Pages of Fate

By L.E. Srofe

Amie loves being an author, not so much a god.

 

Author Amie is well-known for her Word Binders series, and her readers anxiously await the finale book. As inspiration strikes and she begins writing her opening scene, it turns out her book world is awaiting her, too. Now stuck inside, Amie discovers true magic as the Goddess of Fate and must work toward bringing about the story's ending from within the pages.

 

Navigating this fantasy world is as magical and horrible as she could imagine. With a demon-possessed antagonist king, a cold war between the Sunlight and Starlight courts, and characters she's never written about, Amie struggles under the weight.

 

She never dreamed one of her allies could be the star-swallowing demon of her fantasies.

 

Within the pages, what is a proper and just ending for her story? How can she influence events without the magic they all assume she possesses? And who in their right mind thought corsets and high heels were a fabulous idea?

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.E. Srofe
• Release date: Aug 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215438541

Book preview

Copyright © 2023 by L.E. Srofe

All rights reserved.

Published by Underbridge Books.

No portion of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

The characters in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 979-8-9885339-0-0 (Paperback) | ISBN (Ebook)

Front treatment on ebook covers & paperback designed by Fantastical Ink

Edited by Freedom Editorial and Black Quill Edit

Interior Formatting by L.E. Srofe

Dedication

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For my children; may you find what excites and enlivens you.

For Jeremy; so you like Metallica too?

For my Mom; F@#kin English language

For my Dad; Loveyabye

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To you, writer, please enjoy my love letter to story.

About Pages of Fate

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Pages of Fate is the first in a stand-alone portal series. Each book will feature a unique character transported into their favorite books.

The author would love to hear from you! Record your reader reactions and share them with the author on Instagram by tagging @lydia.srofe_author.

Content Guide

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Content in Pages of Fate may be triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

Pages of Fate is intended for mature audiences and features some explicit sexual content. It is classified as a slow-burn romance with a happily ever-after ending.

Potential Triggers in Pages of Fate:

The threat of sexual assault as it pertains to forced breeding.

Physical abuse of a female by a male.

Murder.

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Contents

1. Chapter 1

1.Ends & Beginnings

2. Chapter 2

2.Imaginary Friends

3. Chapter 3

3.True Magic

4. Chapter 4

4.The Goddess Fate

5. Chapter 5

5.You Say Demon like it’s a Bad Thing

6. Chapter 6

6.Inconceivable

7. Chapter 7

7.The True Demon

8. Chapter 8

8.Tell Me Everything

9. Chapter 9

9.Consequences of Lunch

10. Chapter 10

10.Consequences of Not Believing

11. Chapter 11

11.When a Touch Reveals More

12. Chapter 12

12.Hall of the Gods

13. Chapter 13

13.There is No Place Like Home

14. Chapter 14

14.Smoke and Shadow

15. Chapter 15

15.Adora Belle

16. Chapter 16

16.Convictions Be Damned

17. Chapter 17

17.Inspiration, Desperation, and Chance

18. Chapter 18

18.This is Not How the Story is Supposed to Go

19. Chapter 19

19.The Price of Aide

20. Chapter 20

20.Treason

21. Chapter 21

21.Fears in the Dark

22. Chapter 22

22.Discovery

23. Chapter 23

23.A Night All Will Remember

24. Chapter 24

24.Story Has Rules

25. Chapter 25

25.A Plea Dismissed

26. Chapter 26

26.Welcome Company

27. Chapter 27

27.Perception is Reality

28. Chapter 28

28.A Shattered Release

29. Chapter 29

29.Ruination of Fictional Men

30. Chapter 30

30.Never That Easy

31. Chapter 31

31.Choose the Right Path

32. Chapter 32

32.The Power of a Name

33. Chapter 33

33.The Hall of Truth

34. Chapter 34

34.The Pit of Despair

35. Chapter 35

35.You’re Bluffing

36. Chapter 36

36.White Door, Black Door

37. Chapter 37

37.What Do You Want?

