August woke up standing.
Which, honestly, was the first red flag. No pillow. No bed. Just… standing. Upright. On a bridge made of what looked like glass and felt like frozen breath. The kind of surface that didn't make sound when you stepped. Just pressure. Like it was listening.
He blinked. "Okay. Either I fell asleep reading, or I'm in a very specific nightmare about minimalist architecture."
Around him stretched mist. Thick, violet, endless. No horizon. No up, no down. Just that weird purple glow that coated everything in soft bruises. Like the whole world was under a blacklight and being judged for its life choices.
There were no walls. No handrails. The bridge just stretched into nothing. Infinite forward. Infinite back. The only thing that wasn't purple or nightmare-fog was the man standing about twenty feet away.
August squinted. "Arthur?"
The figure didn't move.
He had the same shape. Tall, scarred, arms folded behind his back like he'd just finished a TED talk about disappointment. But something was wrong. His hair was too neat. His skin had no burns. His eyes (no way Arthur ever had eyes that calm).
Still, August started walking toward him. "Hey, I know you. You're from the story. You're…"
"No," the man said softly. "I'm not."
August stopped.
"Come again?"
"You said I was Arthur." The man's voice was patient. Too patient. Like talking to children who kept asking why the sky was blue. "I'm not."
Silence stretched across the bridge like taffy.
"Well, you look like him," August said finally.
"That's unfortunate."
August blinked. "Okay, discount Arthur. If you're not him, then who are you?"
The figure didn't answer. He just looked out into the mist like he was admiring a painting no one else could see. Or like he was already bored with this conversation.
This annoyed August. Deeply.
"Alright," August muttered, hands finding his hips. "So let me get this straight. I fall asleep after having an existential crisis about my old fanfiction, and now I'm here. On a bridge. In purple hell. With a bootleg Arthur who speaks in LinkedIn motivational quotes. And this is supposed to be what? Purgatory? A dream? My brain's way of telling me to get therapy?"
The man's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
"You talk a lot."
"Sorry, is that not part of the protagonist package? Should I brood more? Stare pensively into middle distances?"
The man turned slightly. Just enough for August to see that yeah… those weren't Arthur's eyes. There was no weight behind them. No history. Just space. Like looking into rooms that had never been lived in.
"You don't know what this is," the man said.
"No shit."
"But you're here anyway."
"Not by choice."
"Everything is by choice." The man started walking. Slow, deliberate, like he had a rehearsed TED talk about existentialism queued up. "You chose to read. You chose to remember. You chose to care."
August followed because what else was he supposed to do? Stand there and wait for the credits?
"I was twelve," August said. "Twelve-year-olds don't make choices. They make mistakes with crayons."
"You weren't using crayons."
"Figure of speech."
"You were using something sharper." The man glanced back. "Words."
August felt his jaw tighten. "Look, I don't know what kind of weird intervention this is, but I'm not interested in unpacking my preteen trauma with Arthur's stunt double."
The man stopped walking.
Then turned, slow and deliberate, until they stood face to face.
"You want to know who I am?" he asked.
"That would be nice, yeah."
"I'm the part you didn't write."
August's sarcasm died in his throat. "What?"
"Every story has shadows. Places the author won't look. Truths they won't tell." The man stepped closer. His eyes weren't Arthur's, but they held something worse. Recognition. "I'm what crawled out when you stopped paying attention."
"That's…" August swallowed. "That's not how writing works."
"Isn't it?"
"No. You write something, it stays written. It doesn't grow tumors."
The man tilted his head. "Then why are you here?"
August opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Nothing.
Because he didn't know. He'd been in his room one second, then standing on this bridge the next. No doorway. No transition. Just the sudden certainty that he was somewhere impossible.
"You fell asleep thinking about him," the man said, answering the question August couldn't. "About what you did. About why. And something answered."
"Something like you?"
"Something like us."
The plural made August's skin crawl.
They stood at the edge of the bridge now. Beyond it, nothing. Just fog and that endless violet light. It felt too open to be safe, too quiet to be empty.
"What do you want from me?" August asked.
The man looked down at the abyss. "I want you to understand."
"Understand what?"
"That this isn't your story anymore."
August's hands curled into fists. "I wrote it. Every word. Every scene. I know how it ends."
"Do you?" The man turned to face him fully. "Tell me. How does it end?"
"Arthur dies."
