“I do not understand,” Bjarni said, his fiery eyes wide. “Thy home, Wordsmith?”

“I’m from… another world,” Daphne said slowly. She took a deep breath. “The same world as Amelia.”

Gjurdok drew in a sharp breath. Clearly, he knew that name.

“But this is weird,” Daphne went on hurriedly. “I’ve seen bits of my world breaking in a couple of times since I came to Euloban. But it’s always been brief, just a flicker.” She turned to Gjurdok. “How long has this been here?”

“I do not know.” Gjurdok was staring at Daphne, his keen eyes even more uncomfortably piercing than ever. She looked away, pretending to study the triangular arch as he continued, “It was already in place when I barricaded myself into these ancient caverns. I have visited every day since. So far as I know, it hath not wavered.”

“But… why?” Runar sounded as lost as Daphne felt, though she doubted the golden griffin was also fighting down an icy wave-attack of vague guilt and existential horror. “What does this world have to do with Euloban?”

“The Wordsmith knows.” Gjurdok’s gaze was heavy even when Daphne wasn’t looking at him. “How didst thou come to be in Euloban, Wordsmith?”

“It — I don’t know,” she answered. “It was an accident.”

“I doubt that,” Gjurdok said. “What exactly came to pass?”

She took another deep breath, gripping the cold, buzzing Prism for support. “I was going to the corner deli for lunch. Mark — my boyfriend — knocked on the door, and when I opened it, he wasn’t standing in my hallway. He was standing on the Silent Plains. I turned around, and my apartment was gone. I was in a tree at the edge of the Wander Wood. Then the Winds were coming up through the tunnels, and we ran, and —”

“When was this?” Gjurdok interrupted.

“Um…” Daphne looked at Runar, eyebrows raised. “A few days ago? I’m not sure.”

“It has been an eventful time,” Runar said softly.

“Only a few days?” Gjurdok’s voice was firm, but surprisingly gentle. “And yet thou hath already achieved great feats, and are part of a noble quest to determine the fate of Euloban?”

“I don’t get it either,” she confessed. “Mark and I were just trying to survive long enough to find a way home. Then we met Runar, and he helped us. Then Mark got taken, and…” Her voice broke.

“Mark is a mighty Reader.” Runar’s golden wing wrapped around her shoulders. “If any can withstand the draining torment of the Wordmaster’s fortress, it is he.”

“I have to save him.” Daphne wanted to cry, but her tears were as frozen as the rest of her insides. She leaned into the warmth of Runar’s wing. “I just want to find Mark, and get us both home. Whatever it takes.”

“But thou dost care for Euloban?” Gjurdok’s question was so unexpected, Daphne forgot the danger of his keen gaze and looked at him.

“Of course,” she said.

“Thou dost wish to see this world freed from the Wordmaster’s plague and restored to its true glory?”

“Of course,” she repeated, wondering where the old guardian was going with this.

“Thou dost feel responsible for Euloban’s fate, and the fate of its inhabitants?”

“Yes!” she snapped. “Yes, I feel responsible. So what? Why should my feelings matter?”

“Thy feelings matter a great deal.” Gjurdok’s eyes were shining. “Thou, Daphne Wordsmith, are the author.”

Time seemed to slow, falter, and then cease altogether. The silence filled Daphne’s ears, louder than a Devouring Wind and heavier than the weight of Gjurdok’s gaze. Even the Prism had gone still in her pocket.

A few eternities later, she heard Runar’s voice, right next to her yet sounding far away.

“Author? What dost thou mean?”

“I mean Daphne is the chronicler of this world,” Gjurdok said, as calm as if he were giving them directions to the nearest dalamelle.

“How?” Daphne demanded, surprised by her own ability to speak at all. “How could you possibly know that?”

“As I already told thee, when one hath breathed in the lore of Euloban for as long as I have, one learns to recognize it.” The griffin bowed his gray-white head. “I can discern my chronicler when I meet her.”

“But I didn’t create you,” Daphne said wildly. “Any of you. I missed so much, and got so many things wrong. Dalamelles, Phrases, the fact that Hyddrun had two kids.” She pointed at Torfinn. “I didn’t even know Daydreams could make noise!”

Torfinn bleated comfortingly. Shuffling over to Daphne, he nuzzled his head into her hand.

“Of course thy knowledge was incomplete.” Gjurdok actually smiled. “And of course thou didst not ‘create’ me. Chroniclers do not create. They merely record. How dost thou think stories work?”

