Ink and paper : The fallen Hero.

*Eloise Harding*

Rejection smells like cheap ink and stale coffee.

I stare at the email on my laptop screen, rereading the same soul-crushing sentence for the fourth time.

"Thank you for submitting your manuscript, but we don't feel it's the right fit for our agency at this time."

I let out a slow, measured breath, my fingers gripping the edge of my desk. I should be used to this by now. I've gotten enough rejection letters to wallpaper my entire apartment. But this one stings more than the others. Maybe because it was from an agent I had actually dared to hope for. Maybe because The Hero's Fallis the best thing I've ever written. Or maybe—most likely—because I'm running out of options.

A soft meow breaks the silence. At least someone still believes in me. I glance down at Hemingway, my fluffy, judgmental tabby, as he hops onto my desk and curls up beside my laptop. His amber eyes flick to the screen before he lets out a huff, as if he, too, is unimpressed with the agent's response.

"Tell me about it," I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face.

I close the email before I can torture myself with it any longer. Leaning back in my chair, I stare at the towering bookshelves lining my small apartment. Some of these books changed my life. Some of them are the reason I ever wanted to write in the first place. But now, they feel like they belong to a different version of me—a version that still believed stories had power.

The worst part isn't the rejection. It's the creeping doubt. The quiet, insidious voice in the back of my head whispering: Maybe they're right. Maybe you're not good enough.

I shake off the thought and open my manuscript instead. The Hero's Fall.My greatest obsession. My biggest failure.

It's a story I've poured my heart into for years. A tragic fantasy epic about Caius Drayke, a once-great warrior betrayed by his own kingdom. A man who lost everything—his home, his honor, the woman he loved—and set out on a path of revenge, only to realize that the cycle of violence would never bring him peace. He was supposed to be the kind of hero people remembered. The kind that left scars on the soul.

And yet, no one wants his story.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I should be working on the next draft, but the words won't come. Instead, I skim over my last chapter.

Caius, wounded and exhausted, stands in the ruins of his childhood home. The fire has long since died, leaving nothing but ash and ghosts. He stares at the blade in his hand, at the blood staining the steel. He knows, deep down, that there is no victory in this. Only an ending.

*"What now?"* he whispers into the emptiness.

I sigh and close my laptop. "Yeah, Caius. What now?"

I push away from my desk and head to the kitchen, needing a distraction. The apartment is small enough that I can cross the entire space in five steps. I put on the kettle, grab a chipped mug from the sink, and wait for the water to boil.

There's a storm brewing outside, wind rattling the windowpanes. The rain starts slow, pattering against the glass, then builds into a steady downpour. I should be curled up on the couch with a book, lost in someone else's words instead of drowning in my own failure.

But the doubt lingers.

Maybe it's time to let it go. Maybe it's time to move on.

Maybe The Hero's Fall was never meant to be finished.

The kettle screams. I jump, my heart slamming against my ribs. With a shaky exhale, I turn off the stove and pour the water into my mug. The rich scent of chamomile fills the air, meant to calm my nerves. It doesn't.

A gust of wind howls outside, stronger than before. Then—something else. A noise that doesn't belong.

A thud.

My breath catches. I freeze, listening. It could be nothing. Just the wind. Just my imagination.

Another thud. Louder this time. Closer.

Then—a voice. Deep. Rough. Familiar in a way that makes my stomach drop.

"Eloise."

The mug slips from my fingers. Porcelain shatters against the floor.

I don't turn around. I can't. Because if I do—if I acknowledge what I just heard—then I have to accept the impossible.

But I know that voice.

I created that voice.

Slowly, I turn toward the living room.

And standing there, dripping rain onto my carpet, eyes burning with anger and something far worse—Caius Drayke.

....

*Caius Drayke* 

Pain is the first thing I feel. 

Not the kind I've grown used to—the sharp sting of a blade, the dull ache of bruised ribs, the fire of battle wounds left untended. No, this pain is different. It's deeper, heavier, like something has been ripped from me that I was never meant to lose. 

Then comes the cold. A biting chill that clings to my skin, so unlike the warmth of Aeloria's sun or the icy snap of its winter winds. This cold is unnatural. 

And finally—silence. 

Not the comforting stillness before a storm, nor the wary hush of a battlefield before swords clash. This is the kind of silence that drowns. That suffocates. That presses in on all sides, like the weight of the unknown. 

I force my eyes open. 

The world is wrong. 

The sky is gone—no endless expanse of stars, no twin moons casting their glow upon the ruins of my home. Instead, there is a ceiling. Flat. White. Artificial. The air smells strange, clean in a way that feels unnatural. No scent of rain-soaked earth, no distant smoke curling from village chimneys. 

Where am I? 

I push myself up onto unsteady legs, my body sluggish, as though I have been asleep for too long. My boots press against something smooth and unyielding—wood, polished and unfamiliar. The room around me is too small, too enclosed, filled with objects I don't recognize. Strange glass lanterns hum softly, casting a dim glow. Shelves line the walls, stacked with books, their spines bearing symbols I can almost—but not quite—understand. 

Then I see it. 

A desk. A chair. And beyond them—a screen, still glowing faintly. Words flicker across it, sharp and crisp. My words. 

No. 

Her words. 

The realization slams into me like a hammer to the chest. 

This place—this world—belongs to her.The one who shaped my fate with ink and paper. The one who pulled my strings like a puppet master and carved sorrow into my bones. 

Eloise Harding.

A storm brews in my chest, rage and confusion twisting together until they are inseparable. I have spent years—lifetimes—fighting battles, burying the dead, chasing vengeance that was never mine to claim. And now I stand in a world where my suffering was nothing more than a story. A collection of words, penned by hands that have never felt the weight of a sword or the sting of betrayal. 

I clench my fists. My heart pounds like a war drum, my breath slow and steady despite the fury coursing through me. 

I was never meant to leave Aeloria. 

And yet, I am here. 

The Rift must have opened. 

I do not know how, nor why, but it is the only explanation. I have heard whispers of such things before—tears in reality, fractures where the fabric of worlds grows thin. They are nothing but myths in Aeloria, old tales spun by scholars and madmen. 

But I am here. 

And if the Rift brought me to her, then perhaps it has not fully closed. 

Perhaps it can be used again. 

A gust of wind rattles the windows. The storm is building. 

Then I hear it—the sharp inhale of breath from the next room. A sound so small, so human, yet it holds more weight than the clash of a thousand swords. 

I step forward. My boots are heavy against the floor, the air thick with something unspoken. 

She is close. 

The woman who created me. 

The woman who abandoned me. 

Her name escapes my lips, rough and unfamiliar. 

"Eloise."

A crash. A sharp gasp of breath. 

Then—silence. 

For the first time in my life, I feel something foreign. Something I cannot name. 

I am no longer the one being hunted. 

Now, I am the storm.