The sense of dread that had been inflating in my chest ever since my dream vanished in an instant, as though the balloon had finally burst and a still lake was left in its place. My heartbeat slowed, and everything besides the appearance of the Mad King was filtered out. He spoke, but I paid no attention to the words.

The lake shifted as though I were at the precipice and could either go tumbling down a torrential waterfall or wipe away all my problems beneath a massive tsunami. The characters began to settle into their places, acting out the moments before my waking dream.

I struggled against the story, unwilling to see the ending in my dream become reality. Still bound by the story John had told, I remained frozen where I was. Pieces of the conversation began filtering in as I watched the Mad King step over John’s body, picking up the discarded book. The plages flapped against one another, the sound echoing in the oddly silent throne room as everyone watched with bated breath, wondering how he would react.

He flipped through the pages, disgust written across his face. Without even bothering to snap the book shut, he flung it to the ground, where it slid through the blood-stained floor. It stopped before me, the wind rushing through the window, fluttering the pages and causing them to brush lightly against my knee.

“So,” the Mad King said, lending down to grasp Shahrazad’s delicate chin with a meaty hand, “Yet another storyteller turns traitor,” he tightened his grip, lifting his other hand in a sharp gesture. Just as the guards released their hold on her, the Mad King flung Shahrazad to the ground, leering over her discarded body.

“I’ve stayed your execution long enough,” the Mad King said, placing his hand against his hip and drawing a large curved ornate sword from where it hung in the scabbard on his belt.

My gaze dropped down to the book lying against my knee. It was the source of all our troubles, the entire reason we’d stayed. And, if I could only move, it was within my arm's reach. But I couldn’t move, attack, or run. The waters churned.

Something in my chest shifted, and the pages burned as they trailed across my leg. I expanded past my body, reaching out for the tiny spark I saw hidden within the confines of the book. I nearly jumped when the sparks reached back. The room before me briefly bled from the warm gold of dawn into the silver moonlight library. Light footsteps echoed against the darkened floor, and I felt the cold smoothness of leather-bound books beneath my fingertips. My next breath had the nostalgic smell of dust leaking from the pages of old books, mixed with the almost fruity scent of freshly printed ink.

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These shattered memories of this tiny wandering star and the stories she’d loved resonated with me, recalling fond memories I’d had of huddling beneath my covers with a flashlight, falling between the pages of Lord of the Rings, away from my cold and friendless home and into the warm world of Middle Earth, surrounding myself with the friendly fellowship.

Though the stories we loved were different, our love for the escapism of the written word was one and the same. The tiny spark of the broken star fled the pages of the discarded book, sinking beneath my skin and sparking against the chained flames of my magic, shattering them completely.

As the Mad King lifted his sword ever-so-slowly, his face red with fury and his eyes burning before the rising sun, I breathed in again. We–I was free. With a whispered word, I summoned my gun back from my inventory.

The star flared brightly in my chest, and when the gun landed in my hand, it was warm. Calmly and quietly, I raised it, aiming it at the Mad King. The forms of the Mayor and the guard I’d shot hours ago flickered briefly over his form, and the gun shook and jumped in my hands, the barrel leaping between Shahrazad and the Mad King as panic built and churned in my chest.

With a tug, I was back in time, aiming at the guard while Cove fought the rook. For a moment, I was teetering between the two moments in time, the fire beneath my skin doubling. The warm presence of the star shone like a beacon, pulling me back toward the present. I struggled against the current of time, fighting against the waking dream that threatened to pull me back under, back into the fight against the rook.

I cut the connection, but my past emotions lingered.

I didn’t let the barrel fall. With one final sharp breath of leather and ink and a final rush of warmth from my chest, the water stilled. The gun steadied in my hands as the sword lingered above the Mad King’s head. This time, I didn’t let the gun get weighed down by fear.

I aimed beneath the symbol of his rule, at his temple right below where the feathered and jeweled crown rested against his head.

With a very deliberate movement of my pointer finger, I changed the story and pulled the trigger.