Chapter 1. Writer’s Block

  The TV screen lights up with obnoxious bass and shitty cgi graphics.

  “ENTERTAINMENT TOMORROW ? ”

  Because apparently, today just isn’t dramatic enough.

  Before I can even reach for the remote, a voice blasts through the speakers with the subtlety of a car crash.

  “Up next,” it shouts, “legendary author turned invisible-man, Author of the Flame of Lae’Mor trilogy, Stefan R.R. Rey, spotted in the wild. And no, he’s still not writing!”

  I put down the remote and sigh. “Shit.I remember this”

  Grainy phone footage takes over the screen. I’m there, in full cryptid mode. Hood up, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, walking out of a bookstore like a depressed raccoon. The camera zooms in like it just spotted Bigfoot crossing the street.

  Then comes his voice, some low-level paparazzo with a decade old shitty microphone and zero fear of getting punched in the face.

  “Hey Stefan! When’s book three coming out?” he yells, already laughing. “It’s been six years, bro! They already made a movie outta book two. What’re you waiting for, Hollywood to finish it for you?”

  The audio crackles from how hard the cameraman is laughing behind him.

  On screen, I stop walking. I turn and look directly into the camera. You can almost hear the internal monologue: Don’t throw the coffee. Don’t throw the coffee.

  I didn’t throw the coffee.

  But I wanted to. Really Badly…

  The clip freezes on that exact moment. The editors slap a big yellow caption under my face that says:

  "WHEN YOU HAVEN’T WRITTEN A SENTENCE SINCE 2019"

  Back in the studio, the anchor is grinning like she just gave birth to a Pulitzer.

  “Yikes,” she says, full of that polished, fake sympathy. “Somebody needs a venti iced chill pill. Or maybe just a ghostwriter.”

  Laughter erupts from offscreen.

  The Camera switches to someone else. “Six years, though?” says some buff, steroid-looking guy wearing sunglasses indoors like a total idiot. “You’d think he was writing the cure for cancer, not a fantasy novel.”

  “I heard he moved to the mountains,” someone adds. “Real ‘hermit with a typewriter’ vibes. Like, bro, are you okay?”

  “No, no, he lives in the city. I saw him at a wine bar once, muttering to himself. I think he was whispering ‘my precious’ over and over under his breath.”

  “Dude should’ve stopped after book one,” someone laughs. “The second one was just war, war, sad elf speech, more war.”

  “Hey, come on,” the anchor says. “He’s a visionary. A real J. R. R. Tolkien of sadness.”

  More laughter. Louder now. Overlapping.

  Then the flames kick in. Literal flames. A graphic of my name bursts across the screen, surrounded by swords, sparks, and what I swear is a pixelated dragon wearing sunglasses.

  “THE FLAME OF LAME’MOR”

  “Coming to theaters. 2030+.”

  The room falls into silence.

  Just me, my wine, and the swirling echo of six years of nothing.

  “Shit.”

  Half-drunk, I hurl the wine glass or maybe the bottle, whatever. straight at the TV. It hits the screen with a glorious crack. Sparks fly. Celebrity Brad Damon’s elf face glitches mid-scream and dies in a blaze of broken pixels.

  I stumble into the kitchen, rip open a cabinet, and grab another bottle. No glass this time, just the bottle. My only true friend….

  I’ve had writer’s block for six years. Six years of scribbles, rewrites, plot holes, and existential dread. And now the studio’s breathing down my neck, pretending to be supportive while sharpening their knives behind my back.

  If I don’t finish the final book, they’ll finish it for me.

  That’s not paranoia. That’s a quote from an email. With a smiley face at the end, like that makes it cute.

  No self-respecting author lets Hollywood write their ending. Who would do that?

  They’d butcher it. Probably have my main character forget how to act like himself overnight and burn down an entire city because he’s “sad.”

  Or worse; end it with some pretentious twist where he goes insane and kills everyone like that’s the height of storytelling.