38. Chapter 38

38.They All Fall Down

39. Chapter 39

39.Forever and Always

40. Chapter 40

40.A Proper Ending

41. Chapter 41

41.Home

42. Epilogue

42.Six Months Later

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Ends & Beginnings

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The curser against the blank white screen blinked silent accusations. Amie stared, growing impatient with its persistent taunts. She knew this dance oh-so well. The annoying lack of coherent words. The starkness as barren as her thoughts. Amie groaned and pushed back from her desk, the office chair smoothly gliding away, bumping against the bookcase across the room.

On a typical workday, this office acted as a sanctuary, cocooning her in the octagonal space. Books encased the walls, except for the little window haloed in rainbow-stained glass trim. It stood above her writing desk, a portal that peered out over the neighborhood. A haze of fog flowed in wafting currents through the street, adding insult to her dower mood. Amie groaned into the silent space and huffed out the lavender candle she routinely lit to entice the muses. They appeared busy at the moment and her own motivation dwindled.

Letting the chair languidly swivel, she dropped her head back and stared up. The vaulted navy blue ceiling of the Victorian turret roof hid no revelations. Teal ivy molding crawled up to the very top point where a crystal chandler hung, its lights dimmed to throw shadows into all the room’s angles. Bitterness plagued Amie’s tongue and she gave in to the melancholy.

Under normal circumstances, the room hugged her to its literary bosom, safe and secure to unlock the floodgates of her imaginative worlds. Isolated from the lower floors, the office hid her away from the sounds of this realm of reality. Simple clicks of a remote changed up her lighting and music on a whim, allowing Amie to sink into the flow of words.

But this was not normal circumstances, nor was this how she’d pictured writing the end of her smash hit series. Four books had led to this. Four books of mistakes and planning and plot shuffling. Of carefully constructed character arcs and the vision of how it would all come to a crescendo la fin.

Amie was no greenhorn to the process—four series, six standalones, a handful of novellas, and yet . . .

The best-laid plans indeed, Amie thought in the settling gloom.

Three times she’d sat down to start today and been thwarted by the blank page. Each match, she threw up her hands in the defeat of those inner demons. Good old Self-Doubt and Imposture Syndrome came a-knocking, wreaking havoc against years of success.

I just need to sit down and write, she pleaded with the Gods of Story, praying they’d open up the well of creativity she’d been born with. But the second she glanced at the steadily blinking curser, the only answer heard was her sigh.

Amie turned the useless computer off and snatched her phone. Pulling up Jennifer’s number, it rang a mere two times in her earbuds before Jennifer answered the call.

It’s not working, Amie said as way of greeting.

It’s too soon for it not to work. You just started, Jennifer replied amidst the sounds of cardboard being sliced open.

Amie glanced at the nestled clock squished between books, growing steadily more frustrated that it was already noon.

Is that our shipment finally? She snatched the randomly scattered bits of her life—notebook, car keys, earbud case, her current read—and shoved them in her extra-large red purse.

"It is indeed, but no, you don’t need to come look, and no, you don’t need to call the distributor and complain again about the delay. You need to start writing," Jennifer scolded in only the way a best friend could get away with. Tough love.

Amie was having none of it. It’s lunchtime, and you know I always work better after all my basic needs have been fulfilled.

Did you go through all those packed lunches already?

It was a clever ploy, filling her tiny office refrigerator with emergency meals if she was deep in the flow of writing and didn’t want to annoy her muse by leaving the shut-in space.

As a matter of fact, I did—not, she did not—but I want falafel. Come get some falafel with me. My treat. Amie held her breath as the continued sound of unpacking echoed between them until a final groan let her know she’d won something today at least.

Fine, but only because I’m hungry, too. And you’re not buying. You got last time, Jennifer said, bringing a smile to Amie’s weary expression.

