Daphne was done playing.

Her time in the Wordmaster’s dungeon had been brief, but it had snapped something inside her. The blatant ripoff of the Under Library’s design, the dozens of cells all holding helpless prisoners, the pain in Hyddrun’s unseeing eyes, and the short glimpse of Mark stuck in the same horrific mind-draining wind — any one of those sights was a bring-you-to-the-brink sort of experience. Taken all together, they pushed Daphne so far beyond the brink that she’d forgotten what ‘the brink’ looked like.

And to top it all off, there was the confrontation with Amelia…

Yes, Daphne was done.

She wasn’t quitting. Neither was her brain. Her alertness and determination only grew as Amelia and Mud Man escorted her up a long, narrow staircase and down a long, narrow hallway towards the Wordmaster’s council chamber. All her senses and abilities were firing at exceptional capacity.

But she was done playing.

So done, in fact, that when she got her first sight of the big bad evil guy’s supposedly scary HQ, her gut response was to laugh.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

If the dungeons were a gross version of the Under Library, the Wordmaster’s council chamber was a distorted knockoff of the Hall of Parables. The Wordmages had brought Daphne in through the main door, which was shaped to resemble the arched entrance to the Lorist Way. Rows of windows lined each wall, with ledges underneath. Most prominently, the central dais was a twenty-foot tall pillar, fifty feet in diameter.

It was all such a clear attempt to copy the chamber of the griffins’ Lore Council, and just as clearly pathetic.

For one thing, all the stone was unadorned and blank. All the carving in the Hall of Parables gave that room a sense of weight, like the richness of story was constantly steeping in the very air. The Wordmaster’s empty walls made the room feel like an unfinished rush job.

More importantly, that central dais had no faithful fellowship of griffins on it. This was not a place for the meeting of minds, or the sharing of burdens, or the building of community. The Wordmaster’s operation was a one-man show. The massive platform held one solitary figure dressed in mud-colored robes, his arms raised as a gray funnel of wind swirled around him, churning down from a hole in the ceiling and pouring all the thoughts and stories being drained from the dungeons into his single greedy mind.

One tiny man, on a platform built for many griffins to hold counsel.

Despite the awful sight of the Devouring Wind’s reverse-vacuum function, Daphne laughed again. Mud Man and Amelia elbowed her harshly from either side, but that just made her laugh even harder.

“Seriously,” she said. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Something amuses you?”

The voice billowed out from the solitary figure on the dais, echoing off the blank stone walls until Daphne felt surrounded. Still, she didn’t blink.

“Not really,” she called up. “It’s too stupid to be amusing. Why would you copy a design from griffins? You’re a human. The Hall of Parables was built for creatures with wings, dude. You can’t even fly.”

It was the Wordmaster’s turn to laugh. “Oh, but I can.”

The gray funnel vanished as he stepped out of it. Opening his mouth, the Wordmaster exhaled. A roaring sound filled the room… and the Wordmaster lifted off the dais. He soared up to the ceiling, then over to one of the highest ledges on the walls, propelled by some invisible force.

“You see?” Amelia sounded defiant. She gave Daphne another elbow-jab for good measure. “He controls the Devouring Winds. He breathes them out, and they take him wherever he wishes to go.”

“One should not be so quick to judge another’s limitations, Daphne.” The Wordmaster touched lightly on a few other ledges before returning to the dais. He waved his hand, dismissing the Wind, and the roaring sound ceased. “I am surprised to find you so impolite.”

“And I am surprised to find you so unimaginative,” Daphne countered. “I’d have thought absorbing all those stories would give you at least a little boost in creativity, but your whole fortress is a cheap imitation. Do you have any ideas of your own? Or do you just copy the stuff you drain from others?”

Mud Man snarled. From the corner of her eye, Daphne saw him uncoiling his mind-chaos whip.

“Peace, Ulf.” The Wordmaster held up his hand, and Mud Man stepped backwards with a bow. Then the Wordmaster turned his attention back to Daphne. “I do not drain, my dear. I collect in order to preserve. But if you object to anything about me, you have only yourself to blame.” He smiled down at her. “I am what you made me.”

Only a few days before, this would have been enough to send Daphne into a shriveling spiral of guilt and self-loathing. But Done Daphne had a much tougher skin.