  I can already hear the pitch:

  “What if the hero was the real villain all along?”

  Because that’s never been done before.

  And they’d rush it, obviously. Wrap up 10 years of buildup in six chapters and call it “subversive.” Kill off the fan favorites offscreen. Forget the prophecies they teased for half the series. And throw in a random council meeting at the end to crown someone no one voted for.

  Probably cut to black while my protagonist stares out a window thinking about birds. Or snow. Or nothing.

  Roll credits. Add dramatic piano. Cue angry online posts.

  I take another drink, longer this time. My character deserves better than that.

  Hell, so do I.

  I walk out to my balcony. The night air hits me hard, sharp and cold. City lights sprawl in every direction, bright and distant. Somewhere below, traffic hums, completely unaware I still exist.

  The rail presses into my stomach. Thirty-seven stories up. If I jumped, I’d make the morning news. Maybe even trend for a few hours.

  I lean a little too far, just for drama or just for the fantasy.

  In an instant I lose my balance and accidentally tip my bottle.

  It slips from my hand like it’s had enough of me. Clinks off the edge. Wine splashes out and spatters across the balcony tiles, and the bottle bounces, spins, then settles near my foot.

  “Shit,” I mutter, steadying myself on the rail. “That was close.”

  I chuckle.

  Would’ve been a hell of a headline:

  “DRUNK AUTHOR TAKES FINAL DIVE! BOOK THREE STILL MISSING!”

  I lean back from the edge and shake my head. “I’m not that drunk.” I unconsciously walk forward and my foot slides.

  It’s instant. No cinematic wind-up, no slow-motion drama. Just a slick step on spilled wine, a twist of the ankle, and my balance gone like the last six years of my life.

  The world tilts. The rail vanishes beneath my hands.

  And then I’m falling….

  Not gliding. Not tumbling with purpose. Just pathetically flailing.

  I spin once, then again, do a sloppy backflip. Arms everywhere. My shirt catches the wind like a sad failed parachute.

  It’s not graceful. Not even close.

  I always figured if I died dramatically, it’d at least look cool. Like something worthy of a final page. But this? This is just embarrassing.

  And as the street rushes up to greet me; fast, hard, and unapologetic, one last thought floats through my head:

  God, I hope they don’t make this the cold open in the movie.

  Then everything goes dark.

  Chapter 2. A Brave New World

  I wake up, my mouth tastes like someone poured a vineyard into a sandbox and set it on fire. My head feels worse, pounding, spinning, like it’s still falling.

  Falling? Didn’t I fall?

  Waves lap somewhere nearby. Birds caw. The sun is way too bright for how much wine I drank last night.

  I groan and sit up, brushing sand off my face. My Shirt is soaked and my socks are soggy. My pride is missing, presumed dead.

  I blink and look around. I see the Shoreline. Pale sand and rocks. Water stretching all the way to the horizon, calm, blue, and serene. I take in the view for a second.

  Then I spot my old friend a few feet away.

  My wine bottle.

  It’s bobbing gently in the shallow surf like it survived the night better than I did.

  I scramble toward it, slipping a little on the wet sand. The label’s half-torn, the glass scratched. I grab it and clutch it to my chest like a lifeline, and tilt it back for one glorious, saving sip—

  Nothing.

  Bone-dry. Not a single drop left. I think to myself “why is the wine gone?”

  I lower it slowly.

  “Traitor,” I whisper.

  That’s when I see In the distance, past the dunes, I spot rooftops. Slanted, thatched, a little too quaint to be a big town. Smoke curls lazily from chimneys. A village?

  Because of course there’s a village. Probably with goats. And pitchforks. And at least two guys named Cletus, most likely chewing tobacco and spitting it on the ground.

  Still… civilization is civilization. I sigh and start walking.

  The sand gives way to dirt, then scraggly grass. My socks squish with every step. Wet socks. The worst possible state of being.

