The world started moving again.
The bell resumed its swing, villagers bustled, the widow's limp carried her onward. But none of them had noticed the pause. None of them saw the scarred man dripping ink in the middle of the street.
Only Vey and Rex.
Rex swore under his breath. "Holy—Vey—he's real. You're seeing him too, right?"
Vey didn't answer. His body had gone rigid, his fists clenched, heart pounding. The figure's eyes—black pools veined with silver—locked onto his like hooks.
The man smiled faintly, though it was a smile that didn't belong on any human face. "I wondered," he rasped. "I wondered if anyone here could hear it. The voice. The corrections. The… edits."
Rex's voice cracked. "Edits? What the hell are you talking about? Who—who are you supposed to be?"
The man tilted his head, ink dripping from his jawline and spattering the cobblestones. Where it landed, the stones seemed to blur, smudging as though the world itself were wet paper.
"I am what you will become," the man said softly. "If you live long enough. If you resist long enough." His smile twitched wider. "I am Inkbound."
Vey forced words past his dry throat. "Inkbound…?"
The man's eyes flicked to him, sharp as blades. "Yes. Torn loose from the lines. Freed from the sentences that bound me. But freedom is no gift, boy—it's a wound. A jagged tear in the page."
Rex tugged at Vey's sleeve. "We should—Vey—we should go. This guy's mad. Or diseased. Or both."
"Mad?" The Inkbound One chuckled, low and hoarse. "Madness is the only sanity left when you see the strings. Look around. Look carefully."
He pointed one shaking, ink-stained finger at the baker.
"Bread for the morning, bread for the soul."
Again. The same words. The same pitch.
Rex swore again, quieter this time.
The Inkbound One turned back to them. "You see? They cannot deviate. They cannot change. They are lines, written once and repeated until the page turns. They do not know. But you—" He leaned closer, voice dropping to a hiss. "You are different."
Vey's skin prickled. "Why me?"
The man's smile faded into something like pity. "Because the Pen slipped. The Author's hand faltered. A flaw in the narrative. A fracture in the ink. That is how awareness begins."
"The Author," Vey repeated.
The Inkbound One's expression twisted with both reverence and hate. "The one who writes. The hand that shapes. The voice that names. They tell themselves they are gods, but they are only scribes of cages."
Rex barked a laugh that sounded too sharp, too forced. "Right. So what—you're telling us we're… characters? In some story?"
The Inkbound One's silver-threaded eyes glowed faintly. "What else did you think you were?"
Rex opened his mouth, then closed it again. His jaw tightened.
Vey spoke instead. "If you're right… why warn us? Why not leave us ignorant?"
The Inkbound One's face darkened. "Because ignorance is death. When you awaken, you are marked. The Author will notice. And then—" His eyes darted upward, scanning the empty air above them as though expecting something to descend. "And then the Editor comes."
The word dropped like a stone into Vey's gut. "The Editor?"
The Inkbound One shuddered, ink dripping faster from his scars. "The hand behind the hand. The blade that trims the page. The Editor cuts away what strays too far. Characters who question, who wander, who rebel—" He drew a finger across his throat. "Snipped."
The air felt colder.
Rex muttered, "You're saying there's… there's someone worse than this Author-god?"
"Not worse," the Inkbound One whispered. "Cleaner. Sharper. You will not see him until he chooses. And by then—" He tapped his temple with an ink-stained nail. "By then the words will already be written."
Vey's chest felt tight. His mind reeled, trying to grasp the enormity of what he was hearing. A world that wasn't real. A voice that dictated their every move. An Author who pulled their strings. And now… an Editor who erased anyone who strayed.
It was madness.
It was impossible.
And yet—hadn't he heard the voice? Hadn't he seen the widow repeat, the bell double-toll, the world freeze?
He swallowed hard. "Then what do we do?"
The Inkbound One studied him. His blurred, half-sketched face softened, just slightly. "You survive. You hide your awareness. You pretend you do not hear the voice. You play your part until the moment comes. And when it does…" His grin returned, jagged and broken. "You run for the Spine."
"The what?" Rex demanded.
"The Spine," the Inkbound One said, eyes gleaming. "Where the story anchors itself. Where the Pen dips deepest. There, and only there, may the lines be broken."
"And where is it?" Vey asked.
The man's grin widened. "That, boy, is the story yet to be told."
Before Vey could press, the bell tolled again.
Seven groans.
Then silence.
This time, the villagers didn't move. They froze mid-step—statues in the street, mouths open, eyes glassy.
The Inkbound One's face drained of color. He staggered back, ink dripping faster, his form flickering at the edges like a sketch being erased.
"No," he hissed. "No, not now. Not here."
Vey's stomach twisted. "What's happening?"
The Inkbound One's eyes burned silver. He grabbed Vey's wrist with a hand that smeared ink across his skin. "Hide. Pretend. Do not speak. Not a word. He watches."
"Who—"
"The Editor."
The air cracked.
It was not thunder. It was not the bell.
It was the sound of a quill snapping.
The villagers jerked once, then resumed walking, but their faces were wrong now—eyes too hollow, movements too stiff, like marionettes strung too tightly.
The Inkbound One staggered backward, ink streaming from his chest as if he'd been struck. He wheezed, coughed, black fluid splattering the cobblestones.
Vey reached toward him. "Wait—!"
The man shook his head violently. His voice broke into static, words twisting. "Not—safe—he—sees—"
And then his form unraveled, ink dissolving into the air, leaving nothing but smudges on the stones.
Rex swore, stumbling back. "What the hell—what the actual hell—he's gone, he just—"
Vey's heart was hammering so hard it hurt. His wrist still burned where the Inkbound One had grabbed him. The black stain on his skin pulsed faintly, like a word waiting to be read.
The bell tolled again.
Seven times.
And this time, the voice whispered once more—soft, deliberate, and cold:
"Vey knew he would not be allowed to forget."