Chapter 4 — The Road of Shattered Tales
The broken road stretched ahead like the spine of some dead giant.
Arlen pulled the battered cloak tighter around his shoulders, eyes scanning the ruins that flanked their path. Crumbling towers leaned like drunks against the grey sky. Once, this road must have been a major artery of trade and travel. Now, weeds forced their way through cracked stone, and ash drifted like snow.
Their party was smaller now: Talia at the head, Broan watching the rear, and the pale woman — Sera — keeping close to the shadows.
And Arlen.
Still raw. Still new.
But something had changed since the blood-oath by the pool.
He felt it humming under his skin — a thrum of possibility, like a thousand unspoken stories waiting to unfold.
The medallion-scar over his heart pulsed in time with his steps.
Talia moved at a steady pace, silent but alert. Now and then, she'd pause, crouch, and press her hand against the ground, as if listening to whispers Arlen couldn't hear.
Broan, by contrast, kept his sword drawn openly. His sharp eyes scanned every shattered arch and broken alley.
Arlen tried to copy him — how he moved, how he watched.
It didn't come naturally.
On Earth, danger had meant bills piling up, not monsters stalking through ruins.
"Don't look so stiff," Broan muttered at one point, catching Arlen trying to mimic his walk. "You'll only die tired."
Arlen flushed but nodded.
They traveled for hours without incident. The landscape blurred into a wasteland of ruins and overgrown fields. Strange, bird-like shapes circled high above, too far to make out clearly.
Finally, as the sun dipped behind a range of jagged hills, Talia called a halt.
They found shelter in the broken shell of an old outpost — a squat tower, half its stones blackened by fire.
Sera cleared the room with brisk efficiency, scattering powdered salt and drawing a sigil over the door in chalk.
Arlen watched, curious.
"Protection against wild Tales," Talia said quietly, noticing his interest. "Old stories like to nest in places like this."
He shivered.
They made camp inside, huddled close to a guttering fire.
Talia produced a brittle map from her pack, spreading it over a flat stone.
"This is our route," she said, tracing a finger through a series of twisting canyons and dead towns. "We're making for Hollowpoint."
Arlen frowned. "What's at Hollowpoint?"
"Refuge," Broan said. "Or what's left of it."
Talia nodded grimly.
"The Guilds held Hollowpoint against the Riftspawn longer than most. If anywhere still stands, it'll be there."
She looked up at Arlen.
"And if you're serious about carving your own Story, you'll need witnesses."
Arlen raised an eyebrow.
"Witnesses?"
Sera spoke for the first time that evening, her voice soft but firm.
"Stories need listeners," she said. "No one's real until someone else remembers them."
Talia smiled thinly.
"And Hollowpoint has listeners."
Arlen absorbed this in silence.
A whole town, waiting to judge him.
Waiting to decide if he was real enough to matter.
He wasn't sure if it thrilled or terrified him.
Probably both.
The fire crackled, throwing long shadows across the ruined stones.
They slept in shifts.
When it was Arlen's turn to watch, he sat near the door, listening to the night breathe.
He didn't notice the figure until it was almost too late.
Something flickered between the ruins — a shape that wasn't quite a man, its body stitched together from scraps of armor, parchment, and bone. Where its face should have been, a swirling mass of words floated, unreadable and seething.
Arlen's throat closed in terror.
But some instinct — something deeper than fear — snapped him into motion.
He kicked over a burning brand from the fire, sending a spray of sparks toward the doorway.
The creature recoiled with a sound like tearing paper.
Talia was on her feet instantly, blade flashing.
"Storyshaper!" she barked. "Stay behind me!"
But Arlen didn't move.
The creature wasn't attacking.
It was... studying him.
The swirling words over its face shifted, flickering like moths.
Vagrant. Wanderer. Pretender.
Arlen gritted his teeth.
No.
He wasn't a pretender.
He was defiance.
Without thinking, he pressed his hand to the scar over his heart — and pushed.
Reality buckled.
For a heartbeat, Arlen saw two versions of himself layered over each other:
One: a scared, ragged boy in a stolen cloak.
The other: a figure of burning will, fists crackling with golden fire, cloak billowing with unseen winds.
The Storyshaper hissed.
Its form wavered, struggling to maintain its grip on the tale it was trying to write around him.
Arlen took a step forward.
"I am not yours to shape," he said, voice low but steady.
The words over the creature's face flared and twisted, trying to rewrite him.
Lost. Alone. Breakable.