Score. I’ll be down. She hung up and slid the phone into her back pocket as she slipped on her shoes. Popping out the earbuds, she couldn’t get out of the office fast enough, which was a shame. Her grand-père had created every inch of space with love. It wasn’t the office’s fault she was blocked.

That fault lay solely with herself.

Seizing her purse, Amie shut the door behind her and descended the narrow stairs. Her grandparents—forever amassing a collection of books—converted their old Victorian home into a bookstore early in their marriage. The slow-going process started with the parlor, then the sitting room spilling out into the hall. Next, they’d converted the dining room into a small café space. Then, another handful of decades later, the upstairs rooms were conscripted into the passion business. By the time Amie had come into the family, the whole house had been born again. Her père and grand-mère had relocated to a one-room apartment a few streets over. Finally, Ends & Beginnings bookstore solidified itself in the Portland community, and Amie’s love of story wrote itself into the fabric of her DNA.

Ends & Beginnings became her private library. Her magical fortress with hidey-holes for her to nest in, surrounding herself with a dozen books, comfy pillows, and a flashlight. Daily, her parents had dropped her off at Ends & Beginnings while they went off to work, and she grew up a fixture among the shelves. Regulars greeted her as they did Lenox and Astor, the lion statues flanking the short flight of stairs to the wraparound porch. Amie had ridden those two countless times and helped Père adorn them with festive Noël wreaths or pink bunny ears handmade by Mère for Easter. Amie sensed Lenox didn’t appreciate the ears, but Astor’s perpetual grin seemed to laugh at the addition.

The building had been her first true home, lasting through her young childhood. Then came her parents’ divorce, subsequent relocation to multiple apartments, and new stepparents. But Ends & Beginnings had stayed constant. Amie couldn’t envision her life without the shop she’d inherited.

The narrow wooden stairs creaked each step down to the second floor. Those minor annoyances were lumped in as part of the payment for having such a historic home. At least there weren’t ghosts. She could handle the creaks and groans of the old place; they reminded her of her grandparents. Slowly, she pushed open the concealed second door hidden behind a bookcase at the end of the hall.

Early on, she’d learned how some of the hidden rooms and alcoves of Ends & Beginnings would shock visitors when opened too quickly. Especially if they had been mind-deep into a horror or thriller story at the time. Amie found it a constant amusement, and she’d reorganized the thriller section to cover her office’s hidden door. Of course, it wasn’t all that practical—the hidden keyhole through a gap in the books, the autolocking mechanism her grand-mère came up with, or the fact that the door itself didn’t completely open due to the bookshelves on its exterior. Still, after discovering the joy of possessing a hidden office door, Amie would never go back.

Alas, no one was in the hall at that exact moment, though she did see a head peek around the doorway of the nearest room. She inhaled deeply, allowing the comfort of the smell of so many books in her known space to soothe her irritated soul. Food—that’s what she needed right now. Food and good company, and she’d be able to finally start this damn book.

Amie made it down the hall and to the second flight of stairs. A room next to the kitchen in the back of the house had been transformed into the store’s office, and that’s where Amie knew to find her friend.

Jennifer busied herself at a table, the large cardboard box Amie had heard over the phone emptied, its contents strewn across the flat surface, ready for inventory. Amie’s hands twitched to crack open the titles, study formatting, look for those beautiful little embellishments like eye-catching jewelry between the pages. Everything about books fascinated her. From cover design to font selection to the way self-publishing authors were challenging traditional production to produce better quality on all fronts.

Before her hand could so much as reach to stroke the nearest spine, Jennifer shot her a knowing look. Round framed glasses exposed mischievous almond-shaped dark brown eyes so deep they almost appeared black.

You didn’t take long. Jennifer laughed. Her blue bob framed her round face and a black beret sat jauntily on her head.

Only Jennifer could pull off a beret like it was the easiest thing in the world, Amie mused. She adored how at home her friend was in her skin and style, wearing black leggings and a vintage T-shirt that Amie knew came from one of the multiple thrift stores Jennifer frequented.