"Why?"
"Because…" August faltered. "Because that's what heroes do. They sacrifice. They save everyone else."
"Is that what you think happened?"
"That's what I wrote."
"No." The man stepped closer. Close enough that August could see the cracks in his skin. Hairline fractures, like he was made of porcelain held together by spite. "You wrote a murder."
August flinched.
"You wrote a child taking a knife to his imaginary friend because he got scared of how real it felt." Another step. "You wrote yourself standing over something that trusted you, and you wrote yourself choosing control over connection."
"Stop."
"You didn't kill a character, August." The man's voice was soft now. Almost gentle. "You killed the first person who ever really saw you. And you did it because being seen terrified you more than being alone."
"Stop."
"And now you're here. Because some part of you never stopped regretting it."
"I said STOP!"
August shoved him. Hard. Both hands against his chest.
The man didn't budge. Didn't even sway. Like pushing a mountain.
Instead, he smiled. Small and sad.
"There he is," he said quietly. "There's the boy who held the blade."
August stumbled back, breathing hard. His hands shook. His chest felt too tight.
"You don't know me," he whispered.
"I am you." The man spread his arms slightly. "The part you buried with him. The part that knew exactly what you were doing. The part that did it anyway."
"You're lying."
"Then why are you crying?"
August touched his face. Wet. When had that happened?
The man stepped forward and August stepped back. Right to the edge. Nothing behind him but violet nothing.
"Last chance," the man said. "Turn around. Wake up. Forget this. Go back to your normal life and leave the dead buried."
August's heel touched the edge. One more step and he'd fall.
"Or?" he asked.
The man reached out. Not threatening. Just… offering. His hand hung in the air between them.
"Or prove me wrong."
August stared at the hand. At the cracks in the skin. At the familiar scars he'd drawn a hundred times.
"How?"
"Fall." The man's eyes held no malice. No trick. Just exhaustion. "Fall into the story. Find him. Face what you did. Maybe fix it. Maybe fail. But at least try."
"And if I can't?"
"Then you'll know I was right." He tilted his head. "That some things can't be undone. Some deaths can't be reversed. Some stories end in blood because that's what they were always meant to do."
August looked down at the abyss. Then back at the man who wasn't Arthur but wore his face like a warning.
"You think I'll fail."
"I know you'll try." The man pulled his hand back. "That's what makes you dangerous."
August laughed. Sharp and bitter. "Dangerous? I'm seventeen. I have anxiety. I once cried because I accidentally stepped on a snail."
"And you murdered something you loved because it got too real." The man's expression didn't change. "That's the most dangerous kind of person. The kind who can love something to death."
The words hit like a slap.
August straightened. Wiped his face. Made his choice.
"You're wrong," he said.
"Am I?"
"Yeah." August stepped back. Right to the very edge. "Because I'm going to find him. I'm going to fix this. And I'm going to prove that stories can change. That endings aren't set in stone. That maybe, just maybe, two broken kids can save each other instead of destroying each other."
The man watched him with those empty eyes.
"Bold words," he said finally.
"I mean them."
"I know." A pause. "That's why this is going to hurt."
Before August could ask what he meant, the man moved. Fast. Faster than thought.
His hand pressed against August's chest. Not a push. Just contact. Just connection.
And something passed between them. Cold lightning. Purple fire. A spark that felt like swallowing stars.
August gasped. His back arched. Something foreign flooded through him, coiling around his ribs, threading through his veins.
"What did you…"
"Insurance," the man said simply. "Or kindness. Depends on how this ends."
Then he pushed.
Gentle. Inevitable.
August fell backward into nothing.
He didn't scream. Refused to give the bastard the satisfaction.
The bridge shrank above him. The man watched him fall, getting smaller and smaller until he was just a speck against violet nothing.
Then gone.
August fell through layers. Purple to black to purple again. His body tumbled, weightless and heavy at once. The spark in his chest pulsed. Warm now. Almost comforting.
Almost.
He closed his eyes.
Let himself fall.
And for the first time in years, didn't try to control where he landed.
Impact.
Metal screaming. Glass shattering. Pain everywhere at once.
August hit something hard and unforgiving. Rolled. Bounced. Came to a stop in a heap of bruises and regret.
Everything hurt. Everything. Even his eyelashes somehow hurt.
