Threads of the Forgotten

If the world had a grudge against me, it was finally starting to show.

The air was different now. Not colder, just... heavier. Like the sky itself had leaned in a little too close, eager to see what I'd do next. Every shadow felt like a spectator. Every tree — a silent judge.

"You feel that?" I muttered.

Zayn didn't even turn his head. "It's watching us."

"Well, that's comforting," I said flatly. "Good to know I've got fans."

He didn't laugh.

Of course he didn't. He never laughed. I could fall off a cliff and he'd probably just raise an eyebrow and call it "strategic repositioning."

We moved through the forest in silence, the quill wrapped tightly in cloth and hidden in my satchel. I didn't know what to do with it — bury it, burn it, throw it into a river — but something told me it wasn't that easy. That quill wasn't just a tool; it was a temptation.

And I wasn't in the mood to be tempted.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"To the Bastion," Zayn replied, cutting through the underbrush like he was born in it. "Neutral ground. It's protected."

"Protected by who? More mysterious robed guys with glowing eyes and cryptic monologues?"

He shot me a sideways glance. "Worse. Librarians."

I blinked. "...Librarians?"

"The Bastion of Aravath. One of the last places untouched by the script. They guard knowledge — real knowledge. The kind they don't want you to read."

A place with answers? That actually sounded like progress.

"Lead the way, oh brooding shadow-man," I said, motioning ahead. "Let's go find the plot twist I've been waiting for."

Zayn didn't respond, but I swear I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

We walked for hours. The forest eventually gave way to rocky hills, the trees thinning as we reached a ridge. That's when I saw it:

A massive stone structure rising from the valley below — round towers, shattered bridges, and walls covered in ancient symbols. The whole place looked like a ruin someone had tried to argue into staying alive.

"That's the Bastion?" I asked.

"Yes," Zayn said. "Or what's left of it."

"What happened?"

He stared down at the towers. "Someone tried to erase it from the story."

I looked at the ruins again, this time with more respect. Something about the way it stood there — defiant, crumbling, but not destroyed — felt familiar.

Like it refused to be forgotten.

Just like me.

The closer we got to the Bastion, the more my gut twisted.

Not fear exactly — more like... familiarity. Like a memory I hadn't earned was clawing at the edge of my mind, begging to be noticed.

Zayn said nothing as we approached the outer gates. They were cracked, weathered stone — two massive slabs of dark granite etched with glowing symbols that shifted when I stared too long. No guards. No chains. Just the heavy weight of old knowledge pressing against the world like a heartbeat under rock.

"This place gives me hives," I muttered.

"Then it's working," Zayn said. "Only the unscripted can feel the pressure. The rest… they walk in like sheep."

"Great. I'm allergic to plot holes and now ancient architecture."

He didn't even smirk. Of course he didn't. His face was carved from the same stone as the walls, probably.

He reached up and placed his hand flat on the center of the left gate.

Nothing happened.

Then, the symbols began to stir — not glow, not flash — just shimmer, like heat over pavement. The stone trembled slightly, then split open down the center with the groan of ancient hinges that hadn't moved in years.

A passage opened before us, narrow and dark, leading into the belly of the mountain beneath the Bastion.

"After you," I said, trying to hide the fact that my legs had turned to lukewarm noodles.

Zayn stepped in without hesitation. I followed, trying to act like this was completely normal and I wasn't internally screaming.

Inside, the corridor was cool, dry, and silent. The kind of silence that made your own heartbeat feel obnoxious.

It didn't feel abandoned. It felt... attentive.

Like the walls were listening.

After a long descent through winding stone stairs, we reached a small antechamber. Dust hung in the air, but it didn't feel dead. On the contrary — it felt like a place that remembered too much.

Then, a voice echoed from the shadows:

"You shouldn't have brought him here."

Another figure stepped forward — tall, robed, their face hidden behind a half-mask made of shimmering metal threads. The mask wasn't decorative. It moved. Shifted. As if it were reacting to their thoughts.