I hunger. Amie shrugged, eyes roaming over the new titles.

Check out this one, Jennifer quirked, handing over an emerald green book, gold embossed letters shimmering under the bright sconces above.

Gorgeous, Amie said, studying the skull, snake, and peony image. The cover called to her, and she didn’t even need to flip to the back summary to prep herself for its contents.

A fantastic cover could do that—suck in your interest without words. She’d never been much of a visual artist herself—stick figures were her forte—but she appreciated all the work that went into excellent cover art and even followed a few of her favorite cover artists online.

So, falafel? Jennifer said over her shoulder as she turned to grab her purse.

Near to Ends & Beginnings, an old mom-and-pop grocery store had closed down and been converted into an indoor seating space. The large parking lot was filled with a dozen different food carts along the perimeter. Outdoor picnic tables nestled in between the spread-out carts, and at night, strings of lights were lit up overhead. You could find anything to satisfy your cravings: tacos, burgers, BBQ, pizza, waffles and chicken, including Amie’s falafel need.

Nodding, Amie reluctantly set her next read down on the table. It was impossible to juggle the to-be-read pile she had amassed. There weren’t enough hours in the day.

Heading out together, they passed the parlor.

Zack glanced up from the civil history book he was reading, a smile brightening his thin face. In his mid-twenties, he looked every bit the Portland hipster he emulated, from his snakebite lip piercings, unbuttoned cornflower blue flannel over his green shirt, down to his eighteen-hole, laced-up combat boots.

Amie didn’t pay much attention to what she wore or how she styled her hair anymore now in her thirties. She owned a closet of outfits procured by, truth be told, her mother, who never lost her finger on the pulse of fashion and style. Amie had tops and bottoms that always fit together no matter what she grabbed.

Even with that going for her, Amie hadn’t seen a hairstylist in a couple of years. Her ash-brown hair was perpetually pulled back in a bun with a clip. And somewhere in Amie’s bathroom lived a drawer of miscellaneous expired makeup.

After her divorce, she’d done lots of self-work. Therapy helped, but so did the soul searching. As a result, she’d grown relaxed with herself. For one of the first times in her life, Amie couldn’t care less what society thought of her widening thighs or the wrinkles forming on her brow. Streaks of gray peppered her straight hair, and she embraced all of it.

Tell me you’re going off to lunch. Zack stood straighter, brushed through his fluffy golden-brown hair with his fingers, which gave him extra inches of his already tall stature.

Heading to the pods. Want something? Amie inquired, smiling back at him.

He pouted his lips as he stared up at the high ceiling’s crown molding in deep compilation.

Amie understood. Food was a serious matter between the three of them.

Salmon tacos, please. He looked back, shifting into a grin of anticipation.

Sure thing, love. Hold down the fort while we’re out, Jennifer answered with a wink.

Will do. Zack winked back, exaggerating the entire process and forcing out a laugh.

I’ll take you out for lunch tomorrow. Amie waved as she and Jennifer exited the shop.

Amie had tossed and turned over the prospect of bringing on additional help at Ends & Beginnings. Before her books started to bring in any decent money, the bookstore hadn’t necessitated the extra staff. Sure, it had its spouts of business, but nothing Amie hadn’t been able to manage through dedicating every hour to the place, and there was plenty of time for her to write in between the busy burst of customers.

However, as the books took off and the publisher started negotiating bigger deals, Amie had to concede that she couldn’t do it all anymore. Jennifer stepped in and then Zack took the load off Amie.

For her writing.

Which was going nowhere at the moment.

The soupy fog continued to skitter through the street, twisting and dancing before their eyes. As spring clawed its way out of the belly of winter, Amie and Jennifer buttoned up their jackets. Amie could never tell what season was her favorite. At the turning of one to another, she swore spring was the one she loved best, but she suspected it was the change that drew her. The subtle shifting from bone-shivering cold to T-shirt-comfort warm, the addition of tiny, buzzing, puffy bumblebees, and bright, fluttering monarch butterflies. Fresh, vibrant daffodils and crocuses. She was so ready for spring.

