The night stretched out like a vast, uncharted sea. Above the tangled web of hearts and swords stood the moon, still in its eerie blood phase, casting the clearing in hues of crimson. The duel had stopped, thanks to the dramatic—and, let’s be honest, completely inconvenient—entrance of Prince Broody, who was now lounging against a tree with that ever-present pumpkin spice latte. His dark, infuriatingly perfect hair fell over his forehead as if it had been styled by the narrative itself.
And there it was. That slight twinge in my chest. No, not the characters’ chests—my chest. But let’s not panic. I’m a professional. I’m not actually falling for my own character.
Right?
I mean, it’s not like I created him as some idealized version of the classic brooding prince trope, only with a modern twist, and then threw in a pumpkin spice latte for added edge. Nope. This is totally about developing his character arc. Totally. This isn’t me being weird. I’m just… writing.
As the clearing descended into awkward silence, I noticed something out of the corner of my mind—oh, sorry—the characters noticed it, too. It was subtle at first, a whisper of fabric against the wind, a slight shift in the air, like the story itself was holding its breath. And then, there it was again—the hooded figure.
Oh. No. Not you again.
The cloaked figure stepped out of the shadows, their presence heavy and ominous, with their usual flair for drama. A gust of wind (naturally, because I apparently can’t resist making wind blow at every dramatic moment) swept through the trees, making the figure’s dark cloak billow. They never said anything, just stood there, watching, as if waiting for me to do something.
Or… was I waiting for them?
Elara and Selene both tensed, their gazes snapping toward the figure, while Elric and Alderon exchanged wary glances. Broody, of course, was the only one who didn’t seem phased. He just took another sip of his latte and sighed.
“Ah, yes,” he drawled, his voice layered with boredom, “the mysterious cloaked figure. Always skulking in the background, dropping cryptic hints. Let me guess—more mysterious advice?”
Elric narrowed his eyes, his sword still in hand. “You seem familiar.”
Alderon took a step forward, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. “Who are you?”
But I already knew. This wasn’t just some random plot device to add tension. This figure—this presence—had been there from the start, subtly pulling the strings. And now, they were becoming more active. Pushing me toward something.
Or someone.
Broody’s eyes flicked toward me—or at least, I swear he did. Did he just break the fourth wall? Did I write that? Am I writing this right now? Focus, Bree. You’re in control.
The figure stepped forward, silent as always. Their hood was drawn low over their face, concealing any real features, but there was something about their stance, something familiar in the way they moved, like an echo of something I didn’t want to acknowledge.
Selene cut through the tension next. “What do you want?” Her voice, normally so sharp, wavered. It was as if she knew, on some deep level, that this cloaked figure wasn’t just another antagonist, but something more—something dangerous.
The figure raised their hand, and for a moment, I thought they were going to speak. But no. They simply pointed, and their hand—no, not at the characters. They were pointing at me.
Wait. No. That’s impossible.
I felt a chill crawl down my spine. What was this figure doing? Why were they always there, always at the edge of the narrative? And why did I feel this strange connection to them, like they were part of me—part of my writing?
Bree, you’re being dramatic again. Focus.
"Okay, fine," I muttered to myself—or maybe to the cloaked figure. "I get it. You’re here to create tension. Or drama. Or whatever. But you don’t control the story—I do."
Broody snorted from the side of the clearing. “Really? You control the story?”
Oh, God. Did I write that? Did he just… respond to me?
Selene blinked, her confusion mirrored by the other characters. Elric looked from me to Broody, his expression hardening. “What’s going on here? Why does it feel like—”
No, no, no, no, no! This was spiraling. I needed to get things back on track. The love square! The duel! The blood moon! The whole romantic fantasy thing! That’s what this chapter was supposed to be about, right?
Selene’s gaze flickered between Broody and the cloaked figure, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Something’s not right.”
Well, duh.
But then, it hit me. Broody wasn’t the only thing I kept bringing back. The cloaked figure—they had been there from the beginning. Every time I tried to steer the story in a particular direction, they appeared. They nudged the characters. They stirred the pot.
And then—
Oh no.
From the edge of the clearing, there was a soft tap tap tap of high heels on the cobblestone path that led to this romantic catastrophe of a scene. I didn’t need to turn around. I knew who it was.
Iris.
Broody’s eyes flicked toward the approaching figure, his expression almost gleeful. "Ah, looks like the editor's here." He crossed his arms, clearly enjoying this more than he should.
And there she was—Iris, in her immaculate business suit, hair pulled back in a severe bun, her expression one of deep, unyielding disapproval. She didn’t even have to say anything. She just looked at me, the full weight of her disappointment hanging in the air like a guillotine.
I shrank under her glare, feeling about as small as a punctuation error in a 500-page manuscript. “I’m too cute to die?” I squeaked, my voice a lot less confident than I’d intended.
Iris sighed, shaking her head slowly, her gaze never leaving mine. She didn’t even need to speak. The message was clear: Bree. What. Are. You. Doing.
The characters were frozen, watching the exchange as if they were seeing the puppet strings for the first time. Elric shifted uncomfortably, his sword lowering just a bit. Selene looked between me and Iris, her expression flickering with confusion, like she was beginning to realize how thin the boundary was between us all.
Broody, of course, was having the time of his life. “I don’t know, Iris. I think Bree’s doing great. You know, besides the obvious.” He waved his hand vaguely in my direction. “Like her feelings for me.”
Oh no you didn’t.
Iris didn’t flinch. She just kept staring at me, her arms folded. Finally, she spoke, her tone as cold and sharp as a well-edited final draft. “Bree, this isn’t what we discussed.”
I swallowed hard, trying to come up with some kind of defense. “It’s… it’s character development? You know, giving them depth? And tension?”
Iris raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you're calling this now?"
Bree, abort! You’re losing control!
Broody stepped closer, clearly loving the chaos. “If you ask me, I think we should just let Bree run with it. After all, if she’s so keen on me sticking around…”
“No one asked you, Broody,” I snapped, trying to regain some semblance of control.
Iris shook her head again, cutting me off before I could spiral any further. “You’re falling for your own character, Bree. You need to get it together. The story is slipping.”
"I’m not—” I began to protest, but then I saw Broody’s smirk, and I knew Iris was right. I was so falling for him.
Iris’ glare didn’t soften. “Fix this. Now. Before it all falls apart.”
Easier said than done, Iris!
I gave a weak nod. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll… fix it. I got this.”
Iris didn’t seem convinced. She gave one last, piercing look at Broody, then turned on her heel, disappearing back into the shadows with the same ominous tap tap tap of her heels. And just like that, she was gone.
Broody let out a low whistle. “Well, that was fun. So, Bree… where were we?”
I groaned. This was getting out of hand. The love square was descending into chaos and now my editor was breathing down my neck about a character I wasn’t even supposed to be writing—let alone not falling for.
I had to fix this. I had to.
But how?
"Alright," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else. "Let’s get back to the story."
But as I tried to refocus, to steer the narrative back on track, something flickered in the distance—a slight distortion in the air, like the fabric of the story was warping, unraveling at the edges. And the cloaked figure, still standing in the shadows, tilted their head ever so slightly, as if they knew something I didn’t.
Broody’s voice broke the silence. “Are you sure you’re ready for this, Bree?”
No, I wasn’t. But I didn’t have a choice.
Here we go.
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