  I hold my empty wine bottle in one hand as I walk because I’m not letting go of my only friend.

  Then I start pondering.

  What the hell actually happened to me?

  Last thing I remember, I was on my balcony. Ranting. Drinking. Falling. I think in that order. Not exactly my proudest trilogy.

  So maybe I didn’t die. Maybe I hit something soft. Like a net. Or a very unlucky inflatable bouncy castle. No, that’s preposterous.

  I could’ve been rescued. Airlifted. Kidnapped by wellness influencers. Am I being pranked? Punk’d? Skunked? Whatever the hell that show was called.

  Or maybe I’m on some tropical island. That sounds nice. Like... Polynesian. Or Mediterranean. One of the -eans.

  Could this be a cruise stop? Maybe I got drunk and stumbled off the ship. That would explain the sand. And the sun. And the overwhelming sense of poor life choices.

  I glance toward the village again. I can make out stone walls, straw roofs, and a wheelbarrow just sitting there.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Okay, fine. Not a cruise. Unless Disney launched a medieval poverty line.

  Hopefully someone in that little peasant cluster speaks English. Because I need answers. And coffee. Well, mostly coffee.

  I spot a few people outside one of the homes. I walk toward them.

  They take one look at me, scream, and bolt like I just announced a tax audit.

  “Wait!” I call after them. “Where’s the nearest Cafe?”

  No answer. Just the distant slap of sandals on dirt.

  Another group appears around the corner, staring at me like I just dropped out of the sky; which, to be fair, might not be far off. I think, Okay, first impressions. This is just like college.

  I try to smooth my hair back the best I can. I might look like a mess, sure, but they’re wearing rags, not much better.

  I give them my best smirk and yell, “Hey there, gentlemen!”

  They scatter like roaches under a spotlight.

  This is college all over again. At least they’re not screaming girls.

  Well… some are, I guess.

  A hunched old man finally approaches me from the edge of the village. Long beard. Strange robes and a staff carved with spirals. Full on NPC energy.

  He starts speaking, or possibly casting a spell, in a deep, raspy voice. The language is all clicks and curls and something that sounds dangerously close to gargling.

  Is he okay? I think to myself.

  I blink at him. “I have no idea what you’re saying, old man.”

  He continues, gesturing dramatically to the beach, then to me, then to the ground.

  “I Look, I’m sorry for whatever I did. Or said. Or smelled like. I’m just—" I sigh and throw my hands up. “My name is Stefan! Stefan Rey, I am a famous Author!”

  Dead silence.

  The elder freezes.

  Everyone within earshot gasps like I just slapped their grandma.

  They all start muttering, wide-eyed. The old man slowly backs away like I just summoned a demon.

  One of the villagers hisses: "Ste'van?"

  Someone faints. A woman clutches a chicken to her chest like it’ll protect her from whatever horror I just unleashed.

  The elder barks an order. A few people rush over and start guiding me toward a small hut at the edge of the village.

  Okay. Maybe we’re finally making progress.

  The hut has no roof, no windows, and two things inside: a wide, shallow stone basin and a round hole in the corner with a suspiciously smooth rim. Some vines hang down from the open ceiling like decorative mold.

  The elder points to the basin, says something that sounds important, and then leaves me alone.

  Finally.

  I look at the basin. Maybe this is a spa? A ceremonial bath? A weird rural foot-soaking station?

  Then I see the hole in the floor.

  “Oh thank god,” I mutter. “A bathroom.”

  I unzip, aim, and relieve myself into what I assume is a blessed gift from the gods of plumbing.

  Halfway through, I hear it, the unmistakable gasp of spiritual betrayal.

  I look up. The elder stands in the doorway, jaw hanging open in mortal anguish.

  He takes a step back like I just peed directly on his ancestors.

  Then he shouts.

  Loudly.