The food carts were a few blocks down the street—convenient since it would be nigh impossible to find a decent spot to park during the lunchtime rush. Amie reached up and patted Lenox as they descended the last step and turned down the sidewalk.

How are Logan and Elenore? Amie asked, doing her best to divert Jennifer’s attention from her book issues.

They’re good. Excited for spring break. I’m going to send them to my mom’s the second school is out. Jennifer laughed.

They should enjoy that. Amie smiled.

Logan and Elenore were in grade school, and she knew how much Jennifer needed a break.

So, what’s the problem? Jennifer asked, not missing a beat and triggering a massive sigh from Amie.

I don’t know. The book isn’t talking to me, she griped.

Huh. I mean, you have this one plotted out, though. Jennifer glanced her way.

Though Amie secretly suspected anyone could write a book, Jennifer wasn’t interested. But her best friend was a massive reader. A whale reader, as the industry referred to them. While Amie wrote, Jennifer read—everything, all the time, and often got through hundreds of books a year. She may not write herself, but she knew good writing, and Amie used that to her advantage every chance she got.

Technically, I have the plot. Amie shrugged. It was never enough to have the plot of a story. She needed to find that spark, but it just felt dead.

Well, have you reread the books up until now? Get your head back in the game. I mean, it’s been how long since you’ve written a Word Binder book?

Over a year, Amie confessed. There was a little break in which she wrote a totally different adult fantasy involving vampires and a YA romance with witches. But it wasn’t like she didn’t know this song and dance of creativity. The Word Binders Series was her most complicated story and highly loved not only by her readers but also herself. She just couldn’t seem to write the end. I don’t know. Maybe the pressure is getting to me.

Jennifer nodded.

They strolled into the crowd at the pods, catching glimpses of lukewarm sun as the fog finally seemed destined for other hills.

I’m gonna hit up the chicken pot pie. It’s calling to me. Jennifer waved and left Amie to her Falafel line.

The people ahead were staring at their phones. Amie scanned the other lines. Unless someone was standing with another person, almost every person had their eyes locked on a screen. Her own phone’s siren urge nagged from her back pocket, but she resisted. Watching other people was a long-standing pastime. Too bad no one close by seemed to be talking; the study of dialogue—a.k.a. eavesdropping—was her favorite part.

The line moved up and her with it. Since there wasn’t any good research at the moment, her thoughts wandered back to the problem at hand. Perhaps she was pushing things too hard. Creativity could be a tricky lover. It enjoyed attention like a pampered cat. Magic was found in those blissful moments when creativity purred, curled up on your chest, and the words opened up, spilling seamlessly onto the page.

Amie lived for that magic. She’d chase the beguiling and frustrating beastie for as long as she could. Hooked as she was, nothing she’d found in her thirty-five years had compared to that enchantment. Not mouth-watering food, not sex, not even the best part of her unsuccessful marriage. After living a thousand lives in a thousand stories, Amie knew enchantment, and for her, writing was it. Yes, the rush of that enthralling magic compelled her, but if you were too aggressive with creativity, too demanding of its love, you’d get scratched before the blasted thing ran under the bed and hid.

Maybe it was time to take a slight step back, give the story a little more breathing room to come back to life. Jennifer might have been right about rereading the first four books. Immersing herself in the story that already happened might help get her back in the flow of things.

Finally at the counter, she ordered her falafel shawarma and stepped back into the spread-out crowd of waiting customers.

Her phone pinged, and she pulled it out automatically.

How’s my favorite author doing?

Melissa’s message lit up the screen, and Amie reflexively cringed. Of course her agent would check in with her during her existential crisis of writing.

Peachy, Amie replied.

She’d been with Melissa for ten years, and the last thing she wanted to do was freak her out too early. The deadline for her editor loomed in the coming months, but Amie knew there was plenty of time for her to knock something out. A justification that still increased the turmoil in her stomach.