Arlen shouted, summoning every ounce of stubborn fury he had left.
"I AM DEFIANCE!"
The world shuddered.
The floating words tore apart, shredded by the force of Arlen's self-naming.
The Storyshaper shrieked — a sound that rattled the bones — and dissolved into smoke.
Silence crashed down.
Talia lowered her sword slowly.
Broan stared at Arlen as if seeing him for the first time.
Sera simply nodded once, approving.
Arlen sagged against the wall, breathing hard.
Talia sheathed her blade.
"You just beat a Storyshaper without a crafted Tale," she said, voice almost admiring.
"Not smart," Broan added. "But impressive."
Arlen managed a shaky smile.
"Thanks, I think."
Talia crouched beside him, studying his face.
"You felt it, didn't you?" she said quietly. "The way the world listens when you speak with belief."
Arlen nodded.
"It felt... natural," he admitted.
Talia's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Then maybe," she said, almost to herself, "maybe you're more dangerous than I thought."
She stood.
"We move at first light," she said to the group. "Double pace."
Broan groaned but didn't argue.
Arlen lay back against the cold stone, heart still hammering.
The Storyshaper's whispers lingered in his mind — all the things he could have been.
All the ways the world wanted to twist him.
But he clung to his name.
To his first Deed.
To the burning certainty that he didn't belong to anyone but himself.
Outside, the wind howled like wolves, carrying with it the scent of ash and broken dreams.
Tomorrow, the real road would begin.
Tomorrow, he'd show this world exactly who he was.
Chapter 4 — The Road of Shattered Tales
The broken road stretched ahead like the spine of some dead giant.
Arlen pulled the battered cloak tighter around his shoulders, eyes scanning the ruins that flanked their path. Crumbling towers leaned like drunks against the grey sky. Once, this road must have been a major artery of trade and travel. Now, weeds forced their way through cracked stone, and ash drifted like snow.
Their party was smaller now: Talia at the head, Broan watching the rear, and the pale woman — Sera — keeping close to the shadows.
And Arlen.
Still raw. Still new.
But something had changed since the blood-oath by the pool.
He felt it humming under his skin — a thrum of possibility, like a thousand unspoken stories waiting to unfold.
The medallion-scar over his heart pulsed in time with his steps.
Talia moved at a steady pace, silent but alert. Now and then, she'd pause, crouch, and press her hand against the ground, as if listening to whispers Arlen couldn't hear.
Broan, by contrast, kept his sword drawn openly. His sharp eyes scanned every shattered arch and broken alley.
Arlen tried to copy him — how he moved, how he watched.
It didn't come naturally.
On Earth, danger had meant bills piling up, not monsters stalking through ruins.
"Don't look so stiff," Broan muttered at one point, catching Arlen trying to mimic his walk. "You'll only die tired."
Arlen flushed but nodded.
They traveled for hours without incident. The landscape blurred into a wasteland of ruins and overgrown fields. Strange, bird-like shapes circled high above, too far to make out clearly.
Finally, as the sun dipped behind a range of jagged hills, Talia called a halt.
They found shelter in the broken shell of an old outpost — a squat tower, half its stones blackened by fire.
Sera cleared the room with brisk efficiency, scattering powdered salt and drawing a sigil over the door in chalk.
Arlen watched, curious.
"Protection against wild Tales," Talia said quietly, noticing his interest. "Old stories like to nest in places like this."
He shivered.
They made camp inside, huddled close to a guttering fire.
Talia produced a brittle map from her pack, spreading it over a flat stone.
"This is our route," she said, tracing a finger through a series of twisting canyons and dead towns. "We're making for Hollowpoint."
Arlen frowned. "What's at Hollowpoint?"
"Refuge," Broan said. "Or what's left of it."
Talia nodded grimly.
"The Guilds held Hollowpoint against the Riftspawn longer than most. If anywhere still stands, it'll be there."
She looked up at Arlen.
"And if you're serious about carving your own Story, you'll need witnesses."
Arlen raised an eyebrow.
"Witnesses?"
Sera spoke for the first time that evening, her voice soft but firm.
"Stories need listeners," she said. "No one's real until someone else remembers them."
Talia smiled thinly.
"And Hollowpoint has listeners."
Arlen absorbed this in silence.
A whole town, waiting to judge him.
Waiting to decide if he was real enough to matter.
He wasn't sure if it thrilled or terrified him.
Probably both.
The fire crackled, throwing long shadows across the ruined stones.
They slept in shifts.
