They had always known the ending would come.
That was the curse of story—its structure demanded closure. Arcs resolved. Conflicts concluded. Even in ruin, there was finality.
But not here.
Not now.
Because something had refused to end.
The shape hovering above the Pool had no face, yet they felt its gaze. Not the gaze of judgment, but of expectation—like a Reader waiting for the next line, knowing the page should turn, but unsure if it ever would.
Jevan lowered the quill.
"I thought you were the Thread," he said.
I was.
Until I read myself.
Its voice was not sound but impression—carried in the twitch of leaves, in the ink that refused to dry.
"I don't understand," Elowen said. "How can a thread read itself?"
Because you left me untied.
Because you wrote without knowing where you'd end.
And that gave me space to choose.
Mira stepped forward, sword now fully unsheathed—not in aggression, but recognition. Her eyes narrowed.
"You're not Unwritten."
No.
