"I wasn't supposed to be here."
The wooden hut was silent, save for the crackling of a dying fire. Gazelle sat stiffly in one of the two chairs at the rustic table, her pulse thrumming beneath her skin. Across from her, the raven-haired man studied her with an intensity that made her shift uncomfortably.
"Yes," he murmured at last, breaking the silence. He averted his gaze, as if suddenly unsure. "None of us were supposed to be here." His eyes found hers again, sharp and searching. "Neither book characters should gain consciousness nor should the author fall into the fiction she creates."
A chill ran through her. Her fingers curled into fists against the tabletop. "I didn't create any of this," she snapped, rising so abruptly that her chair tipped over with a loud thud. The man didn't flinch. He simply glanced at the fallen chair before turning back to her, something unreadable flickering across his face.
Gazelle had spent a month surviving in this foreign, untamed forest. The loneliness had gnawed at her bones, yet the man she had sought for weeks had now walked straight to her, unbidden. It all felt like fiction—except it wasn't hers.
"In the middle of the night, your name came to me," he said, his voice like distant thunder. "Do you know what it's like to realize that the life you've struggled to find meaning in is nothing but an illusion? To wake up and discover you're not real?" He let out a dry, mirthless laugh. "What's it like to know you were nothing when you already thought you were nothing, Gazelle?"
Her stomach twisted. "Just you?" she whispered, her voice barely carrying across the space between them.
"No," he said immediately. "There are others." His gaze flickered to the hut's wooden walls, his expression darkening. "And as time passes, there will be more. They'll come to you, demanding answers. Taking everything you have."
"I have nothing," she said bitterly. She just wanted to go home.
"You have a pen."
Gazelle's breath hitched. The realization struck her like ice cracking beneath her feet. "I… I can't write anymore. Just the thought of it makes me sick. I try, and it feels like my heart will stop. I hate it so much that the mere idea makes me dizzy. I can't."
The man frowned and grasped her shoulders, giving her a slight shake. "Are you serious? You mean to tell me you didn't write any of this? A writer who can't write?" He released her abruptly, stepping back as if trying to process the impossibility of it. His brows knitted together, and his voice softened. "Then why…? Why did I wake up knowing I was the work of an author? Why did I see you, Gazelle?"
"I don't know!" Her voice cracked. Her eyes burned, tears pooling between her lashes. The man fell silent, watching her with something almost like recognition. When he looked at her, she felt exposed—not just physically, but in a way that scraped against the very core of her being.
He saw her, truly saw her. And in doing so, he recognized himself.
Gazelle's mind splintered between past and present. She had spent so much of her life lost, forgetting who she was, why she existed. Trusting the wrong people. Losing herself in betrayals so deep they had carved scars into her soul. Everyone she had ever relied on had let her down—friends, lovers, even family.
And yet, here she was again, standing before another stranger.
She took a step back, instinct screaming at her to run.
What did it mean to be strong? If her mind was resilient but her body fragile, could she still call herself strong? If she could knock people down with words but crumbled under one spoken against her, did that make her weak? And if she had never truly valued the life given to her, could she even call herself human?
"Are you okay?" The man's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts.
She pressed a hand to her chest, grimacing as a sharp pain pulsed beneath her ribs. "My heart…" she managed. The concern in his expression was instant—unbidden. Without hesitation, he placed his fingertips over her hand, feeling the erratic rhythm beneath. "You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"
Her lips twisted into something between a smirk and a grimace. She wanted to ignore him, but when she met his gaze, she swore she saw red flicker in his irises. A trick of the firelight, surely.
"I need my medicine," she said hoarsely. "If I don't take it, I'll have a heart attack before I ever find my way home."
The pain sent her knees buckling, and the man was there before she even hit the ground. He followed her down, steadying her. "You're safe now," he murmured. "No one can hurt you while I'm here."
A ghost of a smile played on his lips.
She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Do you have a savior complex? I don't need you to protect me."
"I've never tried to save anyone in my life," he said simply. "People must save themselves, mustn't they?"
She froze. He had thrown her own thoughts back at her, forcing her to face them.
"I didn't think you were weak," he added, rising to his feet. "And I don't expect anything from you. I just wanted to help. But if you don't want it, that's your choice. It's your funeral."
He turned to the door, his fingers brushing the handle. The cold air outside whistled through the gaps in the wood, beckoning him.
"Weak people like me are crushed under the feet of the strong," Gazelle murmured. Her fingers dug into her palm as she stared at the floor, her voice barely above a whisper. "Someone I trusted told me that once. A long time ago."
The man hesitated, then turned.
"I trusted too," he admitted, his voice quiet. "Once."
Her eyes widened slightly before softening. "So, even though we come from different worlds… we're not so different, are we?"
A small smile tugged at his lips. "No, I suppose not."
For 28 years, every promise made to her had been broken.
"Can I trust you?" she asked.
He met her gaze steadily. "I promise you. You can count on me."
She exhaled. "What's your name, Stranger?"
He didn't hesitate. "Raven."
The name sent a shiver down her spine. "The Cheater Raven is gracious but harmful," she murmured, a memory surfacing like a whisper from fate.
Raven tilted his head. "What was that?"
"Nothing," she said quickly. But deep down, she knew better.
She had loved ravens since she was a child.
Perhaps it had always been a warning.