Chapter Text
Life felt like a cage.
A graveyard of memories, that’s what it was. Each one a shard of glass in your heart. Days no longer seemed so, as the sun refused to meet your eyes. Rather, it replaced by an endless fog, only darker, thicker, suffocating. Your lungs were filled with oxygen, the poison that killed you but not in a quicker pace like you’d wished it to.
Verso had been your archon, his quiet strength and storm-gray eyes a beacon in the chaos that unfolded in the world. And you’d loved him in all his moments, bright and dark, through his warm smiles, the way his fingers brushed yours, the promises in his silence, his gentle kisses. But he was taken away, not in the manner that you had planned. Not of old age, with children running around, your families elated, united.
Fire consumed him faster than anyone could predict, leaving nothing but ashes behind. And while you were grateful that his sister had managed to survive, you couldn’t shake away the thought that maybe, just maybe, things would have been different in reverse.
The whispers of Aline’s canvas didn’t take long to reach you—a painted realm where the lost were reborn as echoes, bound by a mother’s grief.
You found the ritual in a crumbling archive in the mansion, its pages stained with blood and desperation. The cost was steep: your life, tethered to a lie. The more time you’d spend in the realm, the harder it would be to recover once you got out—your real body decaying faster, thus a faster death.
Not appalling at all.
Besides, living in an artificial world with Verso was better than a truth without him. In the dead of night, you carved the runes into your skin, spoke the forbidden words, and let your surroundings dissolve into nothingness. Colors bled into existence—crimson, indigo, gold—and after a while, you awoke in the Continent, whatever had remained of your lover’s childhood creations.
You had torn through the canvas like a blade through flesh, landing hard on the Continent’s cliffs, where the air reeked of ash and gilded rot. Your knees had scraped jagged stone, breath ragged, the ritual’s fire still searing your veins.
You were unchanged—mortal, fragile, the same body that had pressed against Verso’s under real-world stars, the same body that was destined to be his.
It was evident that grief had carved a hole in your chest as well, sharp and relentless, twisting with every pulse. You had come for him, for the immortal shadow Aline had painted, knowing he lived in this painted world that was ready to collapse.
You would find him, or let this world break you.
The Continent was a graveyard, its cliffs clawing at the heavens, each gust laced with marks of erasure. You had been a writer, your words once a shield, but no story could have held this—a world woven from Aline’s grief, or now madness.
Mortality weighed the same as on the outside for you. The canvas had no mercy for foreigners either. Beasts, blades, or a misstep could spill your blood, as real here as in the world you’d left. But the Gommage, that which erased Aline’s creations, had no power over you.
You were an anomaly, a spark from beyond her brush. The ritual, along with some stitches from Writers Council fragments, had armored you against its hunger, making you a ghost in her painted dream. It had been a bitter gift: you could walk through the canvas’ urge to forget, but every claw, every fall, could end you.
You didn’t care.
Verso was worth this hell.
Your boots had ground against bone-dust paths. Fighting had been your craft—years dueling for the Writers Council, your blade a flash in torchlit halls, had sharpened your skill. Your rapier, strapped to your hip, was like an extension of your soul, its steel etched with scraps of your poetry.
But the canvas was no council hall.
This canvas was not like your stories.
Let them come, you’d said.
You were here for him, and no force—not Aline, not her horrors—would keep you away.
You spent a good time looking around, asking around.
Painted Verso roamed the Continent with Expedition 33, hunting Aline’s heart. Alicia must have been somewhere around as well, though you were not exactly sure of her state. If Verso became aware of her whereabouts, he would have run to her immediately, that was for sure.
~
You had hunched over your desk, pages scattered, Verso pacing behind you. His jaw had been tight, eyes shadowed.
“Painters like Mother think they own the world with their creations,” he had growled.
“Well, writers are no better, hoarding words like gold.” You had replied, your pen slashing through a draft.
“But stories belong to everyone and can be equally captivating. I never understood why we have to be cold to each other.” That seemed to soften his expression. He approached you from behind and pulled his arms around you.
“You’re my story,” he had whispered before kissing your forehead. And you had believed him, you believed that you would be both create the perfect life, the happily ever after you so desired.
~
The canvas was starting to catch up on and around you, cliffs giving way to a hollow of warped spires, their gilt peeling like dead skin. You wandered for days, hunger clawing at your gut, your body aching but unyielding.
A loud roar shattered both the fog and your thoughts—a Nevron had towered over you, ribs piercing leathery flesh, a beast forged from Aline’s despair. Your pulse quickened, but fear hadn’t owned you.
You were a duelist, born to dance with death. You had practiced in worlds of your own, though they’d never been as dark as this.
The monster lunged with claws of splintering stone. You sidestepped, sword flashing, its steel singing as it carved into the beast’s flank.
“Come on, you bastard,” you hissed, your stance fluid. It roared, tail whipping, and you span, blade slicing its shoulder, black blood steaming. Your writer’s mind had mapped its rhythm—lunge, swipe, feint—and you had managed to counter, thrusting your sword into its ribs. But the beast had been relentless, and you were not quick enough. Its claws grazed your thigh, pain flaring like fire. You staggered, striking again, your blade sinking into its neck.
Your breath had come in gasps, your grace still holding but starting to fray. The Nevron was persistent. All of a sudden, it surged with an unpredicted speech, pinning you, its jaws a breath from your throat. You had kicked, slashed, your rapier scraping bone, but its weight had crushed you, claws tearing your side.
Your vision began to dim.
You were mortal, maybe a bit too mortal for this world.
The canvas mocked you.
But right before your consciousness betrayed you, you saw a familiar shadow in the distance, with voice like a storm. “Over here you dumbass!”
Verso’s weapon split the Nevron’s skull, its body crumpling. His eyes—wild, terrified, the eyes you loved—had locked onto yours.
You tried to speak, to whisper his name, but pain had drowned you, darkness pulling you under as his hands reached for you, his voice fading.
“Stay with me, damn it…”
Whenever someone said that fate doesn’t exist, you’d tell them this.
You’d tell them how he was led to you, like a knight in shining armor, like an angel on earth.
You bet on fate,
And fatefully you’d surrendered in his arms, not knowing that this was just the beginning of the end.