The doorway of black fire didn't burn.
It hummed.
A low, broken song.
Like someone crying through their teeth.
Elira stepped through first.
The others followed, quiet as shadows.
They entered a room with no edges.
No sky.
No floor.
Just floating ink.
And a boy
Standing on a platform of fire-made-glass.
Writing.
He looked like a question no one wanted to ask.
Young.
Old.
Empty.
Bright.
His pen dripped flame.
And everything he wrote twisted into real.
He turned slowly.
Eyes gold.
Not glowing.
Just wrong.
"I was waiting for you," he said, voice like an echo falling backwards.
Elira stared.
"You're the one rewriting the end."
He didn't deny it.
"Someone had to. No one liked the old one."
Sera whispered to Varn, "He looks familiar…"
Elira nodded.
She remembered him now.
The nameless boy.
The one who sat beside her at the academy for a single day.
Then vanished.
"I thought you ran away," she said.
"I did," he replied. "Into the story. Because out there, I was nothing."
He raised the pen.
The air shook.
"And now I am the final word."
Flick drew a dagger.
Solin readied a shield of thought.
Amaryn whispered a protection spell.
But Elira didn't move.
"You can't end it," she said.
"Not alone."
He laughed.
A sound like ink bubbling in a fire.
"I'm not alone," he said.
And shadows stepped forward.
Figures half-formed.
Made from broken hopes and dropped dreams.
They looked like people.
But their eyes were empty.
"They root for me," the boy said.
Elira's chest tightened.
"Not really. They were made to."
He hesitated.
Just for a moment.
"You don't understand," he snapped.
"No one cheered for me when I needed them. I was a background thought. A forgotten sentence. Now they chant my name. And I matter."
The pen flared.
Flames lashed out.
Elira dodged, barely.
"Then why do you sound so lonely?" she asked.
He stopped.
Wavered.
Elira stepped forward.
She pulled out the only thing she had left.
Not magic.
Not weapons.
Just her voice.
"I remember you," she said.
"You sat beside me. You dropped your inkpot. I helped you clean it up."
"You smiled, but your eyes didn't."
He shook.
The pen flickered.
The fire dimmed.
"You were kind," he whispered.
"I didn't even know your name," she said.
"I didn't have one," he whispered.
She held out her hand.
"You can stop writing the end. Come write with us."
The world pulsed.
Behind her, the others watched.
Waiting.
He looked at the fire around him.
The empty figures.
The half-story of destruction.
Then he whispered:
"…Elian."
Elira smiled.
"Nice to meet you, Elian."
The pen vanished.
The fire melted into words.
The broken sky healed.
Elian stepped forward.
Tears running down his face.
"You really think I can still belong in a story?"
Elira nodded.
"Only if you help write it."
And behind them, the real ending began to shape
One full of pain, and hope, and people who don't always win…
But try.
A story for everyone.
Even the forgotten.
Especially the forgotten.