She did not erase.
She rewrote.
Even now, Aiden could feel the pressure of her quill against the edges of his mind—subtle, delicate, writing new falsehoods into forgotten spaces.
In her domain, reality was fiction.
And fiction… obeyed her.
Aiden exhaled.
He had walked through so many fires. Broken so many rules. Killed gods, upended stories, and torn the seams of existence itself just to breathe freely.
He wasn't about to be written into submission.
Not now.
Not ever.
He turned to face the Blank Sky Pact.
They watched him, eyes aglow with pasts that would never be remembered.
"My name means nothing," Aiden began. His voice echoed oddly here, as if the world listened with more than just sound. "In every story written by gods, I am an error. A corruption. A mistake."
No one flinched. Not even the beast with a dozen eyes.
"But we are not mistakes. We are truths denied."
The air rippled.
"We don't need a story. We don't need validation. We don't need a prophecy."