When it was Arlen's turn to watch, he sat near the door, listening to the night breathe.
He didn't notice the figure until it was almost too late.
Something flickered between the ruins — a shape that wasn't quite a man, its body stitched together from scraps of armor, parchment, and bone. Where its face should have been, a swirling mass of words floated, unreadable and seething.
Arlen's throat closed in terror.
But some instinct — something deeper than fear — snapped him into motion.
He kicked over a burning brand from the fire, sending a spray of sparks toward the doorway.
The creature recoiled with a sound like tearing paper.
Talia was on her feet instantly, blade flashing.
"Storyshaper!" she barked. "Stay behind me!"
But Arlen didn't move.
The creature wasn't attacking.
It was... studying him.
The swirling words over its face shifted, flickering like moths.
Vagrant. Wanderer. Pretender.
Arlen gritted his teeth.
No.
He wasn't a pretender.
He was defiance.
Without thinking, he pressed his hand to the scar over his heart — and pushed.
Reality buckled.
For a heartbeat, Arlen saw two versions of himself layered over each other:
One: a scared, ragged boy in a stolen cloak.
The other: a figure of burning will, fists crackling with golden fire, cloak billowing with unseen winds.
The Storyshaper hissed.
Its form wavered, struggling to maintain its grip on the tale it was trying to write around him.
Arlen took a step forward.
"I am not yours to shape," he said, voice low but steady.
The words over the creature's face flared and twisted, trying to rewrite him.
Lost. Alone. Breakable.
Arlen shouted, summoning every ounce of stubborn fury he had left.
"I AM DEFIANCE!"
The world shuddered.
The floating words tore apart, shredded by the force of Arlen's self-naming.
The Storyshaper shrieked — a sound that rattled the bones — and dissolved into smoke.
Silence crashed down.
Talia lowered her sword slowly.
Broan stared at Arlen as if seeing him for the first time.
Sera simply nodded once, approving.
Arlen sagged against the wall, breathing hard.
Talia sheathed her blade.
"You just beat a Storyshaper without a crafted Tale," she said, voice almost admiring.
"Not smart," Broan added. "But impressive."
Arlen managed a shaky smile.
"Thanks, I think."
Talia crouched beside him, studying his face.
"You felt it, didn't you?" she said quietly. "The way the world listens when you speak with belief."
Arlen nodded.
"It felt... natural," he admitted.
Talia's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Then maybe," she said, almost to herself, "maybe you're more dangerous than I thought."
She stood.
"We move at first light," she said to the group. "Double pace."
Broan groaned but didn't argue.
Arlen lay back against the cold stone, heart still hammering.
The Storyshaper's whispers lingered in his mind — all the things he could have been.
All the ways the world wanted to twist him.
But he clung to his name.
To his first Deed.
To the burning certainty that he didn't belong to anyone but himself.
Outside, the wind howled like wolves, carrying with it the scent of ash and broken dreams.
Tomorrow, the real road would begin.
Tomorrow, he'd show this world exactly who he was.
Chapter 4 — The Road of Shattered Tales
The broken road stretched ahead like the spine of some dead giant.
Arlen pulled the battered cloak tighter around his shoulders, eyes scanning the ruins that flanked their path. Crumbling towers leaned like drunks against the grey sky. Once, this road must have been a major artery of trade and travel. Now, weeds forced their way through cracked stone, and ash drifted like snow.
Their party was smaller now: Talia at the head, Broan watching the rear, and the pale woman — Sera — keeping close to the shadows.
And Arlen.
Still raw. Still new.
But something had changed since the blood-oath by the pool.
He felt it humming under his skin — a thrum of possibility, like a thousand unspoken stories waiting to unfold.
The medallion-scar over his heart pulsed in time with his steps.
Talia moved at a steady pace, silent but alert. Now and then, she'd pause, crouch, and press her hand against the ground, as if listening to whispers Arlen couldn't hear.
Broan, by contrast, kept his sword drawn openly. His sharp eyes scanned every shattered arch and broken alley.
Arlen tried to copy him — how he moved, how he watched.
It didn't come naturally.
On Earth, danger had meant bills piling up, not monsters stalking through ruins.
"Don't look so stiff," Broan muttered at one point, catching Arlen trying to mimic his walk. "You'll only die tired."
Arlen flushed but nodded.
They traveled for hours without incident. The landscape blurred into a wasteland of ruins and overgrown fields. Strange, bird-like shapes circled high above, too far to make out clearly.
