Ren Vireo had stepped into storms before.
But none like this.
The moment his foot touched the first brushstroke of the bridge, the world didn't just shimmer—it shuddered, as if Cindale itself inhaled. Then, everything was color.
No sky. No ground. No horizon.
Only swirls of oil-painted clouds, constellations stitched from ink blots, and islands of canvas floating in midair like forgotten dreams. Every step Ren took left a splash of color behind, trails that twisted and rearranged themselves seconds later.
Gloop bounced beside him, glowing slightly pink now. Ren narrowed his eyes.
"You're… adapting again?"
Gloop wobbled in affirmation.
Ren squinted at the ever-shifting hues around them. "Guess that makes two of us."
The wind here wasn't wind at all—it was music. Notes curled around them, melodies rising and falling, played by invisible strings. Somewhere distant, laughter echoed. Not joyful. Not mocking. Something… lost.
They stepped onto the first floating island—an open meadow painted in a style Ren couldn't describe. Everything looked real and unreal at the same time. The grass moved like it was underwater. The sky rippled when you looked directly at it.
Then came the voice.
"Who gave you the right to change my colors?"
Ren turned.
Standing ahead was a boy—maybe fifteen. Pale. Barefoot. Cloaked in flowing parchment sheets that fluttered with invisible wind. His eyes were brushstrokes, literal streaks of midnight blue across where pupils should be.
Behind him towered a massive easel. And on it?
A painting of Ren.
Or more precisely—of Ren splintering apart.
The boy stepped forward, his hand smeared with drying paint. "I dreamed you into this place. You don't belong."
Ren raised his hands. "Easy. I didn't mean to break in."
"You didn't break in," the boy said coldly. "You unfolded the world. It wasn't ready."
He waved his hand. The canvas behind him rippled—and the painting of Ren shimmered into motion. Suddenly, it wasn't just a painting. It moved. It spoke.
"Stop walking," it said, its painted mouth warping. "You're making everything worse."
Ren stepped back. The words struck deeper than he liked. How many times had he wondered that exact thing? Whether this endless journey was a gift or a mistake?
He clenched his fists.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he admitted. "I'm just trying to keep moving forward."
The boy narrowed his eyes. "Movement is violence here. Every step you take bleeds a new possibility into life. Some of us weren't meant to change."
Ren looked around—at the swirling sky, at the distorted echoes of his image, at Gloop pulsing softly with concern. Then he met the boy's gaze again.
"Then maybe that's exactly why I have to keep walking."
He took a step forward.
The sky cracked.
The canvas behind the boy split down the middle, bleeding not paint—but stars.
The boy staggered back, shocked.
"You… you fractured the frame."
Ren exhaled, staring at the stars now dripping like ink from the canvas edges. "I'm not trying to destroy anything. I'm trying to find the truth inside the dream."
And then the storm answered him.
The music swelled. Notes became shapes. Shapes became creatures—birds with brushstroke wings, wolves with palettes for fur, beasts that were half-forgotten memories, half-future regrets. They swirled around Ren, watching. Listening.
One of them—a fox-shaped shadow with glowing quill eyes—approached.
Ren instinctively knelt.
The fox touched its nose to his forehead.
A whisper unfurled inside his skull:
"Traveler of Ink. Rewrite the world, but do not forget what you erase."
And in that moment, the painted version of Ren—still on the splintered canvas—smiled. It reached toward him. Then faded.
The boy dropped to his knees, stunned.
"You're not a wanderer," he whispered. "You're… you're a brushstroke with a will."
Ren turned, heart pounding.
"No. I'm not a stroke," he said. "I'm the hand that moves it."
Gloop bounced with a soft, encouraging gurgle.
And so they walked again—this time not into storm or trial, but into an ever-changing world that had just learned to fear him… or hope for him.
Because now, Cindale knew.
Ren Vireo was no longer just a visitor.
He was an author.
And he was still writing.