The mark didn't wash off.
Vey stood at the basin in his small, crooked-roofed house, scrubbing his wrist until the skin went raw. The black stain pulsed faintly, not like ink, not like paint, but like something alive. A word that had not yet been spoken.
He scrubbed harder. Nothing.
Behind him, Rex leaned against the wall, arms crossed, face pale. For once, the usual smirk was gone. "You're gonna peel your arm off," he muttered.
Vey didn't stop. "It's not coming off."
"No shit."
"I'm serious, Rex."
"I know you're serious!" Rex snapped, louder than he meant. He dragged a hand down his face and exhaled. "Sorry. Just—this is insane. All of it. That… thing. The voice. The bell. And now your arm's glowing like it swallowed a quill. What the hell are we supposed to do?"
Vey stopped scrubbing. His reflection in the water looked wrong—pale, eyes too wide, hair plastered damp against his forehead. He barely recognized himself.
"He said to pretend," Vey murmured.
Rex frowned. "Pretend what?"
"That we don't know."
A silence stretched between them.
Rex laughed nervously. "Oh, great plan. Brilliant. We'll just smile and nod and go back to bakery chants like good little puppets. That'll keep Mr. Author and Mr. Editor off our backs forever."
"Do you have a better idea?" Vey snapped.
Rex's mouth opened, then closed. He slammed his fist against the wall. "No."
The sound echoed too loud in the tiny room. Both of them flinched.
Outside, the village moved as if nothing had changed. The bell had tolled its seven groans, the baker had sold his bread, the widow had limped her daughters through the square.
Everything exactly as it always was.
Except now Vey heard it. The rhythm. The repetition. The cracks in the page.
And he couldn't un-hear it.
---
By midday, they forced themselves into the square.
It looked the same as every day: stalls lined with fruit, children darting between carts, the smell of bread and smoke in the air. Villagers spoke in simple pleasantries, smiles plastered like masks.
But Vey noticed.
The shepherd laughed at the exact same moment as yesterday.
The merchant dropped the same coin and muttered the same curse.
The widow warned her daughters about the forest in the same pitch, the same words.
All of it looping. All of it written.
Rex leaned close, whispering, "Stop staring. You look like you're about to stab somebody."
"I can't help it," Vey muttered back.
"You have to. You heard him—pretend. Otherwise—" He lowered his voice to a rasp. "Otherwise the Editor comes."
The word made both of them shiver.
Vey forced his eyes away from the villagers. Focused on Rex instead. "Then talk to me. Keep me grounded."
"Grounded? Sure. Fine. Let's—uh—talk about food." Rex gestured toward the baker's stall. "How about bread? Bread's safe, right? Everyone likes bread."
"Bread for the morning, bread for the soul," the baker intoned, sliding loaves onto the counter.
Rex winced. "Okay, maybe not bread."
Vey's lips twitched despite the terror gripping his chest. "Smooth."
"Shut up." Rex scowled, but there was relief in the banter.
They walked deeper into the square. Vey tried to match the villagers' blank cheer, but his eyes kept darting to the stain on his wrist. It pulsed, faint and steady, like a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
Then—
A whisper brushed his ear.
Not the Author's booming, everywhere-voice. Softer. Closer.
"Vey pretended badly."
His knees nearly buckled. His breath caught.
Rex grabbed his arm instantly. "What? What is it?"
Vey's lips barely moved. "It's… it's watching."
Rex's eyes darted around, wide and frantic. "Where?"
"I don't know. Just—act normal. Please, Rex. Please."
For once, Rex didn't argue. He nodded quickly, forced a grin, and launched into some nonsense about goats and cheese. His voice shook, but he kept talking.
Vey forced himself to laugh. Too loud. Too sharp.
The whisper came again.
"And Rex laughed with him, though fear gnawed their bones."
Rex's laughter broke instantly, cracking like glass. His eyes were wild.
"Vey," he hissed through his teeth. "I can't—I can't fake this. I'm not—"
"Don't stop." Vey's grip on his arm tightened. "If you stop, it notices."
Rex swallowed hard, then pasted the grin back on, lips trembling. "So, uh, you know… goats. They're—funny. Right? Stupid goats. Eat anything. Even—" His voice cracked. "—even books."
The moment the word books left his mouth, the square went silent.
Not the villagers—they still moved, still spoke their lines.
But above.
The whisper paused.
Vey's chest seized. His wrist burned like fire.
And then—like a quill scratching too hard against parchment—another sound cut through the air.
A correction.
The widow's limp shifted. One daughter's hair turned from red to brown mid-step. The shepherd's laugh dropped an octave.
Small changes. Subtle. But wrong.
The Author was rewriting.
Vey gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to scream.
Rex leaned close, whispering desperately, "Tell me you saw that. Tell me I'm not crazy."
"You're not crazy," Vey whispered back. His pulse thundered. "We're in it."
"In what?"
"The draft."
The mark on his wrist pulsed harder, and for a moment, letters flickered on his skin. Not clear enough to read. Not yet. But there.
Watching. Waiting.
Rex saw it too. His face went ashen. "Vey… your arm…"
"I know."
"What the hell is it saying?"
"I don't know."
They stood in the middle of the square, both trying to breathe, trying to smile, while their world glitched around them.
And then, faint as a blade drawn across paper, came another whisper:
"The Editor is patient. But not merciful."