moment longer, eyes flicking to the rooftops above—
the grain flickering at the edges, like the reel might skip.
Then he stepped in line with the rest.
And together—
they moved Forward.
---
[A City Slowly Awakens]
As they walked, the world responded.
Faint at first.
A whisper of movement. A flicker of life.
A shopkeeper appeared behind a wooden stall, setting down a crate of apples.
A woman swept the steps of a bakery, her motions rhythmic, mechanical.
A child ran past them, laughing—
Then vanished the moment they turned their heads.
Jake inhaled sharply.
His eyes narrowed.
"…Did you guys see that?"
Harry's gaze stayed forward.
"They aren't real," he said, voice low.
"Just… memories."
John slowed as his eyes caught the glint of glass.
A watchmaker sat inside his shop.
Bent over a small table.
His hands were moving delicately, adjusting gears of a pocket watch.
He never looked up.
John frowned.
"…A memory on repeat."
Finn rubbed the back of his neck, uneasy.
"So… what happens when we stop moving?"
The answer came naturally.
As they slowed, the world paused with them.
The woman sweeping the bakery steps froze mid-motion.
The flickering lanterns stopped swaying in the breeze.
The flame inside them paused.
The air stilled.
Everything waited.
John felt the shiver crawl up his spine.
He looked at the others.
His voice was quiet, but firm.
"We stay together.
We keep moving."
The others gave small nods.
Step by step,
breath by breath,
they walked on.
---
[The First Sign of the Story]
The city led them forward.
Through empty streets, past frozen people, toward something waiting ahead.
A crossroads.
A wide, open square.
And there—at the center—
A poster,
nailed to a wooden board.
Finn stepped forward first.
He leaned in, squinting at the words.
His voice started soft, but grew sharper as he read:
"'Citizens of Vash'Kael, let it be known…'" (A pause, then sharper.) "'The Governor's Wife is Dead.'"
A cold silence.
Aurora drew in a long, careful breath.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
She turned to John.
Her voice was low, almost reverent.
"…This is his past."
Jake frowned, studying the poster.
"So what the hell," he muttered, shaking his head,
"are we supposed to do with it?"
Behind them—
The city began to move again.
Not just in pieces.
Not in fragments.
The story was starting.
And they were part of it.
---
(The City That Remembers Her Death)
The poster fluttered slightly in the breeze.
Or at least, it seemed to.
John reached out, brushing his fingertips against the paper.
It felt real.
Not like ink shifting on pages, not like a world made of memory.
The moment his fingers touched it—
A bell rang.
Loud. Heavy.
Once.
Then, twice.
Then,
In perfect rhythm,
the city came to life.
Shutters creaked open. Doors unlocked. Footsteps echoed from the alleys.
The air shifted.
John froze as people began to move past them.
Not frozen figures. Not flickering echoes.
Real movement. Real voices.
For the first time since stepping into this world—they weren't alone.
Finn exhaled sharply, watching the crowd form.
"…Don't think they see us," he said quietly.
Aurora carefully stepped aside as a man walked directly past her, not even flinching.
"They don't," she confirmed, nodding once.
Jake stood firm, arms crossed.
His eyes tracked the shifting expressions in the crowd.
"…They're not mourning."
John's brow furrowed.
Jake was right.
People weren't crying or grieving.
They were..
whispering.
Glancing at one another, exchanging looks that weren't of sorrow, but something else.
Unease. Suspicion.
And, from some—
Relief.
Sally had said it before.
The Governor had played host to them,
as if nothing had happened.
As if the death of his wife were nothing but a shadow behind him.
Maybe because—
to some,
it truly was.
[The Conversations They Weren't Meant to Hear]
The five of them drifted apart slightly—
not far, but enough to listen.
People moved past them, murmuring among themselves. Some louder than others.
A wealthy woman adjusted the silk gloves at her wrists. sighed dramatically.
"It's tragic, of course," she murmured.
Then—her voice dropped, laced with something sharper:
"But perhaps it's for the best."
Her companion, a sharp-eyed man, scoffed.
"Tragic?" he said under his breath.
"You make it sound like an accident."
The woman glanced around, lowering her voice.
"It was bound to happen sooner or later.
She never belonged here."
John stiffened.
Aurora caught the look in his eyes.
Her voice rushed out, urgent but quiet:
"…Did you hear that?"
He nodded.
Further down the street, an older man leaned against a wooden railing,
watching the gathering with a knowing expression.
"A hundred years," he muttered,
half to himself, half to the merchant beside him.
"And nothing changes.
People die,
and the city keeps turning."
The merchant sighed, tossing a cloth over his fruit stall.
"Aye," he grumbled, voice low.
"But not all deaths are equal, are they?"
---
Then—
The whispers stopped.
The square had emptied.
First time since stepping into the book, there was nothing pulling them forward.
Just silence.
A strange, hollow kind of silence—
Not eerie.
Not unnatural.
Just… waiting.
Jake muttered first, pacing slightly, his eyes darting around the square.
"…So. That was unsettling."
Aurora's arms were folded tight across her chest.
Her gaze flicked between the vacant street and the poster still nailed to the wooden board.
"They weren't sad," she said at last, voice quiet but firm.
She turned to John.
"None of them were mourning."
