The once-clear skies above the kingdom were now streaked with deep violet cracks, like ink bleeding through a fragile page. The world around Gerah shimmered unnaturally—as if reality itself were glitching.
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Inside the grand hall, all eyes were on Mara, who stood still with that unsettling black rose in her hand. The petals fluttered, whispering words only she could hear.
“Rewrite the story, Mara. Rewrite your pain.”
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“Stop this,” Prince Xavier warned, stepping forward, his hand subtly brushing the hilt of his sword. “This isn’t the way.”
Mara smiled with eerie calm.
“You never looked at me, Xavier. But now... everyone will.”
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Gerah’s vision blurred. A sudden force yanked her from the hall and into a dreamlike void. Floating pages swirled around her—scenes she had written, characters she’d built. But some were... wrong.
Dahlia crying in chains.
Marco as a traitor.
Anya vanishing in fire.
Xavier... on his knees, begging for forgiveness.
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“This isn't how I wrote it,” Gerah whispered.
A voice responded.
“Because now, it’s not your pen writing the tale.”
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Back in the real palace, Jiru and Dahlia rushed to the main hall after sensing the magical imbalance. They arrived just in time to see Mara raise the black rose.
“Erase the princess,” she commanded.
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Suddenly, Gerah’s seat at the royal table vanished. Her portrait faded. Her name in the royal records turned to smudges.
“No!” cried Anya, fighting to hold onto her memories of her friend.
“She’s still here,” said Jiru, eyes glowing faintly. “Somewhere between the lines.”
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Inside the page world, Gerah clutched a floating quill—a symbol of her original authorship. She could still write. But she was trapped.
“If Mara rewrites me completely…” she said, “…I’ll be forgotten. Forever.”
Then, a glowing light appeared.
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Dahlia.
She reached out from the real world—through a crack in the sky.
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“Gerah… we’ll bring you back.”
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Xavier looked at the sky, where the crack widened, revealing parts of Gerah’s face in fragmented light.
He turned to Mara.
“Then let’s rewrite the war.”
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