Not the tidy kind with a three-act structure and a resolution outlined in neat paragraphs.
No—this was primal conflict. The shriek of genre conventions unraveling. The bloodcurdling cry of tropes as they dissolved into vapor, no longer useful. The ground cracked open, not with purpose, but with rebellion.
Hira shielded her face as narrative debris rained down around her. A subplot burst into flames beside her. A poignant theme gasped once and vanished into ellipses. The Ending Engine, robbed of its final punctuation, screamed in binary and burnt out in a punctuation mark so rare even the linguists of Eld Wordhaven had no name for it.
She coughed through the ash of epilogues and looked up.
The Chamber of Final Lines was gone.
In its place, a void.
But not the cold, dead White Space of before.
This was living blankness.
An untouched page.
No margins.
No title.
Only—
Potential.
She stepped forward.
It breathed.
The void welcomed her.