“Nope,” she said flatly. “I still don’t understand completely how this all works, and I’m not sure what it means to be a chronicler, but I know I can’t take fault for any of… this.” Daphne waved her hand to indicate the whole ‘Wordmaster’ aesthetic. “If you want to be a pathetic copycat creep, that’s your choice. I’m not responsible.”

“Not responsible?” The Wordmaster’s smile got bigger. Even from twenty feet away, it turned Daphne’s stomach. “But you must take some credit. I could not have gotten this far without you making such excellent use of the gift I sent you.”

Daphne’s stomach turned over again. “Gift?”

“I believe you have a very special fountain pen in your pocket,” the Wordmaster crooned. “Haven’t you ever wondered where it came from?”

The Prism gave a violent lurch, buzzing and radiating oppressive heat against Daphne’s side. She pulled it out automatically. It continued to buzz as she held it up, looking small and insignificant in her hand.

“The pen?” Her own voice sounded like it was coming from far away. “You’re saying the Prism came from… you?”

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“Of course.” The Wordmaster spread his arms wide. “You’re welcome!”

“But — wait.” Daphne closed her eyes, gave her head a firm shake to clear it, and reopened her eyes. “The Prism helped me. It didn’t drain word-power. It gave. And I didn’t ask for anything. It came to me. It just showed up, in the —”

“In the library,” the Wordmaster finished. “The very spot where you had spent hours chronicling my story.”

“Euloban’s story,” Daphne corrected.

“Does it not bear my name?” The Wordmaster chuckled merrily. “You called it Rise of the Wordmaster for a reason, Daphne. And you poured so much of yourself into it! All that creative labor, for so long, concentrated in one physical place… the wall between our worlds grew so very thin at that writing desk. It was a perfect focal point for me to carve out a window. The window was small, and short-lived, but it was enough to get my gift through.”

Daphne held up the Prism. Her brain felt like it was being wrapped in layer upon layer of cotton. “You broke through the wall between worlds to give me… a pen?”

“A very special pen,” the Wordmaster crowed. “A pen that contained just enough of my power to infuse every word you wrote with enchantment. A pen that inspired you to bewitch thousands of readers. A pen that funneled all that inspiration and adoration back to me, giving me the boost I needed to take my plans to the next level.”

A thought pierced through the fuzzy sluggishness in Daphne’s mind, and she winced.

“The Wordmages,” she said. “You got strong enough to dazzle and deceive. You were able to corrupt Amelia.”

“There was no corrupting,” Amelia retorted, her voice rigid with anger. “The Wordmaster —”

“I know, I know,” Daphne spat. “He opened your eyes, and all that other brainwashing jargon.” She kept her eyes on the Wordmaster. “But you couldn’t have done it on your own steam, could you?”

“I confess it would have been difficult to convince the Wordmages without your aid.” The Wordmaster gave a mocking bow. “Not impossible, but wearisome.”

“So you gave me the pen, and I gave you Amelia. And Amelia gave you the resistance.” Daphne’s snark-shield was gone, replaced by the suffocating cotton wrapped around her brain. She could see the Prism buzzing in her hand, but she couldn’t feel it. “When did you decide Euloban wasn’t enough? Or was it always the plan to tear down the wall and take over my world also?”

“Oh, that wasn’t my idea,” the Wordmaster assured her. “I was quite content with our mutually beneficial arrangement. It is my belief that Euloban itself brought you in, as some sort of last-ditch effort to stop my healing work. Of course, once the door was open, it could be made to work both ways.” He flexed his fingers like a chess player about to deliver the killing blow. “Thanks to Euloban, I was able to send much bigger things than pens through to your world.”

Images flashed across Daphne’s mind. The corner deli, Story’s End Bookshop — both torn apart by Rabid Daydreams. And all those innocent people…

“So you see,” the Wordmaster continued, “all my success in both worlds was possible only because you made such faithful use of the Prism. When it comes to ‘the rise of the Wordmaster,’ Daphne Green, you are responsible.”

Daphne didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. All she could do was stand there, holding the buzzing Prism in her unfeeling hand, like some useless author-statue.

After a long moment, the Wordmaster spoke again.

“Since you are responsible for the fate of both these worlds, I assume you would be open to hearing about a compromise I would like to propose?”

“Compromise?” Daphne echoed.

“You return to your world. Take Mark with you. I will recall my forces to Euloban and seal the door between our worlds. You continue to write, using the Prism. Enjoy your flourishing career.”

Daphne waited.

“And?” she prompted, several seconds of silence later. “What’s the catch?”

“Catch?”

