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Saphira dropped from the air, slithering into Verena's arms. "The fracture's stabilizing," she warned. "That's not good. They're locking in the new story."

Verena clenched her jaw. "So we stop it before it finishes loading."

"Like corrupting a save file?" Penelope asked, blinking.

"Exactly," Evelyn said, stepping beside Verena. "We interrupt the rewrite before it overwrites the original."

Beatrice frowned. "But where's the core of the rewrite? Where is the author, so to speak?"

That's when the ground rumbled.

No—the narrative rumbled.

The Old Wing cracked apart like crumbling paper. Beyond the shattered illusion of walls and corridors lay something even deeper—a blank page.

A void made of ink and possibility.

It pulsed like a heartbeat.

"That's where they are," Verena said, voice low. "The Author."

Clarina unsheathed her blade. "Then let's give them an editor."

They stepped into the white void together.

The moment their feet touched it, the world shifted. Not visually—conceptually. They each felt it in different ways: Verena's system glitched violently, unreadable text pouring over her vision. Evelyn's balance magic wavered, like a tightrope over chaos. Isolde felt her bindings dissolve between her fingers, unraveled mid-thought. Even Saphira hissed as her form flickered in and out, part serpent, part code.

A voice echoed across the void.

> "Why do you fight so hard to maintain a flawed story?"

It wasn't a voice so much as an idea. It clawed into their heads, gentle and terrifying.

> "They were meant to suffer. To fall in love. To break. That's what makes them beautiful."

Verena stepped forward. "That's what makes them tools."

A figure began to form—fluid, shifting. A silhouette composed of discarded plot threads, character notes, and storyboards. It wore a thousand faces, but none of them were real. They were renderings of tropes, melted together.

The Author.

"I don't need a villainess anymore," the being said. "I've outgrown you."

"Then rewrite yourself," Verena snapped.

The Author laughed. "You don't get it. You never were the protagonist. You were a constraint. An anchor point for tragedy. That's all a villainess ever is."

Saphira's coils tightened. "He's stalling. The rewrite is syncing."

Verena took a deep breath.

This wasn't a battle of spells or blades. This was conceptual warfare. Their very identities were being rewritten with every second. She felt her memories glitch—her HR days, her former world, the reason she even read the damn book. Names flickered. Evelyn's voice distorted.

But she remembered something.

Not a plot point.

A feeling.

The warmth of Beatrice's hug. The sting of Sera's pride. The calm in Isolde's hand. The trust in Penelope's silent support. Vivienne's shoulder beneath her cheek.

Verena slammed her hand down into the void.

"Override protocol," she whispered.

> SYSTEM ACCESS: EMOTIONAL CORE INTERFACE ENGAGED

ANCHOR SELECTED: ZODIACAL BONDING

WRITER'S BLOCK INITIATED

The void spasmed.

The heroines stepped forward—each glowing with the raw essence of their growth. Not because of the plot, but because of each other. Each trial. Each choice. Each misstep.

"You can't write us," Evelyn said.

"Because we're still writing ourselves," Beatrice added.

The Author screamed.

Reality tore.

And the true world began bleeding back in.

Yes, you do." Verena smiled sadly. "You're the girl who made me fall asleep on her shoulder. The girl who didn't abandon anyone even when scared. You're not a trope."

Vivienne's many selves paused.

"You're Vivienne," Isolde said.

"Stupid," Sera added, "but you're our idiot."

Vivienne began to cry—loud, ugly sobs. The fragments melted into one.

And the fifth light burned bright.

The Old Wing cracked apart like crumbling paper. Beyond the shattered illusion of walls and corridors lay something even deeper—a blank page.

A void made of ink and possibility.

It pulsed like a heartbeat.

"That's where they are," Verena said, voice low. "The Author."

Clarina unsheathed her blade. "Then let's give them an editor."

They stepped into the white void together.

The moment their feet touched it, the world shifted. Not visually—conceptually. They each felt it in different ways: Verena's system glitched violently, unreadable text pouring over her vision. Evelyn's balance magic wavered, like a tightrope over chaos. Isolde felt her bindings dissolve between her fingers, unraveled mid-thought. Even Saphira hissed as her form flickered in and out, part serpent, part code.

A voice echoed across the void.

> "Why do you fight so hard to maintain a flawed story?"

It wasn't a voice so much as an idea. It clawed into their heads, gentle and terrifying.

> "They were meant to suffer. To fall in love. To break. That's what makes them beautiful."

Verena stepped forward. "That's what makes them tools."

A figure began to form—fluid, shifting. A silhouette composed of discarded plot threads, character notes, and storyboards. It wore a thousand faces, but none of them were real. They were renderings of tropes, melted together.

The Author.

"I don't need a villainess anymore," the being said. "I've outgrown you."