Zayn bowed his head slightly. "Keeper Varin."

The figure — Keeper Varin, apparently — didn't look at Zayn. Their focus was locked on me.

"You reek of contradiction," Varin said. "You are both character and glitch. Memory and void."

"I get that a lot," I said dryly.

Silence.

I cleared my throat. "Listen, I'm not here to cause trouble. I'm just—"

"You are the crack in the frame," Varin interrupted. "And cracks invite collapse."

Zayn stepped forward. "He needs to know. You owe me that much."

Varin's eyes narrowed behind the mask.

"Very well," they said. "But if he breaks the Bastion… his story ends here."

Zayn stepped back, leaving me alone in the center of the chamber with Keeper Varin.

"Sit," Varin said, motioning to a stone seat carved from the floor itself. "You'll want to be grounded for this."

I glanced at Zayn, hoping for some kind of reassurance. Of course, he gave me none.

"You've dragged me through forests, fought shadow monsters, introduced me to a guy who tried to rewrite my soul," I muttered as I sat, "and now I'm being lectured by a talking mask. I swear, if the next person I meet is named 'Plot Twist,' I'm going home."

Varin didn't respond.

They — no, he (I'll follow your lead here and give Varin a defined gender) — placed a thin, glowing slate on the floor in front of me. It looked like crystal but hummed softly like a living thing.

"What is that?" I asked.

"A fragment," Varin said. "From before the story was finalized."

"The story of this world?"

"No." His masked head tilted. "The story of you."

I froze. "What do you mean my story?"

Varin knelt, tapping the slate. A shimmering image appeared — not magic, not a hologram — something in-between. A memory, maybe.

I saw flashes of paper. Lines of dialogue. Character notes. A production board. The scene changed, and I saw a version of me — or Seif — laughing in a coffee shop, script unopened on the table.

"You were written in layers," Varin said quietly. "More than one version. More than one identity. The actor. The character. The vessel."

My voice came out low. "Vessel for what?"

"For the script," Varin replied. "For the author's will. You were meant to deliver a story. To become it. Not to question it."

The scene shifted again — now showing a blurred figure in a dark room, pen moving rapidly across a page.

"Who is that?" I asked.

"The original writer," Varin said. "The one who penned your first fate."

"But… that's just the screenwriter, right?"

Varin tilted his head again. "You think this began with a movie?"

Something cold slithered through my spine.

Zayn stepped closer. "He needs to know the truth."

Varin nodded and stood.

"You weren't cast into a role," he said. "You were born from it."

The words hit me harder than any sword.

Born from it?

"You're not the actor playing Nawar," Varin said. "You're the construct of what Nawar was meant to be. The story created you, not the other way around."

"No," I whispered. "I have a life. Family. Friends. School. I remember—"

"Pieces," Varin interrupted. "Implanted, echoed, repeated. Your reality was a draft, and now you're caught between revisions."

My hands gripped the edge of the seat.

Everything around me — the quill, the creatures, the Rewriter, this ancient ruin — all of it...

Was this world trying to rewrite itself, or erase the original version of me?

I stood up.

Not out of courage. Not defiance. Just… disbelief.

"You're telling me," I said, carefully, "that everything I know—my life, my memories, my dreams—are just… drafts?"

"Echoes," Varin corrected. "Leftovers from earlier versions of the narrative."

I laughed. Short, sharp, and completely hollow. "Great. Just when I thought this couldn't get more psychologically scarring."

Zayn stepped forward, his voice low. "He's holding up better than I expected."

"Is that a compliment?" I asked. "Because it really feels like I'm being congratulated for not losing my mind fast enough."

Varin waved a hand. A panel in the far wall slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a long corridor lined with glowing glass pillars. Inside each one were suspended fragments — broken masks, burned pages, torn pieces of cloth, even what looked like... camera lenses.

"This is the Vault of Cuts," Varin said. "Here lie all the elements that were removed from the story — either by design or… rebellion."

