The sky thundered as the battlefield split between two realities — parchment and soil, memory and myth. On one side stood the Bookborn, radiant with the glow of ancient stories. On the other stood Mira, transformed into an Earth Dryad, her towering form wreathed in moss and blooming leaves, power humming beneath her bark-textured skin.
Before her, the final shadow loomed — massive and hollow-eyed, shaped like a forgotten hero once beloved by millions but now erased from every page. His armor was cracked obsidian, and his weapon was a jagged quill-sword, dripping with ink that sizzled on contact.
He roared — a sound like burning books — and charged.
Mira moved with rooted grace.
She slammed a vine-covered hand into the ground, and massive roots erupted, twisting toward the enemy like serpents. The shadow slashed through them with his blade, black ink spraying as tendrils fell — but for every one cut, two more grew back.
He leapt — impossibly high — and came down on her shoulder. Mira staggered, bark splintering. She let out a cry that shook the hills.
Then she fought back.
With a sweep of her arm, she summoned a storm of leaves sharp as glass. They whirled around her in a cyclone, battering the shadow mid-air. He flinched, falling — and the moment his feet touched earth, Mira reacted.
From below, giant stone hands rose and grabbed him.
They clamped tightly, draining the darkness from him, moment by moment. He screamed, writhing — but the more he fought, the deeper the vines burrowed into his form, reaching into the cracks, searching…
For the memory of who he once was.
In a single blink, Mira saw it.
— A child once wrote him as a noble knight.
— He saved kingdoms and stood for truth.
— Then that child grew up… forgot… left the tale incomplete.
"Your story was never finished," Mira said, her Dryad voice like echoing wind through trees. "But it still matters."
The shadow stopped struggling. For a breath, he stilled.
Then he shattered into hundreds of glowing letters — his story, once lost, now set free.
The battlefield went silent. The remaining shadows hissed, shrank, and dissolved into harmless ink puddles.
Mira collapsed to her knees, vines withdrawing, bark turning back to skin. Her breathing was heavy. She was herself again… mostly.
The Bookborn surrounded her, awe in their glowing eyes.
"You rewrote a forgotten hero," one whispered.
"No," Mira said, voice hoarse. "I just reminded him he was loved."
Above, the sky healed — lines of golden script reforming the clouds.
But not all was well.
From the horizon, another figure began to rise. Not made of ink — but of fire and code.
Something… new.
(Fun stories by Gabrielle Ehi).