Finally, as the sun dipped behind a range of jagged hills, Talia called a halt.
They found shelter in the broken shell of an old outpost — a squat tower, half its stones blackened by fire.
Sera cleared the room with brisk efficiency, scattering powdered salt and drawing a sigil over the door in chalk.
Arlen watched, curious.
"Protection against wild Tales," Talia said quietly, noticing his interest. "Old stories like to nest in places like this."
He shivered.
They made camp inside, huddled close to a guttering fire.
Talia produced a brittle map from her pack, spreading it over a flat stone.
"This is our route," she said, tracing a finger through a series of twisting canyons and dead towns. "We're making for Hollowpoint."
Arlen frowned. "What's at Hollowpoint?"
"Refuge," Broan said. "Or what's left of it."
Talia nodded grimly.
"The Guilds held Hollowpoint against the Riftspawn longer than most. If anywhere still stands, it'll be there."
She looked up at Arlen.
"And if you're serious about carving your own Story, you'll need witnesses."
Arlen raised an eyebrow.
"Witnesses?"
Sera spoke for the first time that evening, her voice soft but firm.
"Stories need listeners," she said. "No one's real until someone else remembers them."
Talia smiled thinly.
"And Hollowpoint has listeners."
Arlen absorbed this in silence.
A whole town, waiting to judge him.
Waiting to decide if he was real enough to matter.
He wasn't sure if it thrilled or terrified him.
Probably both.
The fire crackled, throwing long shadows across the ruined stones.
They slept in shifts.
When it was Arlen's turn to watch, he sat near the door, listening to the night breathe.
He didn't notice the figure until it was almost too late.
Something flickered between the ruins — a shape that wasn't quite a man, its body stitched together from scraps of armor, parchment, and bone. Where its face should have been, a swirling mass of words floated, unreadable and seething.
Arlen's throat closed in terror.
But some instinct — something deeper than fear — snapped him into motion.
He kicked over a burning brand from the fire, sending a spray of sparks toward the doorway.
The creature recoiled with a sound like tearing paper.
Talia was on her feet instantly, blade flashing.
"Storyshaper!" she barked. "Stay behind me!"
But Arlen didn't move.
The creature wasn't attacking.
It was... studying him.
The swirling words over its face shifted, flickering like moths.
Vagrant. Wanderer. Pretender.
Arlen gritted his teeth.
No.
He wasn't a pretender.
He was defiance.
Without thinking, he pressed his hand to the scar over his heart — and pushed.
Reality buckled.
For a heartbeat, Arlen saw two versions of himself layered over each other:
One: a scared, ragged boy in a stolen cloak.
The other: a figure of burning will, fists crackling with golden fire, cloak billowing with unseen winds.
The Storyshaper hissed.
Its form wavered, struggling to maintain its grip on the tale it was trying to write around him.
Arlen took a step forward.
"I am not yours to shape," he said, voice low but steady.
The words over the creature's face flared and twisted, trying to rewrite him.
Lost. Alone. Breakable.
Arlen shouted, summoning every ounce of stubborn fury he had left.
"I AM DEFIANCE!"
The world shuddered.
The floating words tore apart, shredded by the force of Arlen's self-naming.
The Storyshaper shrieked — a sound that rattled the bones — and dissolved into smoke.
Silence crashed down.
Talia lowered her sword slowly.
Broan stared at Arlen as if seeing him for the first time.
Sera simply nodded once, approving.
Arlen sagged against the wall, breathing hard.
Talia sheathed her blade.
"You just beat a Storyshaper without a crafted Tale," she said, voice almost admiring.
"Not smart," Broan added. "But impressive."
Arlen managed a shaky smile.
"Thanks, I think."
Talia crouched beside him, studying his face.
"You felt it, didn't you?" she said quietly. "The way the world listens when you speak with belief."
Arlen nodded.
"It felt... natural," he admitted.
Talia's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Then maybe," she said, almost to herself, "maybe you're more dangerous than I thought."
She stood.
"We move at first light," she said to the group. "Double pace."
Broan groaned but didn't argue.
Arlen lay back against the cold stone, heart still hammering.
The Storyshaper's whispers lingered in his mind — all the things he could have been.
All the ways the world wanted to twist him.
But he clung to his name.
To his first Deed.
To the burning certainty that he didn't belong to anyone but himself.
Outside, the wind howled like wolves, carrying with it the scent of ash and broken dreams.
Tomorrow, the real road would begin.
Tomorrow, he'd show this world exactly who he was.
