Morning comes too fast. Pale light slips through the curtains, painting the room in a soft gold that feels almost unreal after the tension of last night. I sit on the edge of the bed, the notebook heavy in my lap, its leather cover warm under my fingers. Lorean is still asleep, curling beneath the blankets like she's trying to shield herself from the world.
I watch her for a long moment. She trusts me completely. And I cannot fail her—not now.
I breathe in slowly. My hands tremble slightly as I untie the leather strap. The pages are blank, waiting. Waiting for me to write. Waiting for me to shape reality.
I can feel it humming against my skin. Almost like it's aware.
I think back to Aldren's words:
The Ledger is not a toy. Use it wisely. Its magic flows from the heart of your intention. But everything written has consequence.
I nod to myself. Intention. Focus. Heart.
I open the first page. Blank, smooth, like snow untouched by wind. I pick up the pencil, turning it over in my fingers.
What do I write first?
I can't risk anything too big yet. I need to understand it. Test its limits. Start small.
My gaze falls on Lorean's empty breakfast plate from yesterday.
I write carefully, deliberately:
A small bouquet of lavender blooms appears on the kitchen table.
I pause.
Nothing happens.
I hold my breath.
And then…
A faint rustle. A sweet, gentle scent fills the room. I blink, and there it is—a small bouquet of lavender, stems delicate, blossoms vibrant, almost glowing in the morning light.
I stare. My heart hammers. Lorean stirs in her sleep, sniffing the air, murmuring something about dreams.
"It works," I whisper to myself.
It works.
But with that realization comes fear.
Everything I write… everything I imagine… could become real.
The weight presses on me, thrilling and terrifying all at once.
I try another small test. A piece of paper falls to the floor, and I pick up the pencil again:
A single candle appears, flickering softly on the counter.
Immediately, a warm glow lights the kitchen. Shadows stretch and dance along the walls. The air is soft, scented with melted wax. The magic of creation tingles against my fingertips.
I feel powerful. Dangerous. Alive.
Lorean shifts in her sleep. I glance at her, heart tightening. She doesn't understand yet. She shouldn't.
And I think of the man in the shadows. The one who is already hunting us.
Everything I create will draw him closer.
I set the notebook down. Hands shaking. Heart racing.
"What have I done?" I whisper.
Because even with this small magic… I can feel the world watching.
And somewhere beyond the walls of our quiet house, the first threads of consequence are already unraveling.
By mid-morning, we eat breakfast in silence. I can't stop thinking about the notebook. About what it could do. About what it will do.
Lorean keeps glancing at me nervously, as if she senses the tremor in my thoughts.
"Wren," she says finally, voice hesitant, "we… can't tell anyone, right?"
"No one," I agree. "Not until we understand it. And even then… we have to be careful."
We move to tidy the kitchen, but my mind is elsewhere. Already planning. Already imagining.
Because if I can create small things… maybe I can create bigger things.
Maybe I can write a world where my parents are still alive.
And maybe… just maybe… I can bring them back.
But deep in the back of my mind, a warning whispers, sharp and cold:
Every creation has a cost.
I know, without knowing how, that the man hunting us will feel every word I write.
Every intention.
Every heartbeat I pour onto the page.
And the first step toward our parents… may also be the first step toward danger we cannot imagine.