I took a step forward. The air here buzzed with a low static, like I was walking into a radio frequency. Each pillar I passed told a different story, but none of them felt whole.

"These were people?" I asked.

"Some," Varin said. "Others were places, timelines, truths. When the world edits itself, it doesn't ask for permission. It simply… discards."

I stopped in front of one pillar. Inside floated a single object: a half-burned page titled Scene 44 – Nawar's Exit. The ink had bled away from water damage, but the title remained legible.

"Wait… my exit?"

Varin appeared beside me. "A version where you died. Abruptly. They cut it. Said it lacked emotional payoff."

Zayn crossed his arms. "He was never meant to live long. Just long enough to carry the story's weight."

"Thanks for the inspiring backstory," I muttered.

But I couldn't stop staring at that fragment.

Someone had written an ending for me — a disposable one. And someone else had cut it, like I was just a pacing issue. A problem in the timeline.

"So what now?" I asked. "I run? Hide? Wait for the story to erase me again?"

Varin turned slowly toward me. "You do something none of the others could."

I raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess. Fight the story?"

"No," Varin said. "Become the author."

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was heavy — like the room itself was waiting for my reaction.

I blinked. "I'm sorry — did you just say author?"

Varin's mask glimmered faintly. "Not in the literal sense. But if you retrieve the one item sealed at the heart of this Bastion… you might gain something even rarer than authorship."

Zayn's eyes narrowed. "Control?"

Varin nodded.

I looked between them.

"Okay," I said. "One last question."

Zayn sighed. "Of course."

"If I become the author… can I finally rewrite Zayn to have a sense of humor?"

"So," I muttered, "where exactly is this magical plot device I'm supposed to grab?"

"Deep below the Bastion," Varin replied. "Guarded by layers of memory, forgotten script, and something… older."

"Great," I said. "Nothing like a casual stroll through the basement of existential horror."

Zayn handed me a small torch that burned with silver fire. "You'll need this."

"Why? Does it double as a plot armor upgrade?"

"No," he replied. "But if the shadows touch you, they'll take pieces."

I blinked. "Of what?"

"Memory. Identity. Lines from your story."

I stared at the flame.

Of course.

Even light in this place came with fine print.

We descended a narrow spiral staircase that seemed to go on forever — winding deeper than any castle should reasonably extend. The torch didn't flicker. It pulsed. Almost like it was breathing.

I had questions. So many questions. But the deeper we went, the less they mattered.

This place wasn't built for answers.

It was built to make you forget why you came.

At the bottom, a massive chamber waited — spherical, hollow, and lit from above by strands of violet energy that moved like floating ink. In the center stood a single pedestal, and resting on it…

A book.

It looked unassuming. Leather-bound. Worn.

But the second I saw it, I felt something twist inside me — like recognition had been forcibly loaded into my brain.

I stepped forward slowly.

Zayn didn't follow.

"The Book of Beginnings," Varin said from behind me. "The first script. The one from which all versions flowed."

I turned. "And you're just going to let me take it?"

Varin didn't answer.

Zayn did. "No one can take it. You can only open it if the story recognizes you."

"Which is… incredibly reassuring," I muttered.

I placed a hand on the cover.

The leather was cold, but familiar. Like shaking hands with a ghost that used to be me.

Then I opened it.

The pages flipped on their own, faster than my eyes could track, stopping suddenly on a blank sheet.

No text. No ink. Just a title at the top:

Chapter 0 – The Scene That Was Never Filmed

And then the page began to write itself.

Words appeared, one after another, in handwriting I somehow recognized as my own. My throat tightened. It was like watching memories crawl out of my head and land on the page.

I saw my childhood.

But not the one I remembered.

I saw versions of Seif — versions who made different choices. One who studied law. One who died before graduating. One who never acted at all.

They all led here.

Every one of them.

The book was showing me what had always been hidden — that this wasn't just a world I'd fallen into.

It was a world built to catch me.

A world waiting for the day I'd return… and try to change it.

End of Chapter 6.