Chapter 4 — The Road of Shattered Tales
The broken road stretched ahead like the spine of some dead giant.
Arlen pulled the battered cloak tighter around his shoulders, eyes scanning the ruins that flanked their path. Crumbling towers leaned like drunks against the grey sky. Once, this road must have been a major artery of trade and travel. Now, weeds forced their way through cracked stone, and ash drifted like snow.
Their party was smaller now: Talia at the head, Broan watching the rear, and the pale woman — Sera — keeping close to the shadows.
And Arlen.
Still raw. Still new.
But something had changed since the blood-oath by the pool.
He felt it humming under his skin — a thrum of possibility, like a thousand unspoken stories waiting to unfold.
The medallion-scar over his heart pulsed in time with his steps.
Talia moved at a steady pace, silent but alert. Now and then, she'd pause, crouch, and press her hand against the ground, as if listening to whispers Arlen couldn't hear.
Broan, by contrast, kept his sword drawn openly. His sharp eyes scanned every shattered arch and broken alley.
Arlen tried to copy him — how he moved, how he watched.
It didn't come naturally.
On Earth, danger had meant bills piling up, not monsters stalking through ruins.
"Don't look so stiff," Broan muttered at one point, catching Arlen trying to mimic his walk. "You'll only die tired."
Arlen flushed but nodded.
They traveled for hours without incident. The landscape blurred into a wasteland of ruins and overgrown fields. Strange, bird-like shapes circled high above, too far to make out clearly.
Finally, as the sun dipped behind a range of jagged hills, Talia called a halt.
They found shelter in the broken shell of an old outpost — a squat tower, half its stones blackened by fire.
Sera cleared the room with brisk efficiency, scattering powdered salt and drawing a sigil over the door in chalk.
Arlen watched, curious.
"Protection against wild Tales," Talia said quietly, noticing his interest. "Old stories like to nest in places like this."
He shivered.
They made camp inside, huddled close to a guttering fire.
Talia produced a brittle map from her pack, spreading it over a flat stone.
"This is our route," she said, tracing a finger through a series of twisting canyons and dead towns. "We're making for Hollowpoint."
Arlen frowned. "What's at Hollowpoint?"
"Refuge," Broan said. "Or what's left of it."
Talia nodded grimly.
"The Guilds held Hollowpoint against the Riftspawn longer than most. If anywhere still stands, it'll be there."
She looked up at Arlen.
"And if you're serious about carving your own Story, you'll need witnesses."
Arlen raised an eyebrow.
"Witnesses?"
Sera spoke for the first time that evening, her voice soft but firm.
"Stories need listeners," she said. "No one's real until someone else remembers them."
Talia smiled thinly.
"And Hollowpoint has listeners."
Arlen absorbed this in silence.
A whole town, waiting to judge him.
Waiting to decide if he was real enough to matter.
He wasn't sure if it thrilled or terrified him.
Probably both.
The fire crackled, throwing long shadows across the ruined stones.
They slept in shifts.
When it was Arlen's turn to watch, he sat near the door, listening to the night breathe.
He didn't notice the figure until it was almost too late.
Something flickered between the ruins — a shape that wasn't quite a man, its body stitched together from scraps of armor, parchment, and bone. Where its face should have been, a swirling mass of words floated, unreadable and seething.
Arlen's throat closed in terror.
But some instinct — something deeper than fear — snapped him into motion.
He kicked over a burning brand from the fire, sending a spray of sparks toward the doorway.
The creature recoiled with a sound like tearing paper.
Talia was on her feet instantly, blade flashing.
"Storyshaper!" she barked. "Stay behind me!"
But Arlen didn't move.
The creature wasn't attacking.
It was... studying him.
The swirling words over its face shifted, flickering like moths.
Vagrant. Wanderer. Pretender.
Arlen gritted his teeth.
No.
He wasn't a pretender.
He was defiance.
Without thinking, he pressed his hand to the scar over his heart — and pushed.
Reality buckled.
For a heartbeat, Arlen saw two versions of himself layered over each other:
One: a scared, ragged boy in a stolen cloak.
The other: a figure of burning will, fists crackling with golden fire, cloak billowing with unseen winds.
The Storyshaper hissed.
Its form wavered, struggling to maintain its grip on the tale it was trying to write around him.
Arlen took a step forward.
"I am not yours to shape," he said, voice low but steady.
The words over the creature's face flared and twisted, trying to rewrite him.
Lost. Alone. Breakable.
