The Rusted Phoenix was alive with the hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter, and the clinking of mugs against wooden tables. The scent of roasted meat and spiced ale filled the air, mingling with the ever-present tinge of sweat and old wood. Char sat at a corner table, fingers wrapped around the handle of a mug filled with amberbrew.
He stared into the liquid, watching the way the dim lantern light flickered on its surface. He had no idea what was actually in it—only that it was strong, slightly sweet, and left a warm burn in his throat when he took a sip.
"Underage," he thought dryly, remembering how in his old life, he wouldn't have been allowed within ten feet of something like this. But here? No one batted an eye. He wasn't Charcoal Greene, seventeen-year-old high school student, anymore. Not in this world.
A part of him still hadn't come to terms with it. It had been days—maybe even a week, though he was losing track of time—but the disbelief still settled in his bones. He wasn't just lost in a strange world. He was lost in his world. A world he had created.
He took another slow sip of the amberbrew, letting his mind drift.
What now?
The battle with Edmund had left him shaken, but more than that, it had solidified something in his mind—he wasn't just some observer, some ghost slipping between the lines of his own story. He had changed things. Just by existing here, he had altered the course of events, made ripples he hadn't intended.
And yet, he still felt like he had to follow the story.
If he wanted to get home—if that was even possible—then he needed to stay close to the path.
But where was the story now?
He closed his eyes and thought back to Requiem of Ashes, the novel he had spent months writing. He tried to recall the pacing, the beats of the plot, where he was supposed to be in the grand scheme of things.
The Syndicate meeting had been a major event—a crucial turning point in the story. That meant…
"Chapter 27," he realized with a start.
He let out a slow breath.
Chapter 27. The moment where the real chaos began.
From here, the Syndicate—crippled and desperate—would try to regain their hold on Oryn-Vel. Their enemies, seeing weakness, would strike, leading to a power struggle that would drown the city in blood. At the same time, Edmund's presence would loom over everything, his purpose still unclear, his strength a growing threat.
And then there was Ishmael, Tess, Callen, and Marin. His characters.
They were supposed to go deeper into the conflict, drawn further into the war between crime lords, rogue factions, and the unseen forces pulling the strings behind it all.
And Char?
Well.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
He rubbed a hand over his face.
What was he supposed to do now?
If he stuck to the storyline, he could anticipate what was coming next, prepare himself. But what if the world continued to change, continued to shift outside of his control? Was it outside of his control, or was he still influencing things just by being here?
A shiver ran down his spine.
Edmund was proof that things were already diverging. Char had written him to be powerful, sure, but not this powerful. The battle in the noble keep had been a slaughter. He had taken on multiple high-ranking members of the Syndicate andIshmael's team, and he had won.
The only reason they survived was because Char had gotten lucky.
That wasn't something he had planned.
He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair.
If this was still following his story, then he had a rough idea of what came next.
The Syndicate would regroup in secret, licking their wounds, planning their next move. Varrel and Ivara, two of its surviving high-rankers, would start making desperate plays for power, drawing more and more factions into the conflict.
At the same time, Edmund would move in the shadows, appearing and disappearing at will, hunting the Syndicate with a precision that made him feel more like a force of nature than a man.
But the real problem?
Char swallowed.
He knew what came after.
The Ashen Hand.
They weren't supposed to appear until Chapter 30, but at this rate, the timeline was unpredictable.
If they entered the scene early…
His grip tightened around the mug. They would be coming. When the Ashen Hand arrived in town, the whole city of Oryn-Vel would no doubt know it.
Char took a deep, steadying breath.
The next few chapters were going to be hell. But he had to be ready to face them, because he felt like, as the author of this world, he had a responsibility to keep it from being destroyed. He wasn't the one typing the world of the story anymore, but he still believed he could change it.
*
Char stepped out into the cold air, the door of the Rusted Phoenix swinging shut behind him with a creak. The street outside was alive with the usual chaos of Oryn-Vel—merchants calling out prices, beggars lurking in the alleys, cloaked figures slipping through the crowd like ghosts.
For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt a spark of something new. Not fear. Not confusion. Not the desperate scramble to keep up.
Control.
He had spent too long just reacting. Too long trailing behind Ishmael and the others, waiting for them to decide the next move. He had been handed an advantage no one else in this world had—foreknowledge. Even if the story was shifting around him, even if things weren't happening exactly as he wrote them, he still had a rough map of where things were headed.
And he was going to use it.
He reached into the pouch at his hip, pulling out the coins he'd been given by Ishmael before he'd left the safehouse that day. He turned them over in his palm, studying them carefully.
The currency system of Oryn-Vel came back to him in fragments. He had written it all out, once upon a time, agonizing over the details of the world, making sure everything had weight, had logic.
The smallest unit of money was a copper shard, thin and hexagonal, often used for buying food or simple goods. Bronze crescents came next, rounded with a hole through the center. They were worth ten shards. Then there were silver crowns, thick coins that made up the bulk of most transactions, worth ten crescents each.
And finally, the rarest: golden stags, worth twenty crowns. He had only ever written a handful of characters handling those. A single stag was enough to feed a small family for a month.
In his palm, Char counted: three crowns, seven crescents, and a handful of shards. Not much. Enough for a few meals, maybe a night in an inn, if he ever needed it.
But tonight, he had something else in mind.
He had spent so much time with the others that he hadn't even properly explored Oryn-Vel for himself. He knew the city—knew its streets, its history, its landmarks—because he had created it. But walking through it, existing in it, was something else entirely.
He needed an edge. Something to give him a foothold in this world, beyond just barely keeping up.
He flagged down a passing carriage, tossing a silver crown to the driver.
"Where to?" the man asked, barely sparing Char a glance.
Char hesitated for only a moment.
"The Archive," he said.
The driver gave a grunt of acknowledgment, flicking the reins. The horse snorted, then lurched forward, pulling them into the twisting streets of the city.
The Archive.
A hidden place, buried deep beneath the streets of Oryn-Vel, known only to scholars, historians, and those desperate enough to trade favors for knowledge. A vault of old texts, forgotten maps, and secrets that had been erased from history.
In the novel, Ishmael had visited it once. Char had written the scene himself, describing the dim lantern-lit halls, the scent of parchment and dust, the rows of scholars hunched over books that hadn't seen sunlight in centuries.
But Ishmael hadn't learned everything there was to know. Char had cut away a lot of what was hidden there, keeping it in his notes, never making it onto the final pages of the story.
If those details still existed in this world—if the Archive still held everything he had imagined—then there was a chance. A chance to learn. A chance to survive.
He leaned back in his seat, watching as the city rolled past. He took a moment to appreciate the odd beauty of the city he had created from his own mind. If nothing else, he was a bit appreciative to whoever or whatever sent him here. He was glad to see his creation personally.
The game was changing. And this time, he was going to play it his way