"No matter the power of a character, they remain only that — a personality within a tale. A story, a book, a library, no matter how vast, is still bound by the rules that permit its existence. Even the Author is at the mercy of the grammar that structures their tale."
— Letters from the Era of the Second Dark Age, -650 AS
Luna's POV
I woke up more rested than I had any right to be, like sleep had finally remembered what it was meant to do. My body was light, my head strangely clear, but I didn't move. I lingered under the blanket, clutching the warmth like it might fade if I stirred. The ember of a dream glowed faintly in my chest, and I wanted it to die out on its own instead of me snuffing it.
Eyes shut, I tested the silence in my head. System? The word felt brittle, a placeholder that didn't fit the shape of what was there. Axiom was no better — too pompous, too sharp. I chewed on the thought like stale bread. We needed a better name.
The silence stretched on long enough I began to wonder if I had finally cracked. Maybe I was alone in here again. Maybe I'd dreamed it all. Then, with the patience of stone, it answered:
"If you see it as important, then I am not opposed to the idea."
So that was a yes. My mouth twitched. Alright, naming game it is.
How about Sofia? You seem to know a lot. I thought the words lazily, swinging my legs in the air like a faulty pendulum.
"Correction. I am more than knowledge or its usage."
So, that was a no. Damon? You're a caretaker of sorts, I guess. I rolled the name on my tongue, but it soured quickly. Nope. I sighed, shoved the blanket off, and paced the room. I mumbled names aloud, letting them scrape against the air. Every single one, the system dismissed — flat and final, like a bored librarian stamping "Rejected" across my forehead.
My pacing slowed. Then tell me this: if you're not a chess system, why did you appear as one back then? My brain tipped into a torrent. And how far into the future is "then"? Why can't I cry for Regina? How did I survive the huntsmen? The questions fell out in a jumble, softer now, my voice hushed as though the wrong word could unravel the walls.
"One thing at a time," it said. "I will answer one: you are about 2,600 years into the future."
I froze.
Two thousand, six hundred years. The words dropped into me like iron into water. My pacing broke down into stillness. My knees almost buckled, so I sat heavily at the bed's edge, the mattress swallowing me whole.
My leg jittered. Two thousand six hundred years? My voice came out a whisper, as though loudness would summon something worse. What am I? Who did this?
"Their name… Jaini."
The syllables hit harder than the number. The system went quiet again, retreating like it always did — watching, observing. Never offering comfort, never fully gone either. The idea of being the pet project of some conceptual being was absurd enough to almost be funny, but my laugh caught in my throat.
Jaini. Like the creator of knowledge?
"The High Priestess is knowledge," Logos corrected. "The Jaini is not knowledge itself, but author-level capacity. He holds the pen. The Unborn provide the grammar, the logic, the scope. Without them, the pen scratches nonsense."
I rubbed my temple, trying to wedge the pieces into something coherent. So the Unborn weren't in stories; they were the reason stories could exist at all. Jaini had the freedom of an author but only within the framework they permitted. The analogy fit, but it left me dizzy.
So Jaini knew everything, but wasn't knowledge itself. And he—he tossed me forward like a pawn on a board. Why? Because of you? Because of me?
My throat dried. For the first time, guilt slithered in sharp. Regina's death—was it tied to my being here? To whatever this was?
System… can we bring Regina back?
"Affirmative. But I refuse."
The refusal burned hotter than the affirmation. "What the hell? Why?!" My voice cracked upward, sharp. "Her death matters!"
"Her death is of no consequence to your continued existence," it said, its voice smooth as glass. "Her return would burden you. Would it truly be her? Would she have wanted it? The endeavor offers no benefit."
The answer rang clinical, detached, and unbearably cruel. But the question it left behind — Would it really be Regina? — gnawed like a hook in my brain. It kept ringing, ringing, a phone call I never wanted to pick up.
I stood, then stopped, then stood again. My own body didn't know what to do with itself. My hands shook, but I had no tears. Why can't I cry for her? I whispered. The silence pressed heavier than any reply.
I tried to grab onto something simpler. Jaini, I muttered. So they wrote me out of the past, dropped me into the future. Cute trick. At least now I had a name to the face I wanted to bash in.
Any idea what that clown Méisos meant, by the way?
"Yes," Logos said after a beat. "But not now."
I sighed and collapsed back onto the bed. The ceiling swam. My laughter broke out brittle, half-sob, half-mockery. "You're no fun. All reason, no spark. From now on, your name is Logos."
It didn't object.
Hey, Logos. How many times have I died? The question slipped out, soft as dust. I immediately regretted it. "Right," I muttered, waving the thought away. "You might not want to answer that."
My thoughts drifted. Exhaustion pooled in the corners of my body, dragging me under.
That's when the memory hit. A flicker of Regina: her smile caught between firelight and fear, her hand squeezing mine just before the chaos tore it away. The smell of iron, of sweat, of her hair in that last moment. It stabbed sharp, then dissolved like fog. Gone again. My chest hollowed out.
Sleep folded me up in its arms once more.
The door hissed open.
Five men entered, boots striking the floor in a military rhythm. Their arcane goggles glowed faint green, cutting through the shadows.
"She's out cold," one said.
"Advance."
They moved as one. Syringe pressed to my arm, fluid pushed in. My body sagged deeper, heavier. A stretcher was set, and they lifted me with the precision of long practice. Leather straps cinched tight across me — chest, legs, wrists.
"Who was she talking to in here?" another asked, glancing at the empty room.
"Who knows? Witnesses on the ship said she was acting odd."
The stretcher clattered as they turned. My head lolled sideways; I caught a glimpse of my reflection in one of their goggles — pale, slack, a stranger.
"Unconscious but not a threat," Logos murmured, as clinical as ever. "Continued observation recommended."
They carried me out into the corridor. The boots struck in rhythm, and the ceiling lights smeared into streaks above me. My body was dead weight, but my mind—my mind still ticked. Questions piling, stacking, like books on a collapsing shelf.
Two thousand six hundred years.
Regina's death.
Jaini with the pen.
The Unborn with the grammar.
Logos in my head.
Me — somewhere between pawn and player.
Even unconscious, my thoughts refused silence. The questions grew louder, heavier, until they were the only rhythm I heard.
And beneath it all: the faintest, ugliest laugh. Mine.