The Cost of Truth

I take the next few days to recover, never leaving my library. Yuki covers for me outside, and brings in supplies. She helps me change my bandages, and get out of bed when I need to while recovering from that ordeal. The time I spend healing, though, gives me time to think, and that, in turn, makes the holes in my memory more prominent.

I used to know the names of the months I created for this world. All of them. The equivalent of January through December, like neat little soldiers lined up in my head. Now? They’re gone. Just empty shelves where words used to be. I try to picture my parents next, but their faces slip through me like smoke. A blur of warmth, maybe. A laugh I think I knew. The outline of a hand that might have been my father’s. Or not. I can’t even trust myself on that anymore.

And when I push further back, when I try to force my brain to cough up something solid, I only find hesitation. Holes. My “life” from before is crumbling like wet paper, and I don’t even have the energy to mourn every missing piece.

The Choken don’t wait for me to figure it out, of course. They never do. Their claws scrape at the edge of the barrier, their guttural gasps rattling like broken bells. So I do what I always do: I pull out the quill and I write.

It burns the moment I grip it. Not heat, not cold, but a pressure, like the marrow in my bones is being siphoned out. I drag the nib through the diary pages, carving frantic strokes of light. Golden words lash forward, forming a fragile net of fire, a cage to hold back the broken things.

The air rips open with a crack as the barrier around the village pulses. The Choken shriek, retreating, their bodies dissolving into smoke. For the villagers, it’s salvation. For Dalylah, it’s weight of knowing you’re taking someone else’s glory instead. For me, it’s execution.

Because with the ink comes the price.

My chest caves as something tears loose inside me. My lungs stutter, I crumble back on bed, and then I see her: my high school literature teacher. Sharp glasses, sharper voice, the woman who once shoved poetry and prose down my throat until it started to taste like survival. For a second, she’s so vivid I can smell the chalk on her hands.

And then she’s gone.

Ripped out of me like a page torn from a book. My body holds, the barrier holds, the monsters burn and vanish. My mind, however, is thinner now, more fragile.

The pen pulses faintly, its glow mocking, almost tender, like it’s asking: How much more are you willing to give me?

I lay on the bed, gasping, hand clutching my chest. t=Tears I didn’t mean to shed burn hot down my cheeks. And for the first time, the thought doesn’t just whisper - it screams.

If every word I write costs me a piece of myself… How long until I’ve written myself out of existence?

The golden ink is barely dry on the pages as I gulp air like I’ve been drowning. My hands shake. My quill is heavier than it has any right to be. Heavier, because I know what it just took from me.

“You’re slipping again.”

The voice cuts sharp, right behind me at the door to my bedroom. I don’t even have to turn to know it’s her. Yuki doesn’t mince words.

“Go away,” I mutter, laying on my side and hugging my knees, trying to force my breath steady.

But she doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. She steps closer, boots heavy against worn wood.

“You think nobody notices? Every time you pull that pen out, you come back… less.” I freeze. Her words sting because they’re true. “You stumble, you forget things, you go pale like a corpse, and you expect me to believe it’s just ‘fatigue’? Don’t insult me, Aya.”

Her voice sounds like an accusation, but I can hear the worry in her tone. My laugh cracks, bitter and small. Before I’d ask if I was worthy of that worry. Now…

“Fine.” I spit out, turning on the bed to face her. “You want the truth? Every line I write eats me alive, eats my soul. Memories, pieces of me… Gone with a stroke of a pen. My teacher’s face. My father’s laugh. The comforting touch of my mom. I don’t even know what month it is anymore.” My throat burns as the words claw their way out. “But if I don’t write, people die choking on their own screams. So tell me what choice I have.”

Yuki is quiet for a second. Then she swears: loud, vicious and heartfelt.

“Gods damn it all!” She slams her fist against the wall hard enough to make splinters bury themselves on her hand. “What kind of twisted joke is this? Making you carry that weight alone?”

I stare at her, blinking through the blur in my eyes. Alone. The word feels too familiar.

“Yuki… Your hand…”

She doesn’t give a thought about it. She strides towards the bed, grabs my shoulder, and sits me up, holding me hard enough to anchor me.

“Aya. Listen to me. You’re not doing this alone. I don’t care what it costs, whatever I can give you, it’s yours. I’ll carry the world with you if that’s what it takes. If it takes lying, stealing, fighting Roderick himself - I don’t give a shit. You don’t get to vanish like that. Not on my watch.”

Something in me cracks then, a dam I didn’t know I’d been holding back. For once, I don’t bite back with sarcasm. I just breathe, shuddering, because the idea of someone standing in that fire with me is almost unbearable.

Her grip tightens, steady, unyielding.

“Got it?” She asks, her voice steady as steel, and for the first time since I arrived, the ‘hero voice’ doesn’t gives me chills.

I nod, barely, my voice breaking.

“Got it.”

The days blur together. I sleep too much, and even that doesn’t make the ache in my bones go away. Every time I close my eyes, I dream of blank faces where memories used to be. I don’t dare leave the library, not unless Yuki drags me out.

And she does.

“You can’t rot in here forever.” She says, hands on her hips, gaze sharp as an arrow. “The barrier won’t last forever either. If it flickers and no one notices, Roderick will twist that against you. We need to check it.”

“I’ll just… Write from here.” I mumble, already knowing how pathetic I sound.

