Chapter 67: The Punishment of Genres

One finger to repair a week without going out silence was the only sentence worthy of what they had caused this was no ordinary void, no silence of an ending; it was a place without edge, without center, without matter. It was neither cold nor hot, it neither shone nor darkened. It wasn't even a space; it was what remained after all story, all thought, all name had been removed and in this suspended nothingness, standing, motionless, not batting an eyelid, The Primordial Mother observed them they were all there: the culprits, the glorious children who had become unruly, the genres that had forgotten their original promise The Manga god kept his head bowed, his shoulders still tense with unpurged anger by his side, The Sovereign of Novels stared at a non-existent point with the broken dignity of ancient orators who had lost their words The Lord of Cartoons, for once, no longer smiled his snout drooped, his eyes seemed empty, and even his ears refused to bounce their exuberance had collapsed into the gravity of the impending judgment and then, a few steps away from them, there was Saphira, small, silent, hands crossed behind her back like a child caught with her hand in the lightning box her bare feet barely created reflections on this non-existent ground her dress floated slowly, and her gaze avoided her Mother her shadow had made itself invisible that day she felt neither queen, nor sovereign, nor goddess; that day, she felt like a daughter the voice of The Primordial Mother resonated, and yet, it did not echo, for nothing in that place wished to repeat her words they were meant to fall once, and weigh forever. "You forgot the child." the words struck without violence, but with a clarity that overturned internal defenses. "You forgot the blank page, the simple joy of existing."  shame took multiple forms. The Manga god closed his eyes, The Sovereign of Novels placed a hand on his chest, as if to remind himself that he was still breathing The Lord of Cartoons let fall a tear that evaporated before touching anything. "You chose war." The Mother remained upright, her gaze calm but unforgiving. "I choose repair." It was not a proposition; it was a creative decision so she condemned them, not to erasure, but to effort to reconstruct every destroyed word, every erased name, every world melted in their narrative pride but as heroes, not as authors as repairers as attentive readers who remember that a story is a shelter, not a weapon and they accepted, one by one, without protesting then, the Mother slowly turned her head towards her youngest, towards the most unpredictable, towards the most beloved Saphira did not try to defend herself she did not cry, did not shout, did not recoil she murmured, in a voice so small that one first thought she had merely thought instead of spoken."I just wanted to play with them..." The Mother then knelt, which, in the entire multiverse, had happened only three times she extended her hand and placed it on the child-queen's cheek."I know, my heart, but you touched things that are not yet born." there was neither anger nor accusation; there was only the infinite of a sorrowful tenderness then Saphira straightened her head slightly."I can fix it." she did not shout she did not cast a spell. she snapped her fingers, very gently, like putting out a candle without blowing and from the tip of her gesture, a narrative rainbow was born, a bridge of light that connected not two worlds, but two possibilities from her hands burst bubbles where destroyed narratives were reborn. the bubbles rose slowly, escaped in all directions they passed through the layers of reality, ascended the margins, re crossed the ashes of burned pages forgotten heroes opened their eyes strikethrough dialogues rewrote themselves dead ideas found a form, a beginning, a meaning The Mother let it happen then, with a gentleness that did not lessen the pain, she ran her fingers through her daughter's hair "You repaired it well." Saphira smiled just a little, but it didn't last. "But you are punished." the silence became heavy again, and the child became perfectly still. "How long?" , "One week." Saphira's heart skipped a beat. "No going out, no exploring, no manga, no cake, and... no Super Potato." The world wavered she collapsed as if in a tragedy back arched, hand on forehead, slow fall, perfectly dramatic "No Super Potato?!" a sob, a declaration "I'm a monster! I ruined everything! I deserve oblivion..." The Mother did not reply she remained kneeling, slowly caressing her daughter's back as she whimpered against a ground that didn't exist once again, she hadn't shouted she hadn't struck she had spoken and the entire universe, down to its youngest footnote, had bowed a week passed the genres had gone to repair what they had broken, and Saphira had stayed in her room she unleashed no spells redrew no worlds made no stars tremble she played with dolls she re-read an old tale. she looked at the sky and when she saw a dream bubble float past her window again, she raised a hand she did not grasp it she watched it pass and smiled "It's good to be a little bit good, too."

From Chapter 67 — The Punishment of Genres