  A crowd forms in seconds. People shriek. Children cry. Women faint again. Someone throws a boot at me. I barely dodge.

  I yank my pants up, just in time as I finish up, and make a run for it as the entire village screams bloody murder behind me.

  I don’t look back. I just run.

  Through the fences. Down the hill. Across the mud-slick path like my life depends on it, because it well might.

  Eventually, when I’m far enough away that the pitchforks and yelling fade into the distance, I stop, panting and hunched over, gasping for breath.

  “What the hell is wrong with these people?” I mutter, spitting in the dirt. “It’s not like I peed in their... holy...” I pause. “Oh. Maybe I did?”

  I glance back. Smoke curls into the sky. I swear I hear someone scream “Ste’van!” like I personally cursed their livestock.

  I rub my temples.

  “Ugh. If this was one of my books, I could just say, ‘Stefan can understand their language’ and be done with it.”

  There’s a sudden wave of weakness, like someone unplugged me for a second.

  Weird.

  I shake it off, hear the villagers still yelling somewhere behind me, and keep walking.

  Chapter 3. Spices and Direwolf

  It turns out forests are less “enchanted” and more cold, wet, and full of bugs trying to eat you alive. This is nothing like Snow White. No birds are helping me sing. No deer are braiding my hair. I haven’t even seen a single happy squirrel. Maybe I’ve spent too much time in the City.

  I curl up under a sad excuse for a tree, knees to chest, my white shirt soaked in mist, stomach staging a full-blown protest. Every few minutes, something screeches in the distance, an owl? a Demon?

  Is that you, Brad?

  I miss my apartment.

  Heated floors. Mini bar. Italian silk blankets. My espresso machine that hated me, but in a sexy way.

  I close my eyes and try not to cry. Or die. Whichever comes first.

  Okay, come on Stefan, I tell myself. Pull it together. You’ve watched survival shows. You’ve got this.

  I jump to my feet, pumped with exactly ten seconds of false confidence. “COME ON!” I yell into the trees like the forest owes me something. “Let’s do thissssss!”

  Fueled by desperation and blind optimism, I start tearing at branches and leaves. What feels like hours, but is probably seven minutes, goes into crafting the saddest, most pathetic pile of forest trash I’ve ever seen.

  I sit on it. It immediately collapses like my last relationship.

  Ugh. This sucks. I’m probably the only author that lacks imagination.

  Somewhere between shivering and full-body despair, I hear it, wagon wheels creaking, hooves crunching through the underbrush, and a soft, melancholic humming.

  I look over.

  A lantern bobs between the trees, followed by a small, battered wagon pulled by a shaggy brown horse. At the reins: a young woman with grey hair, casually humming like this is the most normal thing in the world. Behind her, lounging like a furry god, is the biggest white furry wolf I’ve ever seen.

  No, scratch that. Direwolf.

  Has to be. Regular wolves don’t have shoulders like NFL linebackers. I’ve seen enough GoT to know the difference. And yeah, I’m pretty sure they’re extinct. But I’m not a scientist, so… maybe I’m wrong.

  The wagon stops. The girl hops down and starts setting up camp, all nonchalant, like she hasn’t just wandered into the live-action version of my breakdown. She unrolls a bedroll, lights a fire, and tosses the direwolf a hunk of meat roughly the size of my dignity.

  I watch her, starving, muddy, half-dead, and rapidly losing whatever pride I have left.

  Do I approach?

  Do I beg?

  Do I die dramatically and let the wolf eat me?

  I hesitate, staring from the fire to the direwolf to the girl.

  She’s crouched near the flames, poking at something in a pan. Whatever it is, it smells like food. Real food. The kind with heat and fat and flavor. Nothing I could ever make.

  I decide to go for it.

  I brush some dirt off my shirt, try to fluff my hair like I didn’t just lose a fight to gravity and pine needles, and start walking toward her like I’m not one bad day away from being feral.