Her hand falls on my shoulder, firm. “I’ll be with you. No one touches you while I breathe. Got it?”

I hesitate, but the way her eyes don’t waver makes it hard to argue. So I go.

The woods are quiet near the edge of the barrier, only the faint shimmer of gold humming faintly overhead. Yuki walks beside me, one hand steadying me whenever my steps falter. The silence between us feels heavy, but I’m grateful for it. Talking would just make me realize how out of breath I already am.

“We’ll check this section, then circle back.” Yuki says softly, eyes scanning the tree line. “Quick, before anyone notices.”

The barrier here flickers. Not much, just a faint sputter like a lantern low on oil, but enough to make my stomach twist. I grip the pen.

Before I can lift it, a shadow moves. A familiar one.

Dalylah.

She steps out from between the trees, sword at her side, sweat gleaming on her brow. Clearly on patrol. Her eyes narrow when they land on me.

“What are you doing here?” she demands, voice sharp.

Yuki steps forward before I can answer. “Perimeter check. Asked Aya to come, cause she knows a bit about magic.”

Dalylah glares at her, probably knowing her friend is openly lying, then at me, but doesn’t press. Not yet.

The barrier sputters again, and I know I can’t wait. My fingers tremble as I raise the quill, golden light sparking weakly at the tip. I write into the diary, lines of gold leaving it and threading into the shimmer above us like stitches on a wound.

The moment the ink leaves me, the world tilts. My knees slam into the dirt, the quill searing in my hand. Another memory ripped away. The curve of an ‘a’. The way words got together to make phrases on a paper. The exact shape of my best friend’s handwriting. The absence claws at me, leaving a hollow ache I can’t fill.

I choke on a sob, one hand clutching the ground to steady myself. Yuki is already kneeling beside me, panic etched into her face.

Dalylah doesn’t move.

Her usual accusations never come. No shouting, no blade drawn, no sermon about me being a threat. Just silence. Watching. Her eyes linger on the way I shake, on the way golden ink still drips from the quill like blood.

For once, she sees it: The cost.

The barrier steadies overhead, glowing stronger, but I’m crumpled in the dirt, gasping like I’ve just been gutted. Yuki curses under her breath, trying to pull me upright, but my body won’t cooperate.

“Fuck, Aya. You shouldn’t have used it again so soon, you’re still recovering…” Yuki mutters, holding me steady at least. I don’t answer, not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t.

Dalylah’s lips part, then close again. She grips her sword tighter, as if the motion alone could silence whatever doubt is crawling into her chest.

She doesn’t defend me. But she doesn’t condemn me either.

And that silence, coming from Dalylah of all people, says more than words ever could.

I don’t remember walking back. Just the unbearable weight pressing on my ribs, the straw clinging to my hair, and the vague awareness that two sets of hands are dragging me somewhere. My knees buckle more times than I can count. I taste iron in my mouth.

Their voices cut through the haze, sharp and ugly.

“This is her fault.” Dalylah spits. Even half-conscious, I recognize the edge in her tone. “If she wasn’t hiding something, she wouldn’t be like this.”

Yuki snarls back, loud enough to sting even through the ringing in my ears.

“Shut up, Dalylah. You saw it. She’s burning herself for your perfect little village. She’s not your enemy, she’s bleeding out for this goddamn village.”

Bleeding. Cute way to describe someone who’s erasing herself one sentence at a time.

I want to laugh, but it comes out as a wheeze. My hand twitches toward my quill, instinct, habit, curse. Yuki grips my wrist tight, and I feel the silent plea in her touch: Not now. Don’t kill yourself again.

Dalylah doesn’t answer. For once. Just silence, and the weight of her arm steadying me anyway. If this were a dream, it would be hilarious - my biggest accuser holding me up so I don’t collapse in the dirt.

We move like that through the dim lit streets. Every step is agony, and I can feel Dalylah’s gaze darting around, making sure no one sees her helping the “enemy.” Always careful with appearances, our Hero.

The library doors groan open, and the air shifts, thick and familiar, like ink wrapping around my lungs. Home. Or at least the closest thing I have left to it. The moment my feet hit the threshold, the weight inside me shifts. It doesn’t vanish, but the place holds me, steadies me, like it’s claiming me back.

Yuki lowers me into a chair, whispering something urgent I can’t catch. Dalylah stays standing, arms crossed, but I feel her eyes on me like a brand.

I drag the diary open with trembling fingers. The pages blur, rebel. Sentences I swear I wrote yesterday smear into gray sludge. Names dissolve mid-letter. Blank spaces stare back at me like open graves.

I don’t even need to flip far; I see it everywhere. Gaps where my life used to be.

The last thing I try to hold on to is a memory of a voice, a warm laugh I know belonged to someone important. But it’s already gone. All that’s left is silence.

My chest caves in. My throat burns.

“How much more of me can I lose..?” I whisper, not sure if I’m asking Yuki, Dalylah, or the library itself. “Before there’s nothing left to remember?”

The words hang in the heavy air. Yuki’s hand finds mine, firm and grounding, refusing to let me drift away. Dalylah doesn’t speak, doesn’t accuse, doesn’t defend. Just watches. For once, her silence is heavier than her words.

And me? I sit between them. A ruin trying to hold a shape, wondering how long before Aya stops being Aya at all.