John nodded, glancing at Finn.
"What was it that woman said?
She never belonged here?"
Finn sighed, rubbing his jaw.
Finn exhaled slowly, rubbing his jaw.
"Yeah. And people were saying it like it was obvious.
Like… common knowledge."
Jake scoffed, shaking his head as he moved restlessly across the cobblestones.
"Great. So we're in a city where people wanted their Governor's wife dead.
And now we're stuck inside their memories.
Fantastic."
Harry was silent, deep in thought.
His gaze had settled on a stone bench near the edge of the square.
A small, simple spot.
But worn down.
Like someone had sat there, often. For a long time.
Harry's voice was calm when he spoke.
"Someone watched this city.
Someone who wasn't part of it."
Aurora looked over, frowning.
"Haz, what do you mean?"
Harry gestured toward the bench.
"Look at the way the stone has smoothed. The way the moss grows around the edges, but not on the surface.
Someone sat here often."
John studied it now, too.
It wasn't in the center of the square. It wasn't a gathering spot.
It was on the outskirts, near a tall iron gate that led to a narrow side street.
A place where someone could watch without being seen.
Aurora sighed, running a hand through her hair.
"The longer we stay here...
the more I feel like we're looking at a story someone didn't want to tell."
Silence.
Then—
Finn suddenly turned, staring down the street.
His expression shifted.
"…Guys," he said softly, distracted.
"Do you hear that?"
Jake raised an eyebrow, confused.
"Hear what?"
Finn's fingers twitched slightly at his sides.
His head tilted.
Listening.
For a moment—
nothing.
Then—
Then the voices started again.
The crowd stilled.
The people returned.
But this time, they weren't whispering.
And from the far end—
A procession moved through the street.
At the front—
The Governor.
John's breath caught as he and the others turned to watch.
His face was calm. Stoic.
Unreadable.
But not cold.
Not indifferent.
Something was there.
Not grief.
Not rage.
Something worse.
A silence that felt too deep, too practiced.
Like a man who had already accepted something long before today.
And just behind him—
a small, veiled figure followed.
A child.
Aurora inhaled sharply.
"Wait—
is that—"
The Governor's daughter.
Young. No more than five or six years of age.
Dressed in mourning black.
She clutched something tightly in her hands.
And in her arms—
Was a book.
Not just any book.
The book.
The same one they had found.
The same one they had opened.
The same one that now held them inside its pages.
Aurora's breath caught.
John felt it too.
A small thread pulling at something deeper.
The Governor and his daughter passed through the street without a word.
The city watched them go.
And somewhere—
A bell tolled once more.
---
(A Story Waiting to Be Read)
[What Comes Next?]
The bell's final toll lingered—
then faded into silence.
The Governor and his daughter disappeared around the bend of the street.
The people lingered only for a moment longer before slowly returning to their routines.
Shutters closed. Murmurs drifted away.
The city moved on.
But the five of them remained still.
Finn let out a low whistle, arms folding across his chest.
"Well," he muttered,
"…that was something."
Jake exhaled sharply, rubbing his face.
"Yeah, great," he exhaled.
"We're inside a dead woman's funeral procession.
Aurora didn't move.
Her gaze stayed locked on the space where the Governor's daughter had stood—
small, veiled, clutching it in her arms.
"She was holding a book,"
Harry nodded once.
His tone was steady, serious.
"Not just any book.
It looked like this book."
He gestured around them.
"Or at least… tied to it, somehow."
John turned, looking back at the empty street.
His mind was already turning.
"If we want answers," he said quietly,
"we have to follow them."
Jake scoffed, folding his arms tight across his chest.
"Of course we do," he muttered flatly.
Then he sighed.
Finn grinned, clapping Jake's shoulder.
"Glad we're all in agreement, then."
Jake glared.
"Hate you all."
John hid a smirk, patted him on the shoulder and started moving.
And as soon as they stepped forward—
The city shifted again.
Not the buildings. Not the sky.
The time.
---
[The Book Moves for Them]
It wasn't instant.
Not a jarring leap forward.
It felt more like… a natural flow.
The sky brightened slightly, shifting from early morning to midday.
The scent of freshly baked bread filled the air, and the market stalls were now full, merchants calling out their wares.
Time had moved.
But only because they did.
Aurora glanced at Finn.
Her voice low, realization creeping in.
"…It's reacting to us."
Finn tilted his head, lips twitching into a grin.
"I mean—" he said,
"that's kind of polite, isn't it? Adapting to our needs?"
Jake muttered,
Dry. Unimpressed.
"Heh, polite. More like creepy & horrifying if you ask me."
"Noted."
"Yup. Don't have to remind us twice."
Harry snorted.
"Count me in while you're at it."
Jake looked at his brother for some help.
But, John was ignoring the banter,
his focus.. ahead.
He could see it now—
the estate.
Not exactly like the one they had left behind in the real world.
It looked newer.
Untouched.
And standing in the balcony on top of it—
The Governor.
Alone.
Staring out over the city like a man who knew something no one else did.
John drew in a slow breath, steadying himself.
He turned to the others.
Quiet. Certain.
"…This is our next page."
And with that—
they stepped forward.
---
[TO BE CONTINUED IN EPISODE 21]