“You said this was a compromise,” Daphne said. “In this deal, I get my life back. What do you get?”

“I thought that was obvious,” the Wordmaster replied. “I get Euloban.”

The Prism gave an especially violent lurch, piercing through the numbness in Daphne’s fingers.

“Right,” she said slowly. “I keep using the Prism, which keeps funneling power through to you.”

“Exactly!” The Wordmaster spread his arms again, beaming. “Just a bit longer, and my healing work will be complete.”

“Meaning you’d get strong enough to squash the few surviving griffins and take over everything?” Daphne broke in.

The Wordmaster blazed on, ignoring her. “I can then devote all of Euloban’s resources to its revitalization. We can both spend the rest of our lives serving our separate worlds through the power of the word!”

“If there’s any word-power left in my world,” Daphne said. “Just how many Rabid Daydreams did you push through?”

“Ah, details.” The Wordmaster applauded. “I admire your attentiveness to such matters, Daphne Green. It is the mark of a true storyteller. Of course, I would make sure your world was set to rights. Rabid Daydreams are simple creatures. I can not only recall them, but reverse any damage they have done.”

“Seriously?” Daphne asked, far more impressed than she wanted to admit.

“The Wordmaster is always serious,” Amelia said. “He does not make empty promises.”

Daphne took in a deep breath. “Let me get this straight. You’ll reset my world. I can go back with Mark and pick up where I left off. You seal the doors so my world stays safe. And all I have to do is keep using the Prism?”

The Wordmaster nodded once. “That is my proposal.”

“And you would promise never to break through and wreak havoc in my world again?”

“You have my word.” He gave another slight bow.

“I see,” Daphne said thoughtfully.

The Wordmaster leaned forward. “I knew you were clever, Daphne Green. Do we have an agreement?”

“I see,” Daphne continued, “that you really, really need me. And the Prism. I see that you can’t win unless I keep spoon-feeding you power.”

The Wordmaster’s mouth opened, but only a terrible roaring sound emerged, like the approach of a jet-fueled train. Daphne’s ears popped, but she kept going, her voice rising above the gathering wind, “I see that you’re completely dependent on tricks and smoke and mirrors. I see that you’re nothing without the pawns you lean on. I see your terror that those pawns will discover how helpless you really are.”

“How dare you!” The Wordmaster’s voice was a shriek in the oncoming storm. He lifted off the dais, hovering in the air like a vulture. “I will show you how helpless I am, Daphne Green. I will keep you here and drain all your stories! I will destroy both the worlds you love, and make you watch!”

“That sounds like a terrible ending.” Daphne held up the Prism in both hands. “Let’s write a new one, shall we?”

Her hands began to shine, pulsing with Lore-light. The golden glow spread down her arms and over her whole body, encasing her in a radiant shield of word-power.

“No!” Amelia lunged, trying to grab the pen, but she bounced off the shield and went sprawling on the floor.

“Ulf!” the Wordmaster howled above the Devouring Wind that was holding him aloft. “Go! Gather the Wordmages!”

Daphne felt the warmth of the Lore-light permeating her skin, burning away the sluggish cotton from her mind.

Time to finish that Word of Truth, she thought grimly.

With a voice clear enough to cut through the loudest big-bad-evil-guy tantrum wind, she recited the full poem — the word-chain she had almost completed in the Hall of Parables:

“I was made to soar on words Whose Love-swept current undergirds My wings — but now, ’midst loud Unheards Which roar in gusts too strong for birds

I’m blown off-course — and, helpless, driven On before the daily given Daily from my roots more riven Flailing for a life worth livin’

But I was made to plumb the deeps To sound the bell where Wonder sleeps And wake — but now, the buzzer beeps So stridently; its screeching keeps

Me sleeping in muted blur Still hoping Rest will soon confer With Purpose, making Vision stir The pot of simmering dreams that were

Once boiling — till they overflow To coat my soul in powdered snow Beneath my winter blanket growing Slowly, till the world will know

That I was made to soar on high To dive more deeply than I sigh Though buzzers howl and tempests cry I’ll touch the depths and take the sky.”

Dimly, she was aware of light spiraling out from her, forming a flame-funnel far bigger than the thought-drain whirlwind the Wordmaster had been using. The fire was pouring from her hands, where the magic fountain pen was still buzzing. She could almost hear it screaming.

With a final wordless cry, Daphne snapped the Prism in two and threw the melting pieces on the floor.