Ink and Light

Mornings in the village were never quite the same. Lysteria has been… Unbearable, for the lack of a better word, ever since Roderick’s so-called miracle. Children laugh louder, merchants hum as if the world has suddenly turned golden, and even the most tired faces wear smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes. It’s like everyone is drunk on hope, and I’m the only sober one left.

I’ve never seen the grieving mother again.

And then there’s Roderick.

He doesn’t even have to point a finger at me directly; his words do the cutting for him. The shift is subtle at first. A glance held a little too long, a whisper that cuts off when I walk by. I know that kind of silence. It’s the silence of people who think they’re being clever but really just want someone else to do the dirty work of asking the question out loud.

And of course, the “Lord” gives them plenty to chew on.

During a village meeting, he stands there all golden and perfect, gesturing like the world is his stage.

“Strange, isn’t it… ” He says, voice smooth as honey, “How the Choken seems to appear in certain places… Following certain paths… As if drawn to them.” He smiles then - not at me, but past me - and the air around the square chills.

He never says my name. He doesn’t need to.

The villagers don’t look at him when he finishes that sentence. They look at me. The oddity that suffered not one, not two, but three Choken attacks and survived to tell the tale.

I fold my arms, trying to look like I don’t care, like their eyes don’t burn holes into my skin. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work. Every stare feels like an accusation carved into stone, and Roderick knows it. He’s not just planting seeds, he’s watering them with his pretty little words about “purity” and “perfection”.

Martha, who stands beside me, senses my unease and grips my shoulder. “Don’t mind them, dear.” She whispers softly to me. “They don’t know you like I do. I know you didn’t do anything wrong, and will testify for you if need be.”

I know that was supposed to comfort me, but honestly, it doesn’t. Even Dalylah is on his side - what power would our word hold against Lord Roderick’s?

Dalylah sits near him, posture perfect, expression unreadable. She doesn’t speak up for me, doesn’t deny the implications. She just… Absorbs it all. Like she’s filing it away, comparing his words against everything I’ve ever said, everything I’ve ever done. Everything she accused me of, and everything I proved her wrong. And her silence is worse than if she’d stood up and pointed a finger herself.

By the end of the meeting, the villagers leave buzzing with new suspicion. Me? I walk out last, pretending I don’t feel the noose tightening, pretending my heart isn’t thrumming against my ribs. Because if I let them see the cracks, Roderick wins.

And I’ll be damned before I give him that satisfaction.

A few days of this torture continue. I get more and more ostracized by the villagers, only Martha and Yusuke still treating me like a human being and not like a piece of trash. I try to not let that hurt me, keeping myself positive out of spite, but I know I can’t keep up with that for too long.

One day, Roderick breaks my facade.

The message comes in the least subtle way possible. Dalylah, glowing as always in his presence, passes it to me like it’s a blessing instead of a death sentence.

“Lord Roderick would like a word with you at the old barn. Alone.”

Of course he would.

I eye Dalylah, wary, as she stares back at me.

“What?” She asks, harshly.

“Nothing.” I say quickly. “It’s just strange seeing the proud Hero reduced to a message girl. I thought you were better than this. But you can tell your precious Lord I’ll be there.”

Her eyes glare at me, but she decides on a tactical retreat anyway. And that tells me more about this meeting than any words could ever do.

So when the sun dips low, I find myself standing outside the same barn where I first stumbled into this world. Dust, straw, and shadows in every corner, the drip drip of ink bleeding wood filling my ears. My grand debut, now repurposed as a stage for humiliation. Poetic, if you’re into that sort of thing.

He’s already inside, naturally. Leaning against a post, golden hair catching what little light filters in. Like always, he looks like he stepped straight out of a propaganda painting: flawless, serene, untouchable.

“Librarian Aya…” He begins. His voice drips with politeness, but I can taste the iron under it. “Do you know why I asked you here?”

I snort.

“To congratulate me on my fine taste in abandoned architecture?”

His smile doesn’t waver. That’s the worst part. It never does.

“You’ve left a trail.” He says. “Ever since you got here, somehow miraculously not tuning into one of my playthings, the transformations got out of control. Everywhere you go, the Choken follow. And every single one of them, you either defeated or made whole again.”

The air turns colder. My fingers twitch at my side, aching to reach for the quill.

“That’s… Your playthings?” I ask, my voice raspy. Now it all made sense - the words in my diary, talking about the Choken process. The first time I heard of him as Lord Roderick being on a rumor of him wanting to buy the library. His appearance when things started to improve. “You think people’s lives are something to play with?” I stop for a second, calming myself down. “Of course you do. I wouldn’t expect anything else from the Demon Lord, the one who makes problems ‘vanish’ in a flick of magic.”

“Not vanish,” He corrects smoothly, stepping closer. He doesn’t seem that bothered by anything I’ve said. “Perfected.”