Arlen shouted, summoning every ounce of stubborn fury he had left.
"I AM DEFIANCE!"
The world shuddered.
The floating words tore apart, shredded by the force of Arlen's self-naming.
The Storyshaper shrieked — a sound that rattled the bones — and dissolved into smoke.
Silence crashed down.
Talia lowered her sword slowly.
Broan stared at Arlen as if seeing him for the first time.
Sera simply nodded once, approving.
Arlen sagged against the wall, breathing hard.
Talia sheathed her blade.
"You just beat a Storyshaper without a crafted Tale," she said, voice almost admiring.
"Not smart," Broan added. "But impressive."
Arlen managed a shaky smile.
"Thanks, I think."
Talia crouched beside him, studying his face.
"You felt it, didn't you?" she said quietly. "The way the world listens when you speak with belief."
Arlen nodded.
"It felt... natural," he admitted.
Talia's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Then maybe," she said, almost to herself, "maybe you're more dangerous than I thought."
She stood.
"We move at first light," she said to the group. "Double pace."
Broan groaned but didn't argue.
Arlen lay back against the cold stone, heart still hammering.
The Storyshaper's whispers lingered in his mind — all the things he could have been.
All the ways the world wanted to twist him.
But he clung to his name.
To his first Deed.
To the burning certainty that he didn't belong to anyone but himself.
Outside, the wind howled like wolves, carrying with it the scent of ash and broken dreams.
Tomorrow, the real road would begin.
Tomorrow, he'd show this world exactly who he was.
Chapter 4 — The Road of Shattered Tales
The broken road stretched ahead like the spine of some dead giant.
Arlen pulled the battered cloak tighter around his shoulders, eyes scanning the ruins that flanked their path. Crumbling towers leaned like drunks against the grey sky. Once, this road must have been a major artery of trade and travel. Now, weeds forced their way through cracked stone, and ash drifted like snow.
Their party was smaller now: Talia at the head, Broan watching the rear, and the pale woman — Sera — keeping close to the shadows.
And Arlen.
Still raw. Still new.
But something had changed since the blood-oath by the pool.
He felt it humming under his skin — a thrum of possibility, like a thousand unspoken stories waiting to unfold.
The medallion-scar over his heart pulsed in time with his steps.
Talia moved at a steady pace, silent but alert. Now and then, she'd pause, crouch, and press her hand against the ground, as if listening to whispers Arlen couldn't hear.
Broan, by contrast, kept his sword drawn openly. His sharp eyes scanned every shattered arch and broken alley.
Arlen tried to copy him — how he moved, how he watched.
It didn't come naturally.
On Earth, danger had meant bills piling up, not monsters stalking through ruins.
"Don't look so stiff," Broan muttered at one point, catching Arlen trying to mimic his walk. "You'll only die tired."
Arlen flushed but nodded.
They traveled for hours without incident. The landscape blurred into a wasteland of ruins and overgrown fields. Strange, bird-like shapes circled high above, too far to make out clearly.
Finally, as the sun dipped behind a range of jagged hills, Talia called a halt.
They found shelter in the broken shell of an old outpost — a squat tower, half its stones blackened by fire.
Sera cleared the room with brisk efficiency, scattering powdered salt and drawing a sigil over the door in chalk.
Arlen watched, curious.
"Protection against wild Tales," Talia said quietly, noticing his interest. "Old stories like to nest in places like this."
He shivered.
They made camp inside, huddled close to a guttering fire.
Talia produced a brittle map from her pack, spreading it over a flat stone.
"This is our route," she said, tracing a finger through a series of twisting canyons and dead towns. "We're making for Hollowpoint."
Arlen frowned. "What's at Hollowpoint?"
"Refuge," Broan said. "Or what's left of it."
Talia nodded grimly.
"The Guilds held Hollowpoint against the Riftspawn longer than most. If anywhere still stands, it'll be there."
She looked up at Arlen.
"And if you're serious about carving your own Story, you'll need witnesses."
Arlen raised an eyebrow.
"Witnesses?"
Sera spoke for the first time that evening, her voice soft but firm.
"Stories need listeners," she said. "No one's real until someone else remembers them."
Talia smiled thinly.
"And Hollowpoint has listeners."
Arlen absorbed this in silence.
A whole town, waiting to judge him.
Waiting to decide if he was real enough to matter.
He wasn't sure if it thrilled or terrified him.
Probably both.
The fire crackled, throwing long shadows across the ruined stones.
They slept in shifts.