Great! Just checking in to tell you I’m so excited for the first draft. Anytime now ;)

They were close enough that Amie knew the comment was in jest, but her heart constricted. Maybe she should tell Melissa about the problem she was having. Perhaps it was usual for the end of a major series. She’d understand, right? Maybe . . .

Amie! the man behind the window called, and she hurried forward to take her food though the plunging sickness inside stole her appetite.

Finding Jennifer at a coveted picnic table, Amie sat down and began unwrapping the foil from the fully stuffed pita.

You know what I think? Jennifer said, pointing the tongs of her compostable fork toward her.

I’m all ears, Amie mumbled behind her hand, covering the mouthful of sweet tomatoes, crisp lettuce, and savory falafel, hunger overriding again with the dance of flavors across her tastebuds.

Jennifer didn’t grace her with a reply too quickly. Instead, she blew on another forkful of saucy chunks of chicken, peas, and carrots before smiling as she chewed. A moment passed as they enjoyed a few more bites.

Jennifer leaned back, having pacified that blooming lunch famine, and peered thoughtfully at Amie. I think you need to get out of your attic and go talk to your characters.

Amie quirked a brow. Really?

Yes, you should head out to Forest Park or somewhere and just get out. Go for a walk. See if Annallee will talk with you.

The whole concept would sound strange to a passerby, but Jennifer knew Amie’s process well enough that the idea of Amie having a heart-to-heart with her fictional main character came across as totally sane. Pondering the suggestion, Amie took another mouthful, surprised that she couldn’t recall the last time she had imagined talking to Annallee. It actually sounded like a good idea.

Amie slowly nodded her approval and grinned. I think you might be on to something.

Even if Annallee didn’t show, getting outside and surrounding herself with towering pines and the soothing melody of the forest could be just the medicine her discomforted soul needed.

But first. Jennifer reached out, palm up on the tabletop between them.

What? Amie furrowed her forehead.

Hand ‘em over.

Hand what over?

The earbuds.

Amie recoiled. What?

You heard me. I know you. You’ve got to push through that initial boredom, and the temptation is too great. Her fingers gestured for the earbuds’ appearance.

Reluctantly, Amie fished the little compartment out of her front pocket. An earbud nested in her ear nearly every hour of the day she was alone, up to and including listening to her writing melodies while at work.

"Yes, Mom," Amie jabbed, dropping the little box into Jennifer’s outstretched hand.

I’d ask for your phone, too, but that’s unsafe. Just try to keep it on silent during your walk. Tsking, Jennifer took another bite of her pot pie.

I hope Annallee does show up. It would be nice to feel that flow of story again, Amie said wistfully.

Maybe Tidan or Keya will tag along, and you can speak to the whole crew. Jennifer paused, a wicked grin growing on her face. Or Laeroth. She waggled her eyebrows.

Amie shook her head vehemently. Laeroth was the last character she wanted to show up.

Chapter 2

Imaginary Friends

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Ablue sky dotted with the occasional puffy white cloud peeked between dark-green pine branches. Such was the nature of a Pacific Northwest spring. The weather had seasonal mood swings at the best of times. One day it could feel like the budding of summer. The next, dreary winter came a-calling.

Amie had spent the first part of her hike just relaxing in the space, taking notice of all the waking life around her. Patches of new growth blossomed hope for warmer stretches to come. Fresh, bright-green leaves of maple and dogwood scented the air with wakening plant life. The playful, warming wind fluttered her loose strands of hair and swayed the boughs of evergreen firs, spruce, and cedar trees. Waking insects caught the light as tiny pinpricks of zigzag movement all around set a background buzz to the land. The worn trail muffled each step as Amie moved through the stirring forest.

She sank into a sort of meditation of present and stilled her malcontented mind. Amie didn’t feel rushed to fix anything or solve her problems. Right now, she just walked and sensed the world around her and blanked her thoughts to bird song. The universe moved, with or without her stress, and it was enough.

