The city, alive and breathing, seemed to shift with every step Rowan took. The air was thick with the pulse of the Book, the weight of it pressing against his chest, urging him forward. It had been hours since he and Tess had walked through the marketplace, the noise of the crowds still echoing in his mind. Now, as the streets grew quieter, a new sense of foreboding settled over him.
He was no longer just a participant in the city's play. He was its playwright. The people—the wardens, the city officials, the merchants and the poor—they were all waiting for him to give the next word. And yet, no matter how he tried to grasp the direction, it was as though the path was constantly shifting, like a maze that rearranged itself when he wasn't looking.
Tess walked beside him in silence, her gaze constantly scanning the shadows, the alleys, and the doorways. She knew better than anyone that the city was never still. Even in the quiet moments, it hummed with the danger of a thousand unspoken threats.
"You're not telling me something, are you?" Tess said suddenly, breaking the silence. Rowan didn't flinch; he'd known it was coming.
"What makes you think that?" he asked, his voice careful.
"You're distant," she replied, her tone soft but insistent. "You've been distant since the Book... since the appeal. It's like you're a ghost in your own skin."
Rowan's lips tightened, and for a moment, he wasn't sure how to answer. The truth was, he didn't know what to feel anymore. The weight of power, of being bound to something as ancient and powerful as the Book, was a constant pressure on his chest. It was a living thing, a force that took and took, and he wasn't sure how much of himself he had left to give.
"I'm just… trying to figure it all out," Rowan said finally. "Trying to figure out what comes next."
Tess didn't respond right away. She looked at him with that mix of concern and understanding that had always been there, the same way she had looked at him all those years ago, when they first began this journey.
"You've already made it, Rowan." Her voice was barely a whisper, but it hit him like a thunderclap. "You've made the choice, the only choice that could be made. The Book has you. And it's not going to let you go."
Rowan stopped in his tracks, and Tess did the same. For a moment, the city seemed to pause around them, the hum of the street stilled. It felt as though the walls themselves were waiting, listening for his response.
"I know," he said finally, his voice hollow. "I feel it, Tess. The weight of it. The pull. It's like it's never going to stop."
Tess stepped closer, her hand briefly touching his arm, grounding him. "You can control it, Rowan. You don't have to let it control you. You have the power now. Use it. But remember—everything you do has a cost.**
The words echoed in his mind. Everything you do has a cost. He had already paid the price for the Book—for the power it gave him. But what would the cost be for the people of the city? What price would they pay for his decisions?
"I can't do it alone." Rowan said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Tess's eyes softened, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade away. The weight of the Book felt heavier now, but so did the responsibility. He wasn't just carrying the Book—he was carrying the city's future.
"You're not alone." Tess's words were simple, but they cut through the fog in his mind, like a clear path through a dense forest. "I'm here, Rowan. And whatever happens, we'll face it together."
The words were a balm to his soul, and for the first time in days, he felt the weight lift, if only for a moment. He wasn't alone. Not yet.
The Book pulsed at his side, and he knew it was time. The city was waiting, and so was he. The future was like an open page, but the ink had yet to be written. What would he write on it? What would he say?
They continued walking, and the streets seemed to open before them. The city was still alive, still watching. But now, Rowan felt ready. The choices ahead weren't simple—they never had been. But he would make them. For better or for worse, he would choose.
The Book wasn't just a tool; it was a reflection of his soul, a mirror to the choices he had made and would continue to make. And as long as he carried it, he would carry the city with him.
But what kind of man would he be by the end?