  The direwolf lifts its head. Eyes locked. No growl, just a stare, like it’s already picked a spot on me to chew first.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Nice… wolf.”

  The girl doesn’t look up. She stirs the pan like I’m not ruining her whole vibe.

  I take another step. “I, uh, saw you from over there. In the… forest. Watching. From the shadows. Alone. Like a gentleman. I live there now. Temporarily.”

  She glances up. Her face is unreadable, somewhere between mild confusion and do I need to get my gun.

  Up close, I notice her hair, silver. Not gray, not platinum blonde. Silver, like moonlight braided into a rope. Her eyes are blue, almost glassy.

  I clear my throat. “So… you travel often?”

  Still nothing. The direwolf growls softly.

  I panic a little. “I’m actually a famous author. Maybe you’ve read one of my books or seen the movie adaptation?”

  Still nothing. The pan sizzles in mocking silence.

  “I’m not a pervert by the way,” I blurt, instantly regretting it. “I mean, uh, I-I only said that because it’s nighttime and you’re a girl alone and I’m a guy walking out of a forest and that sounds really bad now that I say it out loud but I just saw your fire and -”

  She tilts her head.

  “You smell like goat piss.”

  Okay. That one stings.

  I try to laugh it off. “Yeah, that’s, uh… new cologne. It’s called Existential Crisis. Very exclusive.”

  She just stares.

  I double down. “I used to live in a penthouse, you know. Had a minibar. Espresso machine. The espresso machine hated me. But, like, in a hot, emotionally unavailable kind of way. He-he.”

  Still staring.

  I wipe some mud off my face and sigh. “I’m Stefan.”

  She blinks once. “Do you always approach strange women in the forest and swear at them?”

  I blink back. “What? I didn’t swear.”

  “You said Ste’van,” she says flatly. “You know that means ‘go fuck your mother’

  I pause. Look at her. Look at the direwolf. Back to her.

  “…Seriously? Well….. that explains a lot.”

  She shrugs. “Mild version. Could also mean ‘I piss on your ancestors.’ It’s context-dependent.”

  I rub my temples. “Okay. So… Stefan is now a slur. That’s great. That’s just.…great. Love that for me.”

  I think for a second. Wait. She's speaking English now. When did that happen? Is Ste’van a slang term here?

  Another long silence.

  The direwolf stands and walks between us. Subtle. Menacing. Personal space enforced.

  I take a step back.

  She reaches into her pack and throws something at me, a small, hard roll of bread. It hits my chest like a passive-aggressive meteor.

  “Eat,” she says. “Shut up. Sit far from the fire.”

  I sit a safe distance from the fire. The bread she gave me is dense, possibly weaponized, but I chew through it like it’s a Michelin-star meal. Hunger is the best seasoning. Pride is optional.

  She hasn’t said a word in ten minutes. Just sits there, feeding the direwolf, adjusting the firestones like she actually knows what she’s doing, hm she is actually pretty cute.

  I figure I should try again.

  “So,” I say, still chewing the mildly edible brick she gave me, “where are you from?”

  She glances over, hesitant. “…La’Heir.”

  I freeze. La’Heir? That sounds… familiar. Too familiar.

  I swallow. “Where are you headed?”

  After a long pause, she sighs, reaches into her wagon, and pulls out a small cloth bundle. “A village two days south. I have spices to trade. I’m supposed to meet with Geb’rahn Lataren.”

  I stop chewing.

  Full brain reboot. Complete Windows XP crash. Blue screen of what the actual hell.

  “Sorry… who?”

  She gives me a sideways look. “Geb’rahn Lataren. You know him?”

  I just stare at her. Then I laugh. Like really laugh.

  “Oh my god. You’ve read my novels.”

  She squints. “What?”

  I point at her. “Geb’rahn Lataren? He runs the vassalage of Rindo’Lin in the kingdom of Lae’Mor? Come on. Those are my names. My places. You’re pulling this straight from my books. Very funny. Props to the commitment.”