For the moment.

A little bridge ahead crossed a burbling brook. She leaned against the wooden railing, assured of its steady presence. It showed its age. White lichen and green moss grew between the cracks in the weathered grain. Above all other natural beauties, Amie found herself drawn to water. The ocean, lakes, rivers, streams, and even rain captivated her attention.

Settling in, Amie reached out her calm awareness. So, does someone want to tell me why the book isn’t working? she asked out loud, optimistically waiting on the universe.

All her life, she’d had imaginary playmates. Perhaps it was because she had no siblings or that she had been raised in a bookshop. Sometimes her imaginary friends took the form of whatever cartoon characters drew her obsession. Amie had worn baby blanket capes and carried stick swords to fight alongside teenage turtles or humanoid cats. As her imagination improved, the characters shifted from those she watched to those she read and then finally to those she created herself.

The classification may have changed from imaginary friends to story characters, but the root remained, as did her need to commune with them. She had no idea if other writers did the same thing, but it worked for her, and she was glad for their insight.

Annallee materialized beside her, leaning against the railing as Amie was. A cascade of straight, silvery lilac hair fell down her back as she studied the babbling brook with a turquoise gaze. The sun illuminated her pale, blue-tinged skin. It had always seemed to Amie that Annallee appeared perpetually cold, warm tones leeched from her skin like those experiencing hypothermia. She’d come in linens, tan leather, and gleaming steel armor as if ready for the final battle any minute.

Long time no see, Amie started, pleased to see her old partner.

You were busy. I didn’t want to be a bother. Annallee’s light tone didn’t judge or rebuke. On the contrary, she could be quite understanding which was why Amie’s readers liked her.

You’re not a bother. If anything, I’ve been worried you were upset with me, Amie admitted, sensing a flick of Annallee’s eyes toward her.

No, she drew out the word as her thoughts settled into a coherent reply. We’re waiting for you. We’re always waiting for you.

I just don’t know what’s wrong with me. Amie let her head lull forward, voicing her defeat. A faint sensation—the superficial manifestation of imagination—had her looking up as Annallee rested her hand on her forearm.

Only you can do this for us. Without you, we will never defeat Laeroth and free my people. I will never fulfill my destiny as Queen. You’ve told our tale, but now it’s time to end it.

And you’re ready for that ending? No matter the consequences? Amie asked.

Annallee offered a slow nod, holding Amie in her bright, nearly glowing look. All things come to an end. It’s time.

Amie let out a slow breath full of painful regret. She couldn’t think of a good enough reply, so she watched the running water, the way it warped the little pebbles along its bed, and the way the sun glinted off the surface as sparkling light.

And... Annallee hesitated, then asked softly, almost in a whisper, Have you made up your mind for me yet?

Amie didn’t have to clarify her question further. Glancing down the bridge, she saw he had come too.

Tidan stood at the mouth of the bridge, legs spread apart in a solid stance, thick arms crossed over his broad chest. The handle of a longsword protruded from its sheath at his back, and he kept his keen amber eyes on Annallee. He wore a neat and trim beard, his fiery red hair pulled back at the base of his neck, complementing his beige skin’s warm tones. A well-traveled duster swept back in the breeze, revealing double pistols on each hip. Tidan’s breastplate glinted from under the double-breasted lapel, high collar folded down and casually away when not on active duty, otherwise obscuring the lower half of his face.

Amie knew every detail of Annallee’s guard and first love interest just as she knew all her major characters. From the scar that sliced through his thick left eyebrow to his slightly crooked nose from multiple breaks.

Turning her head, she spied on the opposite bridge end Annallee’s second love interest leaning against a sturdy trunk, cleaning nonexistent dirt from her nails with an exceedingly sharp dagger, one of many strapped to her body of varying sizes and uses. The pirate captain had shaved sides to her head with deeply sun kissed skin while long dark locks coiled down her back. Bits of