The page did not lie flat.
It rippled.
Not from wind—there was no wind here—but from tension. A pressure that had nothing to do with air and everything to do with possibility. Every word Elari wrote sank deep into the worldroot like blood into soil, reshaping the weave of reality one sentence at a time.
She didn't tremble.
But the Library did.
All around her, stories shuddered. Books twisted on their spines. Some broke open with a sound like exhaled memory. Others moaned, their bindings unraveling into tendrils of silken narrative. A few simply vanished—realigned, rewritten, or no longer necessary.
Because she had written something new.
And that meant something old had to go.
