Ink and paper : The fallen Hero.

**Eloise POV**

The air is too thick. Too still.

I don't move. I don't breathe.

Because he's there. Caius Drayke—a man who should not exist outside the pages of my manuscript—stands in my living room, rain dripping from his long dark coat, his piercing golden eyes locked onto me like a predator who has finally cornered its prey.

This can't be real.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe I'm hallucinating. Maybe the stress, the late nights, the rejection letters have finally broken me. But when I open them again, he's still there. Solid. Real. And angry.

His gaze flicks over me, assessing. His jaw tightens. "You're smaller than I expected."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

He takes a slow, deliberate step forward. I press myself against the counter, my heart pounding so hard I swear he can hear it.

Caius tilts his head slightly. "I thought a god would be more... imposing."

"God?" The word catches in my throat.

He exhales sharply, as if irritated by my confusion. "You created me. My life. My suffering. My losses. That makes you a god, does it not?" His voice is low, edged with something dangerous.

I shake my head frantically. "No. No, I'm not—I just wrote a book!"

His expression darkens. "A book?" His voice drips with venom. "Is that all it was to you? A book?"

He moves fast. Too fast. Before I can react, he closes the distance between us, planting his hands on either side of me, caging me against the counter. He looms over me, rainwater dripping from his dark hair onto my floor. He smells of steel and storm winds, of something wild and untamed.

I swallow hard. "H-how are you here?"

He lets out a bitter laugh. "I should be asking you the same thing. One moment, I stood in the ruins of my home, staring into nothing. The next, I was ripped through a void and dropped into this—" he gestures around my tiny apartment, disgust flashing in his eyes—"this strange world of glass and light."

His golden eyes burn into mine, demanding answers.

"I don't know how this happened," I whisper. "I didn't—"

"You didn't what?" His voice is sharp, cutting. "Didn't mean for me to suffer? Didn't mean for me to lose everything? Did my pain amuse you, Eloise?"

The way he says my name makes my stomach twist. Like a curse. Like a blade.

"I never wanted you to suffer," I say, my voice barely above a breath.

His hands clench into fists. "Then why did you make it so?"

I open my mouth, then close it. I have no answer for him. Because tragedy makes a story compelling? Because pain gives depth to a character? Because I thought it was necessary?

All of those reasons feel empty now. Worthless.

Caius shakes his head, frustration tightening his features. He steps back, pacing the room like a caged animal. Then, his gaze snaps back to me, sharp as a dagger.

"You will fix this," he says.

I blink. "What?"

"You will come with me. You will rewrite my fate."

I stare at him, my pulse roaring in my ears. "That's not possible."

"It was not possible for me to come here," he counters. "And yet, here I stand."

I shake my head. "Even if I could, I—Caius, your story ends. It's written. Finished."

His jaw tightens. "Not for me. For me, it never ends. The pain, the loss, the betrayal—it is a cycle that you forced upon me." His voice turns rough, dangerous. "But you hold the power to change it. And you will."

"I don't know how."

He steps closer again. "Then learn."

My breath hitches.

He watches me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. Then, more quietly, more bitterly, he says, "You owe me that much, don't you?"

And that's when the guilt hits.

I do owe him. I built him from nothing. I gave him purpose, and then I tore it away. I made him suffer because it suited the story I wanted to tell.

And now he's here, demanding justice.

Demanding his revenge.

I lick my lips, trying to find my voice. "If I go... what happens to me?"

He doesn't hesitate. "You will rewrite my fate. You will give me what was stolen." His eyes darken. "And you will give me my revenge."

A cold shiver runs down my spine. "On who?"

He doesn't blink. "The King of Aeloria. The man who betrayed me." His voice is steel. "The man who still lives while everything I loved burns."

I remember the way I wrote that betrayal. I remember the cruelty, the bloodshed, the broken trust.

Caius Drayke wants to claim the justice I denied him. And if I go with him, if I cross into my own creation...

I will be the one holding the pen.

I will be the one deciding who lives.

And who dies.

Another gust of wind rattles the windows. The air hums, thick with something unnatural. The storm outside rages harder, and for a split second, I swear the walls flicker, like a mirage.

A tear between worlds. A door.

Caius watches me carefully, waiting for my decision.

I inhale sharply.

And step forward.

....

**Eloise** 

It's strange. 

Standing here, in my own apartment, talking to a man I created, whose fate I had designed down to the smallest detail. And yet, somehow, it feels like I'm the one being torn apart. The weight of the story, of the choices I made in writing The Hero's Fall*

, is suffocating. I can feel the cracks, the fractures, the gaps in my own reality widening the longer I look at him—at Caius, the man who was never supposed to be here. 

But I'm not allowed to retreat. Not anymore. 

