They didn't return.
Not the way you expect.
Not with a pop or sparkle.
No ribboned portal.
No fanfare.
Just a blink
And the world was tilted.
The sky was right.
But not quite.
The trees were where they used to be.
But their leaves whispered names.
The ground felt soft.
But also like it was watching.
Flick said it first.
"This isn't home. Not really."
Elira held the air between her fingers.
"It's like a draft through a closed book."
Elian stepped beside her.
No longer glowing.
Just a boy again.
But something old lingered behind his eyes.
"I think we're stuck in the Between," he said softly.
"The what?" Sera asked.
"The place where stories rest. Where they go to sleep. Or get lost. Or wait for someone to read them again."
Amaryn nodded slowly.
"I've only heard whispers. A realm of echoes."
They walked through it anyway.
Because there was no map.
Only footsteps and memory.
The grass turned to sentences.
Actual ones.
When they stepped, the words reshaped.
Like:
"She stepped forward, even though her knees shook."
"He smiled like someone who'd forgotten how."
"They were not supposed to be here, but here they were."
Solin crouched and touched a line.
"Are these ours?"
Elira whispered, "Not yet. Maybe soon."
They found a clearing.
In its center stood a tower.
Not made of stone.
But of pages.
Billions, flapping in slow circles like feathers falling in reverse.
At the top: a single glowing book.
Locked.
And pulsing.
Elian's eyes widened.
"That's where they keep the First Words."
"The what?" Flick asked.
"The start of every story ever told. The first laugh. The first heartbreak. The first time someone believed they could change the ending."
Elira stepped toward it.
The tower breathed.
And then the wind screamed.
A shape descended.
Not man.
Not beast.
A ripple in the page-wall.
A guardian.
Made of crossed-out lines and ripped-up hopes.
It didn't speak.
It didn't have a mouth.
It only erased.
It lunged.
Varn shouted. Shielded.
Sera cast light.
Elian reached for his old pen, but it crumbled to ash.
Elira didn't run.
She stood still.
Letting the words on the ground wrap around her ankles.
Up her arms.
Across her chest.
They didn't strangle.
They wrote.
And the words were hers.
They shimmered:
"She wasn't powerful. She wasn't chosen. But she mattered."
"Because when she stood, others stood too."
"Because her story wasn't just hers anymore."
The creature paused.
Confused.
Shaking.
Its form twisted.
Like it didn't know how to fight something believed in.
Then it burst into ink and rained softly down.
Elira stepped forward.
Touched the glowing book.
It opened.
Inside, nothing but a blank page.
And a quill.
Waiting.
She looked at the others.
"Ready to write what comes next?"
They all nodded.
Even Elian.
Especially Elian.
So she began.
The first word scratched into the world like thunder.
And somewhere far away, a girl opened a book
And began to hope.