Zayn sat cross-legged, notebook resting lightly on his knees as the faint glow of the runes dimmed to nothing. His eyes remained locked on the last line. That addition at the end gnawed at him, confirming everything he had suspected. There was something beneath the surface of this seemingly peaceful village, and whatever it was, he was tangled in it.
He couldn't bring himself to interpret 'seeing something more' as anything good. No Story ever pointed toward happy endings for those caught in their grip, and that part about the village being everything—even beyond death—left a sour taste in his mouth. Stories, he knew, were dangerous.
His thumb ran absentmindedly along the edge of the notebook as he mulled over the implications. This body, this life he had stepped into, was far from ordinary. Even though most of the description read as generic, that final addition felt like a whisper from the Librarian himself.
Zayn sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes drifted to the section labeled 'Qualities.' Everything else was either blank or stamped with 'Mundane,' and it didn't take a protonium engineer to figure out what that meant. Mundane was the Empire's favorite word for anyone without power or significance, and judging by the emptiness of the other sections, it was clear that this boy's life was as ordinary as it got—or should have been.
Still, the 'Qualities' section wasn't empty.
[Blessed by Red] [Unfortunate]
He narrowed his eyes at the glowing text. He hadn't gotten to it yet, but something about those two qualities made him pause. Blessed and unfortunate? What kind of mix was that supposed to be?
Before he could flip back to the qualities and examine them closer, he heard a faint rustling at the edge of the roof.
Zayn rose to his feet carefully and stepped toward the sound. Peeking over the side, he spotted a young boy, around his age, attempting to climb up. His head was completely bald, and he wore the same simple attire as Zayn.
The boy grunted in frustration, still trying to hoist himself up. Zayn watched him silently for a few moments before their eyes met.
"Oh! Hey! Help me up, will you?" the boy called, smiling through his struggle.
Zayn arched a brow. "What are you doing trying to climb up here?"
The boy's grin widened. "I saw you sitting up here, and I wanted to come meet my best pal! But, you know, I'm not as blessed by the Red as you."
"Best pal?" Zayn echoed, his voice sharp with confusion.
The boy's smile faltered for a moment, and his hand slipped. Zayn's reflexes kicked in, and he caught the boy's wrist just as he started to fall. With a grunt, he pulled him onto the roof.
Panting slightly, the boy blinked up at him. "What was that about? Did you forget your greatest and only friend in the world?"
Zayn's mind raced. He needed to play this off carefully. "How could you be the greatest if you're the only one?" he teased, smirking lightly.
The boy burst out laughing. "Since I'm the only one, I'm automatically the greatest! Doesn't take much."
Zayn relaxed slightly. The boy didn't seem to catch the shift in tone.
Straightening his clothes, the boy glanced toward the village below. "Anyway, what are you doing up here? Don't you want to help with the festival? You're supposed to be extra involved this year."
Zayn squinted at him. "Why's that?"
The boy gave him an incredulous look. "Did you hit your head or something? You're blessed by the Red. Wouldn't you want to try and get the blessing again this year?"
Zayn froze. The mention of blessed by Red rang in his head like a bell. It matched exactly with the quality listed in his notebook.
He mulled it over, staring blankly toward the ocean. The boy misinterpreted his silence as sadness.
"Hey… I know you miss your dad," the boy said quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "But wouldn't he want you to carry on the blessing he had?"
Zayn perked up instantly. This was information—important information.
He leaned toward the boy casually. "When did my dad have it?"
The boy scratched his head. "I don't know exactly, but since he was blessed by Red before, he was supposed to hold onto it until the next festival, which is this one. That's when the blessing gets passed to someone new. But, you know… since he died, you are the one carrying it in his place."
Zayn's grip tightened around the edge of the roof. Blessed by Red. It wasn't just a meaningless phrase—it was something real. Something that tied directly to whatever story he was caught in.
The Outline, the small notebook he currently hid behind him could very much help him understand what this blessing was exactly. He decided to call the book this since instinctually, like some kind of inkling in his head he felt it was right to do so.
He could have checked the Outline right there and then to see what being "Blessed by Red" meant, but one glance at the boy clambering beside him told him that wasn't an option. He didn't trust the kid's ability to keep his mouth shut or to not pry.
