Arena LIV

Lira wrote.

The way others breathed.

She didn't force meaning onto the world—she uncovered it, layer by layer, like brushing dust from a half-buried fossil. Her words didn't thunder or command. They whispered. They asked. And reality… answered.

Where her pen moved, small things shifted.

Dead roots stirred under soft soil.

A cracked wall mended with moss and memory.

A forgotten name returned to a grandfather's lips like a childhood song.

The villagers watched at first with reverence. Then, with fear. Then, with something deeper.

Hope.

But the pen was not just a tool.

It listened.

And Lira soon learned that what she wrote could not be taken back—not without cost.

She tried to fix everything. A girl's limp. A mother's grief. A failed harvest.

The words responded, yes—but behind each miracle was a consequence.

The healed leg walked too far and fell into the ravine.