The Blood Script Begins

I did not expect to die on a Thursday.

The air had smelled like burnt wires and wet concrete. My ears rang with the sound of shattering glass. Then—everything collapsed. No final thoughts. No regrets. Just an ugly crunch and silence.

When I opened my eyes again, I found myself face down on rough cobblestone, drenched in the stink of iron and smoke. My body ached all over. My hands—bloody, shaking, smaller than I remembered—clutched a short sword with a chipped hilt.

The world had changed.

Above me, the sky was cracked open like torn parchment, revealing crimson lines that pulsed like veins. Those lines glowed with writing—familiar, terrible writing.

“Chapter One: The Death of the Squire.”

No, I thought, not possible. That was mine. I wrote those words.

Not in this world. Not here.

I turned my head slowly. A battle was raging nearby. Shouts in a language I somehow understood. Steel clashing. A boy—barely sixteen—was being dragged by the collar toward a burning cart. His armor bore the royal crest of the Tyrant Prince.

And then it hit me.

The story I once tried to publish—the one nobody read—was playing out in front of me. And that boy? That was me.

Or rather, Riven Ilhart, the doomed squire who dies in the prologue.

***

Pain surged through my side as someone kicked me.

“Get up, coward!” a soldier barked. “Prince Kaelion is retreating. Cover his flank, or I swear I’ll slit your belly myself!”

I didn’t move. Not because I was afraid—though I was—but because I needed to think. Fast.

In the original story, Riven dies here. Killed while shielding the prince during a rout. His death was meant to show how ruthless Kaelion could be. The readers were supposed to hate the prince from that moment on.

But if I was here, then things had changed. This world had become real. And I knew what came next.

Another soldier ran past me screaming, an arrow lodged in his throat. Chaos exploded as enemy forces pushed in. This was not just a defeat. It was a slaughter.

I pushed myself to my feet, sword wobbling in my grip.

I could not let Riven die.

Not yet.

***

My feet carried me through the mud and blood on instinct. I ducked behind a cart just as a volley of arrows rained down. Wood cracked. Horses screamed. I peeked out.

Kaelion.

The prince stood at the rear line, blade in hand, his golden armor cracked but unbroken. His white hair was stained with soot and sweat. His eyes—cold, calculating—locked with mine for a moment.

Not hate. Not even recognition. Just disappointment.

“Get back, Ilhart,” he said without emotion. “I don’t need a broken dog.”

He turned away. That was it. That was all I was to him.

I gritted my teeth. My memory of the story was clear. Kaelion would escape, thanks to a sacrificial charge by a few knights and… me.

But if I changed this moment, maybe I could change what came next.

Instead of charging, I ran to him.

“Your Grace! Behind you!” I shouted.

He turned just in time to parry a spear aimed at his back.

The soldier fell. Kaelion looked at me, narrowed his eyes, and for a moment, he did not speak.

Then he gave the slightest nod.

“Stay close,” he said.

***

That was all it took. A spark. A deviation from the script.

I knew the world would resist. The Oracle System would soon notice.

In my novel, I had built a metaphysical force called the Scriptum—a divine law that guided events toward fate. It punished anomalies. Rewarded narrative.

If I had truly become Riven, and this world had truly come alive, then breaking from the Scriptum would not go unpunished.

But that was a risk I had to take.

We moved together across the battlefield. For every strike I blocked, for every call I answered, the prince's expression changed from indifference to quiet approval.

Until the sky cracked again.

The red script returned, glowing stronger now, as if warning me.

“Deviation detected. Squire Ilhart survives. Fate destabilized.”

I gasped.

Kaelion looked up at the sky, then at me.

“You see them too,” he whispered. “The words.”

I froze.

He was not supposed to.

In the original story, no character ever saw the writing.

“Do not speak of this,” he said quietly. “Not here. Not yet.”

Then he shoved me forward. “We retreat to Hollow Ridge. Move.”

***

That night, the survivors camped near a collapsed shrine.

I sat by the fire, nursing a wound on my shoulder. Kaelion stood nearby, speaking with one of his captains in hushed tones. The others gave him space.

I stared into the flames, remembering lines I had written years ago. Every word was coming back to me. The timeline was fragile now. Characters might evolve outside of their arcs. And if Kaelion could see the script…

He might be changing too.

“Riven,” he said.

I snapped to attention.

“Why did you warn me?” he asked. “You were supposed to die.”

“You knew that?”

He sat across from me, elbows on his knees.

“I hear the whispers. I see the blood-written sky. Sometimes I even know what they’ll say before they appear.”

I swallowed hard.

“I know what’s coming,” I said. “Or at least I think I do. I wrote… something.”

He raised a brow.

“You’re not from here, are you?”

“No.”

For a long while, neither of us spoke.

Then he said, “Good. I need someone who sees what I do.”

He stood, turned, and added, “You’ll ride with me from now on. You’re no longer just a squire.”

I stared at the fire long after he left.

In the novel, Kaelion’s descent into villainy had already begun by now. He burned villages, betrayed allies, killed innocents.

But he had never saved Riven.

Not once.

I might have just bought myself a second chance—and changed the villain’s story before it truly began.

But I also knew what the Scriptum did to those who defied it.

The sky was not done writing.

Not yet.