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. It's difficult to know where to start. How do I explain this? How do I make him understand the choices I made—the sacrifices I had to live with? 

"I never meant for it to end like this," I say, my voice quieter than I intended. 

Caius stands across from me, his eyes narrowed, waiting for an explanation. His posture is rigid, arms crossed, as though he's preparing for a battle. But this isn't a battle between swords and shields. It's a battle between worlds, between creation and reality.

I swallow hard and look down at my hands. I've written countless drafts of The Hero's Fall, each version a little different, a little more refined. But this—this—was never part of the plan. 

"I wanted you to have a happy ending," I finally say, my words trembling as I let them escape. "I wanted you to find peace. I wanted you to be with her—with Lady Isolde." 

His eyes flash. "Then why did you make it so that I could never be with her? Why make me lose her?" 

I rub my temple, the weight of the memory pulling at me. "Because I was trying to make the story... more interesting." The words taste bitter in my mouth. "It wasn't working. Your story, your character—everything about you felt... flat." 

Caius takes a step forward. "Flat? You think I am flat?" His voice rises with each word. "You think the suffering I endured—losing everything I cared about—was just boring?" 

"No, I didn't mean it like that," I say quickly. "I didn't mean to diminish what you went through. I was just trying to make it compelling. I wanted to make readers *care*. But your story wasn't... *enough*. It didn't feel real. It wasn't resonating with anyone. I tried everything—I kept rewriting, revising, trying to add layers of meaning and complexity." 

I glance up at him, my heart racing. "But I couldn't do it. The only way to make it work was to change your fate." 

He stares at me, disbelief clouding his expression. "So you tore apart my life... to make it more *interesting*?" 

I wince at the accusation, but I don't deny it. "Yes. Yes, I did. But I wasn't trying to make it cruel. I wanted to give you a chance for happiness. But the way I wrote you—it wasn't right. The readers didn't understand you." 

Caius's eyes narrow, but he stays silent, waiting for me to continue. 

I shift uncomfortably, my fingers twitching at my sides. "You were supposed to be this great hero—this noble knight who sought justice, who fought for the right cause. But you were too... *perfect*. There was no room for growth. No real struggle. You were a *static* character, just a placeholder in the world of Aeloria." 

I feel the weight of my own words settle over me. It's the truth, even if I hate saying it out loud. 

"You weren't real," I whisper. "Not to me. Not to anyone." 

For a long moment, Caius says nothing. The silence stretches between us like a chasm, and I can't look at him. His disappointment is palpable, a force in the room that crushes my chest. 

Finally, he speaks, his voice low but steady. "Then why make me suffer for it? Why make me lose everything I cared about if you wanted me to be happy?" 

I look up at him, my eyes wide. "Because I wanted you to have that happy ending. I did! But I didn't know how to make it work. I tried to write a love story for you—an epic romance between you and Lady Isolde—but it felt forced. It felt out of place. You weren't the kind of man who could just fall in love and live happily ever after. Not in the way I imagined." 

Caius's eyes darken. "You think love is out of place for me?" 

"No!" I protest, my hands trembling. "It's just that... you were always defined by your pain, your loss, your vengeance. You were built for conflict. Your entire story was centered around that—around the fight for justice, for revenge. And that's what made you real to the readers." 

His gaze softens, just slightly, but the tension is still thick between us. "And Isolde? Was she just an afterthought?" 

"No!" I say again, more forcefully this time. "She was never an afterthought. She was supposed to be your light, your reason to fight. But when I wrote her—when I tried to make her your salvation—it didn't fit. It didn't belong in your world. You weren't the kind of hero who needed love to save him. You needed justice." 

I pause, breathing in deeply. "So, I killed her off." The words taste like ash. "I erased her from the story because I thought that was the only way to give you the path you deserved." 

Caius looks at me, studying me in silence. There's no judgment in his eyes now—only something softer. Something that feels like... understanding? 

"I never wanted to be a hero," he says quietly. "I never wanted to be perfect." 

I nod, my throat tight. "I know. But I thought—maybe you could be both. You could have been the hero and the man who found peace. You could have had everything you wanted." 

I meet his gaze. "But the story—my story—it couldn't allow that. Not until I let go of everything I thought was necessary." 

I take a deep breath. "Caius, I'm sorry. I wanted to change the ending for you. I wanted to give you a future with Isolde, to let you find happiness. But the story wouldn't allow it. You weren't the right kind of hero for that." 

He studies me for a long time, his expression unreadable. Then, he nods once, slowly. 

"Then let me make my own story," he says, his voice calm but firm. "Let me choose what happens next." 

I swallow hard, the weight of his words settling over me like a heavy fog. 

He's not asking for me to change the ending. He's asking for the power to write it himself. 

And I'm not sure if I'm ready to give him that.