It can’t be true. It can’t be true. It can’t be true. It can’t…

Daphne gave up trying to stop the horrified lament running on a constant high-speed spin cycle in her brain.

It can’t be true. It can’t be true.

Over and over and over, with no end and no relief in sight. She could barely feel Mark’s hand in hers as they followed Runar down the tunnel. In her other hand, the Prism was a cylinder of ice.

How long had they been walking? The Dalamelle of Triunity felt long ago and far away. No one had said a word since they resumed their journey along the Lorist Way, leaving the radiant cavern behind — and, with it, what remained of Daphne’s innocence.

It can’t be true.

But it was.

Amelia, the plucky heroine of the Rise of the Wordmaster series, was a traitor. Daphne’s prized main character wasn’t a prisoner in the Wordmaster’s dungeons. She was a Wordmage in his service and she had caused the death of Hyddrun, the greatest Lorist in Euloban.

The closest kin of her heart.

Daphne wished she could cry. Mark had never understood her enjoyment of an occasional, brief crying session. She’d tried to explain to him that it wasn’t always about being sad. Life was just a lot sometimes. Emotions built up. Every so often, letting herself break down for just a few minutes was like a vitamin shot. It was a tangible release on some internal pressure-valve, even if there wasn’t anything in particular to cry about.

Now, there absolutely was something very particular to cry about, but the tears just wouldn’t come. All she had was the denial chorus on repeat. When that eventually wore itself out, she really would be empty.

Maybe empty is good, Daphne thought bleakly. Maybe if my mind is empty, it won’t be able to hurt as many people… any more than I already have.

She was so lost in this comforting idea that she walked into Runar before noticing he had stopped.

“Sorry,” she stammered. Thankfully, Mark’s stabilizing grip kept her from face planting on the griffin’s back, but she still felt like a bumbling goon. Adding ‘oafish’ and ‘clumsy’ to her growing list of self-insults, she tried to take stock of their surroundings. “Are we there?”

“Nearly.” Runar’s voice was carefully bright, as if determined to avoid any reference to his sorrow in the dalamelle, or the conversation that had caused it. “There is a final stop we must make before we reach the mountain roads, and a task I must complete.”

Daphne waited for Mark to say something very Mark-ish, What task? How can we help? But he was silent, staring at the floor in very un-Mark-ish fashion.

With great effort, she turned the volume down on her inner spin-cycle lament.

Guess it’s my turn.

“What task?” Daphne asked, trying to match Runar’s forced brightness of tone. “Can we help?”

“That is most kind of thee, but it is not required. Thou must conserve thy strength.”

The griffin pointed his wing at a spot on the wall to their left. Peering closely in the dim light, Daphne could just make out the shape of a door, worked cleverly into the carvings so as to be almost fully concealed.

“This is the entrance to a prose-shaft,” Runar explained. “A smaller tunnel, connecting the under-ways to a place of significance above.”

“Like a city,” Daphne said, slowly remembering. “Or a crossroads. Maybe a tavern, or a library outpost?”

“Thou knowest thy history. But that was in the days of yore, before the plains went silent.” The griffin sighed, quickly tried to turn it into a cough, and continued in an even more rigidly cheerful tone. “Now the prose-shafts empty only onto wasteland.”

“But there’s still some life up there,” Daphne pointed out. “Right? Like the area around the Speech Tree. We found letters in the soil — whole word-chains, even.”

Runar nodded. “That is why my tribe still sends scouts along the tunnels as frequently as possible. We stop at every prose-shaft, searching for signs of life and ministering refreshment where possible.” He indicated the spherical bottle pendant around his neck, containing waters from the under-pool. “We also must regularly confirm that the entrances above are still safely hidden and undisturbed. That is why I was lingering by the Speech Tree when I first met thee. ’Twas a prose-shaft we used to join the Lorist Way.”

“Didn’t you say you were trying to get to the Under Library?” Daphne asked.

Runar’s talons scraped the stone floor as he shifted his feet uncomfortably. “That was my true purpose, but I could not confess as much to my brethren. They believed I was merely undergoing a scouting mission.”

Daphne raised her eyebrows. “Sneaky, Runar.”

“I do not like subterfuge, but sometimes it is required for the greater good.” The griffin shook out his wings, filling Daphne’s nostrils with a golden scent. “This is the last prose-shaft before the mountain road begins in earnest. I shan’t be long. Prithee, tarry here until I return.”

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

Runar bent his head towards the center of the secret door and pressed his beak against one corner of an elaborate runic design. The door swung outward into the prose-shaft, revealing a narrow tunnel with a steep upward slope. With a final bow of his glorious head, the griffin disappeared up the prose-shaft.

As soon as Runar was out of sight, Mark turned to Daphne.

“It can’t be true.”

She leaned wearily against the wall, unable to meet his eyes. “It is.”

“No way,” he protested. “Amelia joining the dark side? She’d never serve the Wordmaster.”

“So Runar lied to us?” she shot back. “You’re saying we can’t trust Runar?”

“He never actually said it was Amelia,” Mark pointed out. “Maybe he doesn’t even know her. Maybe she never came to Euloban, and that’s why everything is so messed up.”

For one blissful moment, Daphne could almost believe it. Then she sighed, shaking her head.

“He knows her. Remember his face when I mentioned her?” Daphne shook her head again, wishing she could banish the memory from her own mind, but it was stuck fast. “She’s definitely here. And it’s painful for him. He couldn’t even say her name. She betrayed the resistance. She turned the tide in the Wordmaster’s favor. She caused Hyddrun’s death.”

Daphne hadn’t even begun to figure out how she was going to recover from that part. Hyddrun had always been her favorite character. She’d been looking forward to meeting the noble griffin. In fact, she didn’t realize how much that hope had been sustaining her until it was gone.

