The woman watched him like a scholar examining an incomplete map—curious, patient, but cold.
Elian stood barefoot on the damp earth, heart pounding against ribs that felt too thin to carry the weight of what he'd just lost. His skin was still wet from the lake. His bones still remembered the Void.
His mind searched for a memory that no longer existed.
His 14th birthday.
He remembered the year. The weather. The smell of rain. But no faces, no voices, no warmth. Just a hollow space that throbbed faintly behind his eyes.
And she had seen it happen.
The woman stepped closer, her robes whispering across the moss. The moonlight shimmered faintly against the parchment textures of her face—seams barely visible, like sutures holding back something older than flesh.
"You paid the price," she said. Her voice was calm. Soft-spoken, but threaded with something ancient.
"I didn't have a choice."
"You did. You just didn't like any of the others."
Elian stared. "What are you?"
She tilted her head. "What do you see?"
"I see someone wearing her own history."
Her smile widened, and for a flicker of a moment, something moved beneath the paper of her cheek. A ripple. Like an ink stroke beneath vellum.
"Good. You're beginning to understand."
She reached into her robes and withdrew a scroll, sealed with a wax glyph shaped like a spiral of thorns. She held it out.
"This is your next map."
Elian didn't take it.
"I'm not drawing anything for you."
"It's not for me," she replied. "It's for you. And what's left of this Shard."
Elian hesitated. The Codex Map strapped to his back shuddered slightly at the scroll's presence, as if recognizing its kin—or rejecting it.
"…What do you mean, what's left?"
She said nothing. Only pointed toward the spire in the distance, that black tower stabbing into the sky.
"That is called the Spindle, and it marks the center of a Synthetic Remap. This Shard is being rewritten as we speak."
Elian's blood ran cold.
"That's not possible," he said. "Only a Cartographer with high-tier Inkcraft can attempt a full Shard overwrite. And even then—"
"Even then," she echoed, "they would need forbidden glyphs, memory anchors, and a Map Engine—devices lost before the Inkfracture."
She turned her papered face toward him fully.
"Unless they built a new one."
---
Elian's legs gave out.
He sat in the grass, eyes wide, brain spiraling.
Someone had reconstructed a Map Engine—a mythical artifact that could forcibly redraw reality. If it worked, they could rewrite entire Shards, erasing cities, twisting lands, rewriting memories.
And Virelow…
Maybe that's why it started fading.
He looked up.
"You said I'm the last who can stop it."
"Yes."
"Why me?"
"Because you're still unbound."
Elian blinked. "Unbound?"
The woman knelt before him. Her parchment face creased softly like a page folded in thought.
"Most Cartographers are now linked to dominions. Guilds, cities, warlords. They follow mapped orders, draw only sanctioned glyphs. They've forgotten what Ink truly is. You still draw from pure memory."
Elian swallowed.
"So what happens if the Spindle finishes its work?"
"Then this Shard dies. It will vanish—not with a bang, but with a new map line. No one will remember it existed. No one will miss it. It will be… overwritten."
Elian shivered.
"You said you brought me back. From the Void."
"I did. But only barely. The Ink tried to consume you. It tastes your doubt. Your guilt."
Elian's eyes fell to the ground.
"I tried to save Virelow…"
She didn't reply.
---
Silence stretched between them.
Then he spoke again.
"…What's your name?"
The woman seemed surprised.
"No one's asked in a long time."
He waited.
"Scripture. That's the name I was given when I became what I am now."
"Were you once… human?"
She looked to the sky.
"I was once something softer. Now, I am made of memories. Stories. Faces I have buried in ink."
Elian didn't know how to respond.
Instead, he reached out and took the scroll.
The wax burned away at his touch—no flame, just a soft hiss like a whisper leaving lips.
The parchment unfurled itself mid-air.
The map glowed.
It was… broken.
Unlike any map he'd ever seen.
Lines shifted subtly, refusing to settle. Regions blurred. Symbols rearranged when he blinked.
"What… is this?"
"A living map," Scripture said. "Made with unstable Ink. It's attuned to the Remapping signal. It will take you to the weak point."
Elian frowned. "So I'm being sent to sabotage a Remap."
"Yes."
"By myself?"
Scripture stood again.
"For now."
---
He rose slowly, body aching, spirit frayed. He slid the strange map into his satchel. The Codex vibrated faintly in protest, but quieted after a moment.
"What happens if I fail?"
Scripture's eyes darkened.
"Then this becomes just another forgotten place."
She turned and walked into the trees.
"Elian."
He looked up.
She didn't turn back.
> "Don't try to draw over the truth.
Let the map show what it fears."
Then she vanished.
---
📍Later — On the Trail to the Spindle
The forest bent strangely.
Trees arched in the wrong direction. Rivers ran upward before curving into mist. The sky shimmered with glyph-like constellations.
Elian moved carefully, following the unstable map's guidance. It hovered before him in flickering transparency, its lines twitching like nerves.
As he walked, he began to hear… voices.
Faint. Familiar.
His mother. His old teacher. A girl he once kissed behind the bakery.
But none of them were here.
The Remapping signal was leaking into the forest.
Warping memory.
He stopped near a crooked tree and pulled out the Codex.
"I need stability," he muttered.
He dipped the stylus into the Ink.
> Map Glyph: Stabilize Terrain
The symbol formed—a square nested within a circle, ringed by anchors. He etched it mid-air, and the Ink flared.
The ground beneath his feet locked.
The trees ceased bending.
The air cleared.
It would only last a few minutes. But it was something.
Then he heard footsteps.
Real ones.
He spun, stylus raised.
A figure stepped from the mist.
Younger than Scripture. Late twenties. Lean, sharp-eyed, cloaked in a worn traveler's coat. A Cartographer.
Elian didn't recognize him—but his Codex glowed like a wound at his side.
"Didn't expect to see another Unbound," the man said.
"I'm not looking for company."
"Too bad. We're both being hunted."
"…By who?"
The man gestured upward.
And Elian saw them.
Far above. Floating on invisible threads across the sky.
Ink Reapers.
Twisted beings made of shredded maps, their forms barely stable. Faces covered in wax-sealed paper. They scanned the land, seeking violations.
"Remap enforcers," the man said. "If they catch you drawing unauthorized glyphs near the Spindle…"
Elian's stomach turned.
"What's your name?"
The man gave a tired smile.
"Quill. And you're late to the apocalypse."
---
> And from atop the Spindle,
a single new line was drawn.
Not in ink.
But in blood.