“Apparently, I have no idea,” Daphne said, in a faint voice she barely recognized as her own.

“My question remains.” Runar’s wing was still wrapped around Daphne’s shoulders, as though frozen in place. “Author, chronicler. What does this mean?”

Daphne gently extricated herself from the golden wing so she could look Runar in the eye.

“Remember when we first met, you asked me how I knew so much about Euloban? I said I used to travel a lot, and had visited a few times. That’s… not exactly true.” Daphne paused, sending the biggest wave of reassurance her shaking heart could muster along their emotional link. “In my world, I write books for a living. I’m a professional storyteller. And my favorite books I ever wrote were about Euloban. I wrote about word-chains, and the Pool of Eloquence, and the Hall of Parables, and the three classes. I wrote about Devouring Winds and Rabid Daydreams. I wrote about your dad, and Amelia, and the Wordmaster.” She swallowed. “But I thought I was making all of it up. I never actually came here.”

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Of course thou did,” Gjurdok said, clacking his beak impatiently. “Thou traveled, as all chroniclers do, along the ways of imagination. That is the chronicler’s gift and responsibility. Thou must visit places others cannot reach, and record what thou seest there, that all who read thy account may find the way opened to them in turn.”

Daphne tore her eyes away from Runar and faced Gjurdok, fighting down a hysterical laugh. “So I just happened to dream up a fictional place that was actually completely real?”

“Do not be absurd,” Gjurdok replied. “Dost thou think thy world is the only ‘real’ story?”

Daphne just stared at him.

“Hast thy world forgotten lore so completely?” The old griffin huffed in amazement. “The world chooses the chronicler. Thou didst not ‘happen’ to ‘dream up’ anything. Euloban gave the invitation and opened the way. This world chose thee, Daphne, to be its chronicler and invite others into its story.”

“But I got it wrong!” she insisted, the swallowed laugh souring at the back of her throat. “In my version, Hyddrun and Amelia defeated the Wordmaster.”

“What?” Runar’s voice was a harsh croak.

“That’s how I wrote it,” Daphne said, shooting him a pleading look. “Amelia didn’t turn traitor and become a Wordmage. My story didn’t have Wordmages at all. And I finished writing it years ago. If I were really chronicling this world’s story, we should be deep into the restoration phase by now. We should be rid of the Wordmaster.” Her gaze drifted to the impossible existence of her home-world library, tucked into a small cavern in the depths of Euloban. “Something is very, very off.”

Torfinn nudged his head against her hand, and she scratched his ears absentmindedly. His hide was so soft, and surprisingly thick — more like an English Springer Spaniel than a cow.

Just one more world building detail I missed, she thought.

“Of course something is off,” Gjurdok said briskly. “A chronicler’s travels to the lands of their stories are always limited to thought and word. I have never heard of an author making the journey physically.”

“Oh, good.” Daphne knew it sounded sarcastic, but she was actually rather relieved. “So you do agree that this whole situation is bonkers?”

“Not bonkers,” Gjurdok replied. “Unprecedented? Certainly. But I am a Lorist. The first thing all Lorists must learn is to cultivate a healthy expectation of surprise. The word cannot be tied down. The story is always slipping through our attempts to capture it. Our role is merely to express as much of it as we can, to the best of our ability.”

“What about when it gets away from you entirely?” Daphne stared, unseeing, at what should have been the Chamber of Triunity. “What about when the story takes over the world and hurts innocent people and snatches away the one person you love the most?”

“Then thou must write a new ending.” Suddenly Runar was in front of her, blocking out the disorienting view of the home-world library. Closing his eyes, he pressed his brow against hers. “I do not understand any of this. I confess this lore is beyond my skill. I doubt even a Level 20 could speak to these matters with any certainty.”

“Confirmed,” Gjurdok said dryly. “Or even a Level 40.”

“Level 40,” Bjarni echoed, his voice abnormally quiet and full of wonder.

“But I trust Euloban,” Runar continued. Warmth radiated from the point where his forehead was pressed against Daphne’s, slowly thawing the ice that had taken over her insides. “It is clear that thy arrival here, at this time, was not a matter of chance. Euloban brought thee hither. Euloban is writing a new word, and thou must respond in kind. We must respond. We must write a new ending.”

He stepped back, and she looked at him through eyes suddenly full of unfrozen tears.

“I’m game if you are,” she said.

“Wordsmith!” Bjarni shoved his brother out of the way so he could bounce up and down in front of Daphne, grinning a classic Bjarni grin. “I knew thou art more than a Wordsmith. Thou have been brought here by Euloban itself! Thou art the Cleansing Flame!”