Forever.

Why, in the name of every god, couldn’t she cry?

“Well… damn.” Mark slumped against the wall beside her. “So Amelia is here, and she’s evil. How the hell did that happen?”

Daphne closed her eyes. “I don’t know.”

“What are we gonna do?”

“I don’t know.”

“C’mon, Daphne —”

“I don’t know,” she repeated fiercely, her eyes snapping open. “Maybe I shouldn’t do anything. Looks like I’ve done enough damage already.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…”

She didn’t need to find the words. They’d been building in her throughout the whole silent walk from the dalamelle. But the courage to say them out loud — that was the tricky part.

Daphne took a deep breath.

“I mean, Amelia wasn’t just my main character. She was my self-insert. I based her on me. My quirks, my strengths, and my weaknesses.” A wave of panic rose up Daphne’s throat. Gasping around it, she managed the final hurdle: “If my self-insert turned evil and wrecked everything, what does that say about me?”

“Oh, Daphne.”

Mark put a hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off.

“It’s all my fault,” she said wildly. “Remember what Runar said about his home? ‘A place of true joy.’ I found this beautiful world, and what did I do? I created the Wordmaster. Euloban, just being the glorious place that it is, wasn’t enough. I needed drama and action and a chance to be a hero, so I unleashed the apocalypse — and then sent in Amelia to clean up the mess.” Her whole body was shaking, with anger and with cold; the icy Prism had begun to vibrate, sending out waves of subzero shivers through her jacket. “Maybe that’s why I’m not leveling,” she went on, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. “Euloban is holding me back to keep everyone else safe. And it should. I’m dangerous. I’m —”

“You need a nap,” Mark said.

“No, I’m serious.”

“Daphne, I love you. Shut up.”

Somehow, Mark’s voice cut through the waves of cold and the even stronger maelstrom of guilt swirling inside her. He put one hand on each of her shoulders, and this time, she didn’t shake him off.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on here,” he said, holding her gaze. “Not just with Amelia. I mean, we’re in a fantasy world. A FANTASY world, Daphne. Instead of walking to the corner deli this afternoon, I rode a freaking griffin into battle. And that’s cool as hell, but none of it makes sense.”

“We ate letters for lunch,” Daphne murmured.

“Exactly. Wild, right? The whole day has been bonkers, start to finish. But the most bonkers thing I’ve encountered today, by far, is the idea that you, Daphne Green, are a danger to society.”

“But —”

“Bonkers,” Mark said, without a single bit of hesitation. “Absolute madness. Bloody rubbish, as your beloved Brits would say.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know you.” He gave Daphne the little half-smile that never failed to stop whatever anxiety train she was riding, if only for a moment. “You’ve got a beautiful brain. It creates beautiful things. And while you are not perfect, I would not include ‘destroyer of worlds’ on your list of faults.”

“But Amelia —”

“Is a fictional character,” he pointed out. “You put a lot of yourself into her, sure, but you’re not exactly alike. I can think of one big thing you have that she didn’t.”

Daphne thought for a moment. “A recurring nightmare about a human-sized praying mantis?”

“Me, doofus.” Mark gave her shoulders a gentle shake, then wrapped her in a hug. “Amelia and Hyddrun never worked with the same Reader twice, remember? They always managed to find one when they needed one, but the whole series was basically a two-man show. Or a ‘one woman and one griffin’ show. We can talk later about why you didn’t see fit to include me in your story, or a character inspired by me —”

“I wanted to,” Daphne mumbled into his jacket. “But we were just friends then. I’d already given Amelia a griffin-mentor for a best friend. Didn’t want to make the whole story all about author wish-fulfillment.”

“Excuses, excuses.” Mark stepped back, keeping a grip on both her shoulders so he could study her face. “The point is, Amelia didn’t have a friend from home to keep her on track in Euloban. You do. I’ll keep an eye on you, and if I see any signs of evil megalomania, I promise to bring it to your attention.”

Somehow, she was smiling. Her stomach was still churning with guilt, and the Prism was still a block of buzzing ice in her pocket, but the tempest in her brain had settled into its usual background noise.

And she was smiling.

Her favorite character was still dead. Her main character was still a traitor. The beautiful world she’d created from the very best of her imagination was still suffering in the grip of a crazy tyrant.

But Mark was here.

And he was right. As long as they were together, they could figure it out. They’d find a way through.

She gave him a not-so-quick kiss. “Thank you.”

“Any time.” He released her and stepped back, glancing across the tunnel. “Speaking of time, hasn’t Runar been gone a while?”

“Maybe he found some signs of life that needed tending to.” Daphne gazed thoughtfully at the entrance to the prose-shaft. “Or maybe he just needed some space. Clear his head before he gets home. He’s been through a lot today.”

“Not just today. Sounds like it’s been a hell of a year,” Mark said. “Wordmages, Winds, the Under Library possibly out of commission… any ideas on where to start? Helping, I mean.”

“Not yet.” Daphne let go of the freezing Prism. Taking her hand out of her pocket, she tried to shake the numbness out of her fingers. “We’ll have to get to the griffins and see what shape the resistance is in. I know it’s not great, but once we have all the details, we might be —”

A terrible sound came crashing down the prose-shaft. It was the kind of sound that was felt more than heard, rumbling through the earth and up into their bones, setting Daphne’s teeth chattering again.

“Sounds like Runar’s in trouble,” Mark said grimly. “We should…”

But Daphne was already moving, tearing up along the narrow tunnel as fast as a Devouring Windling. She heard a wild cry, and realized a second later that it had come from her own lips.

“I’m coming, Hyddrun! I’m coming!”