And then he shows it to me. A simple ring of black iron, dull and unadorned, but it hums with a hunger that makes my stomach drop. The kind of hunger that consumes everything it touches. The kind of hunger that doesn’t end.

“You see, Aya.” He says, holding his hand out so I can see the faint shimmer around the band, “From what I know, you also know about the God Relics. You do, after all, have all kinds of surprising knowledge… But… This relic is different. It doesn’t simply serve. It collects. It refines. It strips away what is unworthy.” His eyes flicker down to my pocket, and I realize too late what he’s sensed.

The quill.

It trembles against me, as if trying to leap into my hand. Or maybe, just away from his.

I grip it tight and, without thinking, draw it into the air. Golden strokes carve themselves in front of me, forming fragile chains of light that lash out toward him. They spark, bright but brittle, against the pull of his ring.

He doesn’t even flinch. The chains rattle, strain, and then bend, drawn toward the dark band like moths to flame.

“Ah,” Roderick breathes, his tone almost reverent. “A new relic. Untamed. Unpolished. It belongs with me.”

The quill shudders harder, caught between my grip and the invisible tug of his relic. My knuckles whiten, my arm shakes, and for the first time since meeting him, I feel something I hate more than fear.

I feel like prey.

The quill quivers harder, thrumming with a pulse that matches my own heartbeat. Roderick takes another step forward, and the shadows of the barn crawl after him like loyal dogs. I pull my own magic into the pen, willing it to help me. To save me.

“You’re clinging to something you don’t even understand,” he says, voice smooth, serene, the kind of calm that makes you want to scream. “But don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you.”

The air fractures. Dark lines of magic tear through the barn’s dust-choked air, his ring glowing dark like an eclipse on his hand. My own golden magic seems to dim at it, but I write anyway, golden words of protection appearing out of thin air. The first blast crashes against my hastily scrawled letters, golden ink bursting into fragile sparks that vanish too fast. My arm aches, my grip trembling, but I force the quill to carve another shield, another chain, anything to slow him down.

He doesn’t slow.

With each flick of his hand, the barn warps into a nightmare. Straw ignites in ghostly fire, wood splinters like paper. A gust of shadow magic slams into me and I crash into the dirt, the air leaving my lungs.

The quill reacts instinctively, dragging lines of gold around me like frantic stitches, patching together a shield that holds only because it’s desperate, just like me.

But every line I write burns something away. Memories flicker, slip through my fingers like sand. The smell of my mother’s perfume. The sound of my father’s laugh. The warmth of a childhood home I can’t fully picture anymore.

I scream, half in defiance, half in terror, scribbling harder, faster, the golden ink spilling from me like blood.

Roderick laughs. Actually laughs. “See how fragile you are? Each stroke costs you. Each defense erases who you were. And for what? To resist me? The true ruler, the true creator of this world?”

His voice twists then, doubling, one tone human and the other inhuman, a guttural echo that vibrates in my bones. His smile widens, too sharp, too wrong, and for the first time I see the Demon Lord not hiding anymore. His fangs glint, coming out of too many mouths that sprout over his body. Another head sprouts on his back, laughing, whispering things in old lost languages. His eyes narrow into glowing slits, the barn bending around his presence as if the world itself bows to him.

I stagger back, my knees sinking into the straw, the quill slipping in my grip. The ring on his hand pulls again, harder this time, and the golden chains made of light I summon unravel midair, sucked toward the hungry void of that iron band.

Then, the realization hits me like an iron ball and chain. I’m losing, and not just the fight. I’m also losing myself.

Still, I grip the quill tighter, knuckles white, tears streaking through the grime on my face.

“I… Won’t… Give you… Anything!” I snarl, even as the world tilts, even as another memory crumbles to ash inside me - my first kiss, gone, replaced by a blank nothing that stings worse than fire.

The barn shakes. The battle rages in blinding bursts of gold and devouring shadows.

And through it all, only one thought claws its way up my throat, raw and bitter.

If I lose the quill, I lose everything.

I stumble through the ruins of the barn, the quill burning hot in my hand like it wants to brand me as its owner. Every step is a fight against the shadows still clawing at my back, against the dizziness hollowing me out where memories used to be. My chest heaves, lungs rattling like cracked glass.

That’s when I hear it; light footsteps, too precise, too careful to be one of his monsters. Then a hand grabs my arm, steadying me before I collapse.

“Gods, you look like hell.” A sharp whisper hisses in my ear. I blink and see Yuki, her bow slung across her back, eyes sharp as a blade even in the dark.

“Yuki…?” My voice is ragged, half-gone.

She clicks her tongue. “Of course it’s me. Who else would be dumb enough to tail you and smart enough not to get caught? You’re lucky I was watching. Fuck, Dalylah’s an even bigger idiot than I thought, eating out of Roderick’s perfect little hand like he’s the second coming.” She mutters something in a string of curses under her breath as she shifts my weight onto her shoulder.

“I don’t - ” I start, but my knees give out. She grunts, catching me before I hit the ground.