“Bjarni,” Daphne began, but the fiery griffin continued with a triumphant crow.

“What dost the legend say? ‘A word like a spark, spoken from the darkness beyond the darkness of the plague.’ Thou art from the darkness beyond the world, yes? Thou hast appeared like a spark, illuminating the darkness of the Wordmaster’s plague. Thou hast summoned Lore-light, and kindled the flame of triunity in me and my brother.” He flapped his wings, nearly knocking Daphne over. “All that remains is for thee to sweep through Euloban, driving out the blight and bringing restoration!”

“No!”

Daphne’s shout was louder than she had intended. Bjarni stepped back, eyebrows raised in confusion.

“No,” she said again, more calmly. “Don’t call me the Cleansing Flame. I don’t think it’s right for any one person to take that on. That’s — it’s what the Wordmaster did.”

“The Wordmaster?” Gjurdok, too, now looked confused. “What dost thou mean?”

Daphne closed her eyes. Apparently, this was the day for putting all her cards on the table.

“I’ve been having these dreams,” she said. As briefly as possible, she described the three times her subconscious had provided her with access to Amelia’s memories.

“That last one was the earliest,” she finished. “I think that was the beginning of the end for Amelia. The Wordmaster got to her. He made her begin to believe that he might be the solution to Euloban’s problems. He claimed to be the Cleansing Flame.” She pointed to the triangular doorway. “And he did it right here in this room.”

Gjurdok’s eyes were nearly as fiery as Bjarni’s plumage. “That — that — despicable, foul-smelling, unlearned wastrel —”

“We must get through somehow,” Bjarni said, gazing at the door longingly. “I am certain we three are meant to participate in the healing of Euloban. We must review the lore of the Cleansing Flame. Surely Euloban hath provided instructions on how to live out the legend, or at least a clue.”

“The young one is right,” Gjurdok said. “Surely, this strange window into the Wordsmith’s world is here by our enemy’s design. He had already visited this room, and was aware of its importance. If he is trying to keep us from accessing it, we must break through using every tool at our disposal.”

“Every tool,” Daphne repeated.

The Prism lurched in her pocket, suddenly white-hot and buzzing like a hyperactive bumblebee. She pulled it out with shaking fingers and looked at Runar.

“Every tool at our disposal,” she said.

“Nay, Daphne.” The golden griffin’s eyes were wide with fear. “This does not feel like wisdom.”

“What is that?” Gjurdok asked.

“A special tool,” Daphne replied, keeping her eyes on Runar. “A pen that helps my Wordsmithery.”

“My Wisdom says to beware,” Runar insisted. “I do not trust this tool.”

“It’s from my world.” Daphne pointed the buzzing Prism at the vision of the library beyond the triangular door. “That world. If anything could break through, wouldn’t it be this?”

“Daphne —”

“I have to try.” She literally had to. The pen wasn’t giving her much of a choice. It pulled her towards the doorway like a heated magnet, making her whole arm shake with its violent buzzing.

“Wait.” Gjurdok’s voice was suddenly shrill with panic. “Wordsmith, wait —”

From the corner of her eye, she saw a flurry of gold and red-orange feathers as both Runar and Bjarni tried to leap in front of her. But it was too late. The Prism pulled her the last two steps in a stumbling lunge, and the fountain pen’s point crossed the threshold of the triangular door.

First came a loud, sickly POP, like the bursting of a poisonous bubble. A foul stench filled the air. Daphne heard the three griffins coughing behind her, and realized she was gasping herself at the reek.

Through the door, Daphne’s home library vanished. She caught a glimpse of the true Chamber of Triunity, a triangular cavern, lined with shelves full of scrolls and lit by a channel of Eloquent Water. But then her senses were consumed by an all-too-familiar sound of sibilant whispers, building from the furthest corner of the small cavern.

The noise grew at a rate faster than thought could follow, building into a roar like a train running on rocket fuel. It was an excruciating sound, meant to liquefy bones and explode synapses. Daphne was drowning in it. The howling roar was both inside and outside, careening through her brain and wrapping around her limbs like a cocoon. It was catching her up into itself — she actually felt feet lifting off the ground

“Daphne!”

From some impossible distance, she heard Runar’s agonized shriek, but she couldn’t respond. She couldn’t breathe. She could only close her eyes and hope for unconsciousness as the Devouring Wind carried her far away.