When it was Arlen's turn to watch, he sat near the door, listening to the night breathe.
He didn't notice the figure until it was almost too late.
Something flickered between the ruins — a shape that wasn't quite a man, its body stitched together from scraps of armor, parchment, and bone. Where its face should have been, a swirling mass of words floated, unreadable and seething.
Arlen's throat closed in terror.
But some instinct — something deeper than fear — snapped him into motion.
He kicked over a burning brand from the fire, sending a spray of sparks toward the doorway.
The creature recoiled with a sound like tearing paper.
Talia was on her feet instantly, blade flashing.
"Storyshaper!" she barked. "Stay behind me!"
But Arlen didn't move.
The creature wasn't attacking.
It was... studying him.
The swirling words over its face shifted, flickering like moths.
Vagrant. Wanderer. Pretender.
Arlen gritted his teeth.
No.
He wasn't a pretender.
He was defiance.
Without thinking, he pressed his hand to the scar over his heart — and pushed.
Reality buckled.
For a heartbeat, Arlen saw two versions of himself layered over each other:
One: a scared, ragged boy in a stolen cloak.
The other: a figure of burning will, fists crackling with golden fire, cloak billowing with unseen winds.
The Storyshaper hissed.
Its form wavered, struggling to maintain its grip on the tale it was trying to write around him.
Arlen took a step forward.
"I am not yours to shape," he said, voice low but steady.
The words over the creature's face flared and twisted, trying to rewrite him.
Lost. Alone. Breakable.
Arlen shouted, summoning every ounce of stubborn fury he had left.
"I AM DEFIANCE!"
The world shuddered.
The floating words tore apart, shredded by the force of Arlen's self-naming.
The Storyshaper shrieked — a sound that rattled the bones — and dissolved into smoke.
Silence crashed down.
Talia lowered her sword slowly.
Broan stared at Arlen as if seeing him for the first time.
Sera simply nodded once, approving.
Arlen sagged against the wall, breathing hard.
Talia sheathed her blade.
"You just beat a Storyshaper without a crafted Tale," she said, voice almost admiring.
"Not smart," Broan added. "But impressive."
Arlen managed a shaky smile.
"Thanks, I think."
Talia crouched beside him, studying his face.
"You felt it, didn't you?" she said quietly. "The way the world listens when you speak with belief."
Arlen nodded.
"It felt... natural," he admitted.
Talia's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Then maybe," she said, almost to herself, "maybe you're more dangerous than I thought."
She stood.
"We move at first light," she said to the group. "Double pace."
Broan groaned but didn't argue.
Arlen lay back against the cold stone, heart still hammering.
The Storyshaper's whispers lingered in his mind — all the things he could have been.
All the ways the world wanted to twist him.
But he clung to his name.
To his first Deed.
To the burning certainty that he didn't belong to anyone but himself.
Outside, the wind howled like wolves, carrying with it the scent of ash and broken dreams.
Tomorrow, the real road would begin.
Tomorrow, he'd show this world exactly who he was.
Chapter 4 — The Road of Shattered Tales
The broken road stretched ahead like the spine of some dead giant.
Arlen pulled the battered cloak tighter around his shoulders, eyes scanning the ruins that flanked their path. Crumbling towers leaned like drunks against the grey sky. Once, this road must have been a major artery of trade and travel. Now, weeds forced their way through cracked stone, and ash drifted like snow.
Their party was smaller now: Talia at the head, Broan watching the rear, and the pale woman — Sera — keeping close to the shadows.
And Arlen.
Still raw. Still new.
But something had changed since the blood-oath by the pool.
He felt it humming under his skin — a thrum of possibility, like a thousand unspoken stories waiting to unfold.
The medallion-scar over his heart pulsed in time with his steps.
Talia moved at a steady pace, silent but alert. Now and then, she'd pause, crouch, and press her hand against the ground, as if listening to whispers Arlen couldn't hear.
Broan, by contrast, kept his sword drawn openly. His sharp eyes scanned every shattered arch and broken alley.
Arlen tried to copy him — how he moved, how he watched.
It didn't come naturally.
On Earth, danger had meant bills piling up, not monsters stalking through ruins.
"Don't look so stiff," Broan muttered at one point, catching Arlen trying to mimic his walk. "You'll only die tired."
Arlen flushed but nodded.
They traveled for hours without incident. The landscape blurred into a wasteland of ruins and overgrown fields. Strange, bird-like shapes circled high above, too far to make out clearly.