“Save your breath. You’ve bled out half your soul back there.” Her tone is sharp, but there’s a tremor in it. “I knew something was wrong with him. Too polished. Too pure. I should’ve pushed Dalylah harder, but… Damn it, Aya, you were right. Again.”

The words barely register through the ringing in my ears. She half-drags, half-carries me toward the village, weaving through alleys with the grace of someone born to vanish. My body is dead weight, but her determination doesn’t falter.

We reach the library, my library, its crooked frame looming out of the night like salvation carved in wood and stone. I feel it before we even cross the threshold: the way the air shifts, the way the walls groan low, recognizing me, welcoming me in it’s warm embrace.

Roderick’s shadow follows, stretching down the street, the weight of him pressing against our spines. He doesn’t hurry. He doesn’t need to. He knows I’m breaking.

But when he steps closer to the entrance, the wood shudders. The door slams shut on its own, the grain twisting, the stone beneath us thrumming with a sound that isn’t really a sound, but condensed fury. It spits him back like it just ate a bad apple.

For the first time since this nightmare began, I see his perfect face falter through the window. Just a flicker, but enough. His hand, heavy with that cursed ring, hovers in the air as if trying to force his way through. The air itself rejects him. The library, my library, won’t let him in.

His eyes narrow, slitted gold burning with promise.

“This isn’t over.” His voice reverberates like a curse, before he turns and dissolves into shadow.

Yuki stumbles inside with me, finally letting go. We crash to the wooden floor together, gasping. My quill drops, golden ink bleeding faintly across the boards, leaving burns like scars.

She kneels beside me, shaking her head, but helping steady my heavy body.

“You’re a mess, Aya. And so’s that damn diary of yours.”

I glance at the book clutched to my chest, its cover blistered, edges scorched, pages inside weeping lines of black and gold. My own arms aren’t much better - burned, cut, etched with ink that won’t wash away.

I can’t even tell where I end and the pain begins anymore.

The library is quiet, too quiet, except for the sound of my own ragged breathing. Yuki kneels beside me, still catching her breath, her eyes darting nervously toward the door as if expecting Roderick’s shadow to seep back through the cracks.

Then the air shifts.

Not overly cold, not overly warm. Just… Present. Heavy in a way that presses against my bones. The shelves creak low, the wood humming with something alive, something old.

And then I hear her.

Not with my ears, but inside, like ink scratching itself across my thoughts. A voice I know, a voice I could never forget.

“You, my dearest, were not born to win. Not like that.”

My blood rushes against my ears, and my throat tightens as I feel my eyes fill with tears.

“F… Failure?” I whisper, and the word tastes half like a curse, half like a prayer.

“You were born to endure, Aya. To stumble, to falter, to break and still rise again. And I am sorry you had to suffer so much to understand that. But that… That is your victory. Not theirs. Never theirs.”

The words thread through me like golden fire, warm and unbearably painful all at once. Her voice is soothing, but awe inspiring at the same time. My quill, lying limp against the floorboards, pulses faintly in answer, like it recognizes its creator.

“I am here, dearest. I have always been here, in these walls, in these shelves, in these books. In you. You are mine, Aya. And I am yours. I will not let you vanish, not while your ink still stains these pages. Remember that you are my chosen, and bear that title with pride in your heart.”

The shelves groan louder, the lantern flames flicker without wind. Then, slowly, softly, Failure’s voice vanishes, and everything goes back to normal. Yuki actually jumps at that, nearly dropping her bow.

“What the hell was that?” She demands, voice cracking despite the sharp edge she tries to put on it. “Aya, that… Was that… A Goddess?!”

My lips press together. My chest still burns with her words, pain and comfort mixed together in a strange mush, but I force myself to breathe.

“…Yes. It was.”

Yuki’s eyes widen. “And you… You’re a Chosen?”

“Yes.” The word barely leaves me. My voice sounds too small, too broken. But it’s the truth.

“By who?” Yuki presses, sharp.

I swallow hard.

“I…” I try to force the words out. But I can’t - I can’t let her know that I’m chosen by the embodiment of Failure. This day has been humiliating enough.

She stares at me for a long moment, then huffs and shakes her head. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But gods, Aya, if that was real… If that was real, then I’ll back you. Whatever this is. Even if Dalylah’s too blind to see it. I’m not.”

I blink at her, stunned.

“You’d help me? Even now?”

“Especially now.” She scowls, but her hand grips mine tight, grounding me. “Dalylah won’t listen to me yet, but she will. I’ll make her. We’re not letting that smug bastard take everything. Not while we’re still breathing.”

For the first time since this nightmare began, I let myself lean into someone’s touch, if only for a moment. The echo of Failure’s voice still lingers inside me, softer now, almost a whisper. Yuki’s hands seep warmth into my cold ones, and I allow myself to cry. Not from pain or anguish, but from relief.

Not victory, not yet. But continuation. And that’s enough.