He lay there, face down, and seriously considered just staying there forever. Becoming one with whatever floor he'd found. Let archaeologists find him in a thousand years and wonder what the hell happened.
"Did you see that?"
"Something fell through the roof!"
"Is it dead?"
"Go check!"
Footsteps. Multiple sets. Getting closer.
August managed to turn his head. Just enough to see boots. Work boots. Worn leather. Practical.
Someone knelt beside him. A hand touched his shoulder.
"He's breathing."
"From where though? Nothing's up there but sky."
"His clothes are weird."
"Everything about this is weird, Marcus."
August tried to speak. Managed a groan that might have been "help" or might have been "end me." Hard to tell.
"We should take him inside."
"Are you insane? We don't know what he is."
"He's a kid, Beth. A hurt kid. We're taking him inside."
Hands grabbed him. Lifted. The world spun in uncomfortable ways.
August blacked out before they got him through the door.
But just before the darkness took him, he heard something. Not from the people. Not from outside.
From inside. From the spark in his chest.
A whisper. Arthur's voice. The real one.
"You came."
Like he'd been waiting.
Like he'd known August would fall.
Like maybe, just maybe, this wasn't the first time someone had tried to rewrite this ending.
August woke to warmth.
A real bed this time. Scratchy wool blanket. The smell of soup and woodsmoke. Somewhere nearby, voices argued in hushed tones.
"…can't just keep random sky-people, Miriam."
"Watch me."
"The Wardens will want to know about this."
"The Wardens can kiss my entire…"
August groaned. The voices stopped.
Footsteps. A door creaking.
An older woman appeared in his swimming vision. Gray hair in a practical bun. Face like she'd survived too much to be impressed by anything. Eyes that had seen some shit and decided to keep going anyway.
"You're awake," she said. Not a question.
"Unfortunately." His voice came out like gravel in a blender.
She snorted. "First sky-fall to survive in my lifetime and he's got jokes."
August tried to sit up. His ribs filed a formal complaint. He stayed down.
"Where am I?"
"My spare room. My house. My problem, apparently." She pulled up a chair. "You got a name, sky-boy?"
He hesitated. Names had power in stories. But lying felt wrong.
"August."
"Like the month?"
"Like the mistake my parents made."
Another snort. "I like you. Don't make me regret it." She leaned back. "I'm Miriam. You fell through my nephew's shop roof. He wants compensation. I told him to stuff it."
"Thanks?"
"Don't thank me yet. City's crawling with Wardens and worse. They find out something fell from the sky and lived?" She drew a finger across her throat. "Questions first. Breathing second."
August's brain caught on one word. "City?"
"Edgeharbor." She said it like it should mean something. When he didn't react, she frowned. "You hit your head that hard? Last free city before the Rift. The only thing standing between civilization and the Hungry Dark. Any of this ringing bells?"
August's heart stopped.
Edgeharbor.
The first city in his story. The place where everything started. Where Arthur first appeared, already running from something.
It was real.
All of it was real.
"Oh," he said faintly. "That Edgeharbor."
Miriam's eyes narrowed. "You're not from around here."
"You could say that."
"I just did." She stood. "Rest. Eat when you can. Don't leave this room until I say so. And if anyone asks, you're my nephew from the farming districts. Took a bad fall. Hit your head. Can't remember much."
"Why are you helping me?"
She paused at the door. "Because something's changing. Been feeling it for weeks. The Forsaken are getting bolder. The Wardens are getting meaner. And now people are falling from the sky?" She looked back at him. "Either the world's ending or it's beginning. Either way, I want a front row seat."
She left.
August lay there, staring at the wooden ceiling, trying to process everything.
He was in his own story. The thing in his chest (gift? curse? both?) pulsed with warmth. Somewhere in this city, Arthur was real. Walking. Breathing. Living the tragedy August had written for him.
"Okay," he whispered to himself. "Okay. You wanted to fix things. Here's your chance. Don't fuck it up."
The spark pulsed again. Stronger. And for just a second, August could have sworn he felt something else. A direction. A pull.
North. Toward the old district. Toward the cathedral where, if his story was right, a certain swordsman was about to make a very bad decision.
August smiled. It hurt his face, but he didn't care.
"I'm coming, Arthur," he whispered. "This time, I'm going to save you."
Outside, thunder rolled across Edgeharbor. But for once, it didn't sound like a threat.
It sounded like a promise.