Finally, as the sun dipped behind a range of jagged hills, Talia called a halt.
They found shelter in the broken shell of an old outpost — a squat tower, half its stones blackened by fire.
Sera cleared the room with brisk efficiency, scattering powdered salt and drawing a sigil over the door in chalk.
Arlen watched, curious.
"Protection against wild Tales," Talia said quietly, noticing his interest. "Old stories like to nest in places like this."
He shivered.
They made camp inside, huddled close to a guttering fire.
Talia produced a brittle map from her pack, spreading it over a flat stone.
"This is our route," she said, tracing a finger through a series of twisting canyons and dead towns. "We're making for Hollowpoint."
Arlen frowned. "What's at Hollowpoint?"
"Refuge," Broan said. "Or what's left of it."
Talia nodded grimly.
"The Guilds held Hollowpoint against the Riftspawn longer than most. If anywhere still stands, it'll be there."
She looked up at Arlen.
"And if you're serious about carving your own Story, you'll need witnesses."
Arlen raised an eyebrow.
"Witnesses?"
Sera spoke for the first time that evening, her voice soft but firm.
"Stories need listeners," she said. "No one's real until someone else remembers them."
Talia smiled thinly.
"And Hollowpoint has listeners."
Arlen absorbed this in silence.
A whole town, waiting to judge him.
Waiting to decide if he was real enough to matter.
He wasn't sure if it thrilled or terrified him.
Probably both.
The fire crackled, throwing long shadows across the ruined stones.
They slept in shifts.
When it was Arlen's turn to watch, he sat near the door, listening to the night breathe.
He didn't notice the figure until it was almost too late.
Something flickered between the ruins — a shape that wasn't quite a man, its body stitched together from scraps of armor, parchment, and bone. Where its face should have been, a swirling mass of words floated, unreadable and seething.
Arlen's throat closed in terror.
But some instinct — something deeper than fear — snapped him into motion.
He kicked over a burning brand from the fire, sending a spray of sparks toward the doorway.
The creature recoiled with a sound like tearing paper.
Talia was on her feet instantly, blade flashing.
"Storyshaper!" she barked. "Stay behind me!"
But Arlen didn't move.
The creature wasn't attacking.
It was... studying him.
The swirling words over its face shifted, flickering like moths.
Vagrant. Wanderer. Pretender.
Arlen gritted his teeth.
No.
He wasn't a pretender.
He was defiance.
Without thinking, he pressed his hand to the scar over his heart — and pushed.
Reality buckled.
For a heartbeat, Arlen saw two versions of himself layered over each other:
One: a scared, ragged boy in a stolen cloak.
The other: a figure of burning will, fists crackling with golden fire, cloak billowing with unseen winds.
The Storyshaper hissed.
Its form wavered, struggling to maintain its grip on the tale it was trying to write around him.
Arlen took a step forward.
"I am not yours to shape," he said, voice low but steady.
The words over the creature's face flared and twisted, trying to rewrite him.
Lost. Alone. Breakable.
Arlen shouted, summoning every ounce of stubborn fury he had left.
"I AM DEFIANCE!"
The world shuddered.
The floating words tore apart, shredded by the force of Arlen's self-naming.
The Storyshaper shrieked — a sound that rattled the bones — and dissolved into smoke.
Silence crashed down.
Talia lowered her sword slowly.
Broan stared at Arlen as if seeing him for the first time.
Sera simply nodded once, approving.
Arlen sagged against the wall, breathing hard.
Talia sheathed her blade.
"You just beat a Storyshaper without a crafted Tale," she said, voice almost admiring.
"Not smart," Broan added. "But impressive."
Arlen managed a shaky smile.
"Thanks, I think."
Talia crouched beside him, studying his face.
"You felt it, didn't you?" she said quietly. "The way the world listens when you speak with belief."
Arlen nodded.
"It felt... natural," he admitted.
Talia's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Then maybe," she said, almost to herself, "maybe you're more dangerous than I thought."
She stood.
"We move at first light," she said to the group. "Double pace."
Broan groaned but didn't argue.
Arlen lay back against the cold stone, heart still hammering.
The Storyshaper's whispers lingered in his mind — all the things he could have been.
All the ways the world wanted to twist him.
But he clung to his name.
To his first Deed.
To the burning certainty that he didn't belong to anyone but himself.
Outside, the wind howled like wolves, carrying with it the scent of ash and broken dreams.
Tomorrow, the real road would begin.
Tomorrow, he'd show this world exactly who he was.