Arin shut the door to his chambers with a soft click, the sound oddly final in the quiet of the night. His fingers brushed against the smooth wood of the desk as he walked to his seat. The flickering candlelight painted dancing shadows across the walls of his study, casting an ethereal glow over the shelves of old, leather-bound books. He exhaled slowly, loosening the cravat around his neck, the tightness of it reflecting the tension within him.
Tonight had weighed on him. The words with Evelyne, the subtle warnings from his father, the overwhelming realization of how fragile this world truly was—all of it had pressed down on him like an invisible weight. But there was something else, something lingering in the recesses of his mind, something that had been gnawing at him since he regained his memories.
The novel.
The book from his past life that had first brought him to this world, where the narrative of fate and destiny had seemed so simple, so clear. He had read it not as an ordinary story, but as a map of what was to come, a guideline that painted a tragic, yet comforting path. But now, standing here, in this world that felt so real, so vibrant, Arin saw the cracks in the story.
The protagonist—the man who had become the hero of the tale—had been the embodiment of perseverance, fighting against forces beyond his control. He had been molded by hardship, his every action driven by the weight of an unspoken duty, his goals often clouded by the relentless forward march of fate.
At first, Arin had admired that hero's strength. His endurance, his willingness to sacrifice everything, to stand firm against impossible odds. He had fought for a future that was not his own, driven by an ideal of what was right. But now, standing in the midst of his own unfolding story, Arin could no longer see that hero's path as something to be emulated.
Because the truth was, that hero never questioned the world he lived in. He never stopped to ask whether the suffering, the sacrifices, the unrelenting march of fate, were necessary. The protagonist accepted his role because the story dictated it. His pain was the price of progress. His struggles were necessary for the "greater good." But that was where Arin saw the flaw.
That protagonist never saw the why.
Why did things have to happen that way? Why was the world so relentless in its demand for suffering and sacrifice? What was truly at stake in the grand scheme of things? Arin shook his head, rubbing his temples, trying to pull together the fragments of his thoughts.
The novel he had read wasn't like other stories. It was not a simple tale of good versus evil, nor was it a hero's journey based on grand ideals. It was, at its core, a story about systems, about the way the world itself twisted people into roles they had no say in. It had woven a narrative around inevitability, making the characters mere puppets in the hands of fate, with no room to question or resist the course laid out for them.
But Arin? He wasn't content to be a puppet.
He had been given a second chance—this world, this life, was no longer some passive recounting of a pre-written tale. He understood now that he was not simply an observer. He was a participant. And with that participation came the weight of his own choices. No longer could he look at a world as though it was set in stone, as though fate's hand could never be shaken.
His hand clenched into a fist, his nails digging into his palm. This was where the novel had failed, where it had offered no answers—because it had never asked the right questions. Why was there always the need for one person to bear the weight of the world's failings? Why must the hero be sacrificed for the sake of peace? Was the cost of survival truly worth the price of an individual's soul?
In this world, Arin realized, people had not merely been born into their roles. The system of Samsāra Shakti—the ancient power that dictated destinies—had created a world where the strong preyed upon the weak. The powerful had the privilege of rewriting their own fates. But the weak? They were left to be crushed underfoot, simply another casualty of the "greater narrative." Was that justice? Was that what he had been given a second chance to embrace?
No.
He had to change the story.
The novel had shown him one side of the world—a side that had been filled with endless struggles and sacrifices, a side that glorified suffering. But Arin now saw that this was only part of the picture. The novel was unique in its portrayal of fate, but it had been blind to the most important truth: life was not simply about sacrifice. It was about choice.
And that was where the protagonist's story had faltered. He had never considered what would happen if he chose not to play by the rules. If he had resisted fate's cruel demands. If he had decided that a world bound by bloodlines, by a preordained path, was a world worth changing. But now, Arin was in this very world, and it was his responsibility to make those choices—to face the same decisions the protagonist had never dared to confront.
His thoughts wandered back to the nature of his own power, the Śapathajīvi, the Vowbound Chronicle. It was the perfect mirror to his dilemma. His power lay in words, in vows, in binding the very fabric of reality with his promises. And yet, that power, while immense, was also a delicate thing. It forced him to consider every word carefully. Every vow would be an unbreakable contract, and the consequences of failure were dire. The very act of bending reality with his words required an understanding that few could ever achieve.
Arin leaned forward, his eyes tracing the open pages of the book on his desk. It was as though the world was inviting him to rewrite the rules, to defy the boundaries that had been set by the novel. He had the power, the knowledge, and the opportunity. But did he have the strength to carry it out?
He could feel the weight of history pressing against him, the knowledge of what came before—the heroes who had accepted their roles, the villains who had fallen. The system had been in place for so long, and Arin knew that challenging it would not be simple. It would require more than just defiance. It would require understanding, sacrifice, and perhaps even the destruction of the system itself.
A final thought came unbidden: What if the world itself was the greatest villain of all?
Arin closed his eyes, the flickering flame of the candle dancing before him. There was no simple path forward. But for the first time since his awakening, he felt the stirrings of something deeper than uncertainty.
A resolve.