His eyes dropped to the notebook still behind his back. What was he supposed to do with it? He couldn't just hold onto it out in the open. As if responding to his thoughts, heat suddenly spread across his palm, making him flinch. Before he could react, the book dissolved from his grip, disappearing as the warmth crept up his arm, racing toward his head.
"Ugh…" Zayn winced, clutching his temple as a sharp, stinging headache washed over him. It wasn't as severe as the first time, but it still left him breathless for a second.
"Hey, you good?" The boy paused his struggle up the roof, blinking at Zayn in confusion.
"Yeah, yeah. Just a headache," Zayn mumbled, shaking it off as best he could.
The boy scrunched his nose. "Since when do you get those? Doesn't the blessing make you, you know… not sick?"
Zayn cursed internally. He should have known that detail would come up. Thinking quickly, he forced a half-smile. "Maybe it's because the festival is so close. I'm not the original blessing holder, remember? Maybe that's why."
The boy tilted his head, processing the answer slowly before eventually nodding. "Yeah, I guess that makes sense." He scratched his bald head. "Still weird though. I'd be milking that blessing if I were you."
Zayn smirked faintly, deciding not to dig too deep into the subject. "Anyway, shouldn't we get moving?"
The boy brightened up. "Oh yeah! Since nothing's wrong with you, you should come help with the festival prep. The more you work, the better you'll look to the villagers. Might help your chances with the blessing too."
Zayn gave a small nod. "Sure. Lead the way."
This was his chance. If he tagged along, he could learn more about the village without looking out of place.
The bald boy clambered down from the roof with all the grace of a falling coconut, arms flailing until his feet hit the ground. Zayn followed, dropping down effortlessly. His movements were smooth, instinctual, and honed by years of manual labor added to the although weaker physique of this body.
When his feet hit the ground, the boy gawked at him. "You make that look too easy."
Zayn brushed the dust from his palms, shrugging. "I've done it enough times, I guess."
The boy blinked, then grinned. "Sure, sure. Follow me."
Zayn kept pace as they weaved through the village. Inwardly, he reminded himself to stay quiet and observant. The boy seemed carefree, but Zayn wasn't about to risk exposing himself by saying the wrong thing. He wasn't sure how sharp—or airheaded—his companion really was, so caution seemed the best course of action.
The village thrummed with life as they walked. Islanders moved about cheerfully, stringing decorations between huts and painting bright patterns on the sandy paths. Women laughed as they carried baskets of fruits and flowers, while children dashed between adults, caught up in their own playful festivities. The air buzzed with excitement.
Zayn nodded absently to those who greeted him, but as the interactions piled up, something strange caught his attention. No one used names. Not when they greeted each other, not when they addressed him or the boy beside him. The realization gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.
The Father, The Mother—he recalled how even they had avoided saying his name. They'd called him "boy" or used affectionate terms, but not once had they referred to him by anything else. Zayn's brows knitted slightly. Was this just how things were on the island, or was there something more to it?
Curiosity bubbled up, and as they crossed a narrow path lined with vibrant cloth streamers, Zayn decided to test it. "Hey."
The bald boy glanced back, humming questioningly.
Zayn's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He figured he should keep it simple. "Do you know my name?"
The boy tilted his head. For the briefest of moments, Zayn swore he saw a flicker of red dance across his irises. His muscles tensed, ready to react, but the boy only laughed. "Of course I do. What kind of best pal would I be if I didn't?"
Zayn waited, staring at him expectantly.
But the boy simply turned around and kept walking.
Zayn followed, his footsteps heavy with unease. He mulled it over for a few more moments before deciding to try again. "What is it, then?"
"What?"
"My name."
The boy chuckled without looking back. "I told you, I know it."
The words dropped like a stone into the pit of Zayn's stomach. His eyes narrowed as he continued to walk, trailing behind the boy. Something wasn't right. Either this was part of the Story's strange mechanics, or it was connected to whatever problem he was meant to solve.
He scanned the village with new eyes, searching for more signs of the oddity, but the warm atmosphere of the festival preparations felt almost mocking. Everyone smiled and laughed as if nothing in the world was wrong.
But Zayn couldn't shake the weight of the boy's empty answer.
And he couldn't escape the feeling that someone—or something—was watching him.