"Why must I be deprived of happiness… while she isn't?"
She fell silent, seemingly taking the time to stabilize herself just enough for her emotions to not hinder her one true goal.
"Nonetheless I—"
Before the girl's composure could fully settle, Drovkah struck, an 'attack' that contained every possibility of her meeting her demise as it shook the lattice that surrounded them.
Rania followed shortly, a multitude of pillars rising and circling around the girl, pinning her in place as Drovkah's attack connected.
There was no explosion, just threads of possibilities scattering into the structure, scripts Drovkah had specifically written in an attempt to override the girl's existence, hoping to neutralize the threat corrupting the Collective Sphere.
"Was that enough…?" Rania whispered as the light that had expanded across the entirety of the layer started to dim, with the girl still standing before them.
Drovkah's jaw tightened. "Of course, we're not going anywhere if we try to erase her completely,"
Rania extended her hand, manifesting a spear laced with luminous structural code that pulsed along its entire length.
"Let's see how she'll take this," she said, spinning the spear in her hands before sweeping it to her side as she eyed the girl.
I already used structural ontology to stabilize the Contradictory Sphere once, Rania's pupils constricted as she analyzed the girl, who claimed to be her mentor from a forgotten ending.
As expected, a paradoxical entity… but will embedding the structural code of existence even work against something… her gaze focused on the entity before her. Like that?
Rania halted, eyes narrowing as she searched for an opening, except there was none.
There's nothing. No opening at all. Or rather, she isn't even bothering to guard herself. Those things will intercept anything I throw at her.
"You stopped. Afraid?" the girl asked, her smile cutting sharp across her face.
A small, irritated smile tugged at Rania's lips, her grip on the spear tightening.
That smugness… that's certainly something Anathasia would say in situations like this.
Before the moment could settle, the tendrils on the girl's back unfurled. Quietly, almost lazily before stretching outward. They didn't lash or shoot like projectiles. They simply overwrote the space between them, erasing the distance that separated them from the two Outer Gods.
Rania's breath hitched.
Drovkah reacted instantly, his form blurring as he moved to intercept—
—but the tendrils were already there.
They struck Rania first.
She barely got her spear up in time. The impact shuddered through her arms as the space around the point of contact hissed the stratum buckling as if unsure what had just occurred.
Another flurry of tendril "attacks" followed, yet before they could reach her, the girl vanished.
No, not vanished.
Transported.
Like a God plucking its creation off the field. Or an Author removing something from their story.
Rania straightened, letting the spear dissolve back into the lattice. Drovkah stared at the empty spot in silence, tension sharp in his posture.
"What happened?" she asked, stepping closer. Only faint traces of paradox lingered, the metaphysical residue of the girl's presence.
Drovkah didn't answer. Instead, his form folded in on itself, shifting seamlessly back into Roselia. She stepped beside Rania with calm, deliberate grace, raising a gold-trimmed fan to her lips.
"Someone interfered," Roselia murmured.
Rania froze.
Interfered…? Wait. Anathasia?
---
Elsewhere — beyond the narrative's cosmology
Nothing.
No layers. No lattice. No contradiction to grasp or authority to bend.
Only a boundless expanse of absence filled the girl's vision.
Moments ago, she had been clashing with the very beings who upheld the structure of the present, the reality where the boy, Kyle, still existed. The reason she had torn herself free from a forgotten ending in the first place.
Now—
"What is this…?" she whispered.
"You're quite the headache, aren't you?"
The voice filled her consciousness.
It was her own, and yet it wasn't.
It echoed across the boundless absence, rebounding off nothing, obeying no direction or distance. The sensation unsettled her. Not because it was paradoxical, but because even paradox had rules.
"Anathasia…" the girl sneered, standing her ground.
"So you've finally revealed yourself," she scoffed. "About time."
Silence.
Then—
The space behind her folded.
Not torn.
Not shifted.
It simply recognized something greater.
The Loomkeeper stood there, as though she had always been present.
Her expression remained unreadable, emotionless, almost to an unsettling degree.
The girl turned fully, her eyes locking onto the other.
"Why aren't you saying anything?" she demanded, the bite in her voice dulling. "Hey. Say something."
She took a step closer.
The Loomkeeper did not move.
"I said—say something!" the girl's voice cracking as it rose, emotions surging past restraint.
"Is silence all you have left after abandoning everything?" she screamed.
"After letting me deal with the consequences of your actions?!"
The Loomkeeper remained still.
Then, slowly, her lips parted.
"And?"
The word reverberated, through the boundless space, through the fractured silence, and straight into the girl's mind.
The girl froze.
"…hah…?" Her voice wavered. "What do you mean… and?"
The Loomkeeper stepped forward.
There was no distance to cross. The space between them simply ceased to exist.
"I'm asking what that has to do with me," she said, her voice empty of sentiment.
"I overwrote an ending," the Loomkeeper continued, standing before her now, looming. "One where I would have suffered the same fate you did."
She did not look away.
"I did it because I knew. I did it to protect what mattered."
Her gaze sharpened.
"And you?" she asked quietly. "Are you not doing the same—out of selfishness? You threaten to destabilize the entire structure just to reach the same man we are both fond of."
She scoffed, turning away.
"Do not mistake desperation for moral superiority."
"If anything," she added, "what I did pales in comparison to what you have already done."
The Loomkeeper paused, allowing the weight of her words to settle.
"And to think," she continued, "you are the future of what I would have become."
She exhaled softly.
"I am not impressed."
Her gaze returned to the girl.
"You lack restraint. You lack perspective. You let emotion dictate action instead of tempering it."
She stopped.
Then delivered the verdict.
"How… profoundly mortal."
The Loomkeeper shook her head, a quiet sigh escaping her lips.
"I expected more. You were just as capable as I was. The wielder of the Authorial Rule in its entirety."
She turned away, dismissal lacing her voice.
"And yet the moment you lost him, Kyle, you decided the world was unfair."
Her gaze returned, sharp enough to cut.
"You rewrote an entire narrative to save the one you loved. You understood the consequences."
She leaned closer.
"If you cannot live with the result, do not make the choice."
The girl's jaw tightened.
"I was driven to a corner—"
"You saw every possible outcome," the Loomkeeper interrupted.
"And still chose this."
A pause.
"Overconfidence?"
Another.
"Or incompetence?"
She pulled away, turning her back to the girl.
"We may have begun the same," the Loomkeeper said calmly.
"But there is a reason you remained Anathasia Dunaleff, while I became Anathasia Veridielle Augthoria."
The words lingered between them.
"You relied too heavily on your authority," she continued.
"Believing power alone could solve the problems waiting for you."
She placed a hand over her chest. measured and deliberate.
"I prepared for failure."
"I created countermeasures. Safeguards."
"That is why I escaped the narrative itself."
She turned her head just enough for her profile to be seen.
"And you didn't."