  She doesn’t move.

  No smirk. No gotcha moment. Just a long, flat stare, the kind you give a particularly unstable raccoon rooting through your pantry.

  “…You’ve never heard of The Flame of Lae’Mor trilogy?” I ask.

  Silence.

  Her expression shifts, a mix of concern and secondhand embarrassment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you… unwell?”

  My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

  Because for a second, just a second, the fire crackles a little louder, the wind shifts, and the name Geb’rahn Lataren lands in my chest like a familiar weight.

  I look around. First calmly and then frantically.

  I check behind the wagon. Under nearby bushes. In the trees. I even climb one. No cameras. No crew. Just trees. Bark. Leaves. Silence.

  She just watches me like she’s reconsidering every life decision that led her to this campsite.

  I drop out of the tree, brush myself off, and mutter, “Did I get fucking isekai’d into my own book?”

  I sit back down near the fire and glare at her with deep suspicion. I narrow my eyes.

  “You’re from the agency, aren’t you? This is some messed-up method acting therapy intervention to make me finish the last book, isn’t it?”

  She says nothing.

  The direwolf sighs.

  And for once, I kind of agree with it.

  Then it hits me.

  I never asked her name.

  I glance over again. She’s still sitting there, feeding the direwolf. I swear it’s been about an hour. How much does that beast eat?

  I clear my throat. “Sooo. You got a name?”

  She stares. I’m getting used to her clueless looks.

  Then, after what feels like a full day: “Elarin.”

  I nod like I didn’t just have a small identity crisis over how cool that name sounds.

  “Elarin. Nice. I bet I came up with that somewhere in my book. Can’t remember every little detail after all these years. Kinda proud of myself if I did.”

  Oh. Right.

  I can’t use my name.

  Because my name is a war crime in this world.

  So I smile weakly and say, “You can call me… Rey.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “That short for something?”

  I shoot her my best ‘don’t dig into this or I’ll emotionally combust’ look.

  “Yes, but it’s too complex for you. Don’t worry about it.”

  She seems satisfied enough.

  We sit in silence a little longer. My brain does that thing it does when I’m not drinking, it starts functioning.

  “Hey,” I say suddenly. “What year is it?”

  Elarin eyes me. “Year of the Twelfth Moon Cycle. One-thousand, three-hundred and ninety-nine.”

  I try to do the math.

  ...That’s the year the third book takes place.

  The one I never finished.

  “Oh shit,” I murmur, eyes wide. “That means… Airan. He must’ve returned by now. Is he... Laegus’tar again?”

  Elarin freezes mid-motion. Barely perceptible, but I catch it, a flicker. The tiniest stutter of surprise. A question behind her eyes.

  But she says nothing.

  Did I say something I shouldn’t have?

  I think hard. It’s been a while since I read my own stuff. In A Candle in the Dark, Airan becomes Emperor, Laegus’tar of Lae’Mor, the biggest empire on the continent.

  Then in The Coming Winds, he gets overthrown by Noc’tesh’s forces and goes into hiding.

  The Ember at the End was supposed to be about his return, his big comeback, redemption arc, crown-reclaiming, ass-kicking finale.

  But I never finished it. Judging by her reaction, maybe he never did retake the empire.

  Anyway. I need a town. Answers. A plan. Something. But for now, I need transport.

  “Can I come with you?” I ask.

  She looks at me. The direwolf looks at me.

  No answer.

  Okay. Not a no, just not yes either.

  I sigh. Take off my Rolex, my last link to overpriced reality. I hold it out.

  “This is… payment. Look, real gold. I know you people love gold,” I say. “For the ride. Or as tribute. Or to prove I’m not useless.”

  She takes it, turns it over in her hand, and studies it like it might be cursed.

  Then she nods. Once.

  Just once. And that’s it.

  I’m officially a tag-along in my own unfinished novel.