…and trembling with potential.
Zixuan stared at it, feeling its weight—not physical, but existential. The blank page pulsed in her hand, resonating with the lake, with the Rebind, with her—the woman formed of punctuation and grief, rising higher now, towering above the villagers like a monument carved out of every regret that had never been written down. The ink in the water stirred, and a guttural voice, echoing with thousands of discarded thoughts, rolled from Salivath's throatless form.
"Write… and she is mine. Leave it blank, and she remains yours."
Cecilion reached out, but his fingers passed through the page as though it had slipped beyond dimensions. His skin withered at the touch—momentarily turning into footnotes, his voice italicized with helpless urgency.
"Don't listen to her," he said, words flickering like glitching subtitles. "It's not a choice. It's a trap dressed as a draft."
But it was too late.
The blank page had already begun to write itself.