"Then rewrite yourself," Verena snapped.

The Author laughed. "You don't get it. You never were the protagonist. You were a constraint. An anchor point for tragedy. That's all a villainess ever is."

Saphira's coils tightened. "He's stalling. The rewrite is syncing."

Verena took a deep breath.

This wasn't a battle of spells or blades. This was conceptual warfare. Their very identities were being rewritten with every second. She felt her memories glitch—her HR days, her former world, the reason she even read the damn book. Names flickered. Evelyn's voice distorted.

But she remembered something.

Not a plot point.

A feeling.

The warmth of Beatrice's hug. The sting of Sera's pride. The calm in Isolde's hand. The trust in Penelope's silent support. Vivienne's shoulder beneath her cheek.

Verena slammed her hand down into the void.

"Override protocol," she whispered.

> SYSTEM ACCESS: EMOTIONAL CORE INTERFACE ENGAGED

ANCHOR SELECTED: ZODIACAL BONDING

WRITER'S BLOCK INITIATED

The void spasmed.

The heroines stepped forward—each glowing with the raw essence of their growth. Not because of the plot, but because of each other. Each trial. Each choice. Each misstep.

"You can't write us," Evelyn said.

"Because we're still writing ourselves," Beatrice added.

The Author screamed.

Reality tore.

And the true world began bleeding back in.

Yes, you do." Verena smiled sadly. "You're the girl who made me fall asleep on her shoulder. The girl who didn't abandon anyone even when scared. You're not a trope."

Vivienne's many selves paused.

"You're Vivienne," Isolde said.

"Stupid," Sera added, "but you're our idiot."

Vivienne began to cry—loud, ugly sobs. The fragments melted into one.

And the fifth light burned bright.

Saphira dropped from the air, slithering into Verena's arms. "The fracture's stabilizing," she warned. "That's not good. They're locking in the new story."

Verena clenched her jaw. "So we stop it before it finishes loading."

"Like corrupting a save file?" Penelope asked, blinking.

"Exactly," Evelyn said, stepping beside Verena. "We interrupt the rewrite before it overwrites the original."

Beatrice frowned. "But where's the core of the rewrite? Where is the author, so to speak?"

That's when the ground rumbled.

No—the narrative rumbled.

The Old Wing cracked apart like crumbling paper. Beyond the shattered illusion of walls and corridors lay something even deeper—a blank page.

A void made of ink and possibility.

It pulsed like a heartbeat.

"That's where they are," Verena said, voice low. "The Author."

Clarina unsheathed her blade. "Then let's give them an editor."

They stepped into the white void together.

The moment their feet touched it, the world shifted. Not visually—conceptually. They each felt it in different ways: Verena's system glitched violently, unreadable text pouring over her vision. Evelyn's balance magic wavered, like a tightrope over chaos. Isolde felt her bindings dissolve between her fingers, unraveled mid-thought. Even Saphira hissed as her form flickered in and out, part serpent, part code.

A voice echoed across the void.

> "Why do you fight so hard to maintain a flawed story?"

It wasn't a voice so much as an idea. It clawed into their heads, gentle and terrifying.

> "They were meant to suffer. To fall in love. To break. That's what makes them beautiful."

Verena stepped forward. "That's what makes them tools."

A figure began to form—fluid, shifting. A silhouette composed of discarded plot threads, character notes, and storyboards. It wore a thousand faces, but none of them were real. They were renderings of tropes, melted together.

The Author.

"I don't need a villainess anymore," the being said. "I've outgrown you."

"Then rewrite yourself," Verena snapped.

The Author laughed. "You don't get it. You never were the protagonist. You were a constraint. An anchor point for tragedy. That's all a villainess ever is."

Saphira's coils tightened. "He's stalling. The rewrite is syncing."

Verena took a deep breath.

This wasn't a battle of spells or blades. This was conceptual warfare. Their very identities were being rewritten with every second. She felt her memories glitch—her HR days, her former world, the reason she even read the damn book. Names flickered. Evelyn's voice distorted.

But she remembered something.

Not a plot point.

A feeling.

The warmth of Beatrice's hug. The sting of Sera's pride. The calm in Isolde's hand. The trust in Penelope's silent support. Vivienne's shoulder beneath her cheek.

Verena slammed her hand down into the void.

"Override protocol," she whispered.

> SYSTEM ACCESS: EMOTIONAL CORE INTERFACE ENGAGED

ANCHOR SELECTED: ZODIACAL BONDING

WRITER'S BLOCK INITIATED

The void spasmed.

The heroines stepped forward—each glowing with the raw essence of their growth. Not because of the plot, but because of each other. Each trial. Each choice. Each misstep.

"You can't write us," Evelyn said.

"Because we're still writing ourselves," Beatrice added.

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