Teleported into My Own Novel as the Author!

The moon hung low over the city of Oryn-Vel, casting its pale glow over the cracked cobblestones and the slanted rooftops of the buildings that leaned into one another like drunken conspirators. Charon kept close to Ishmael as they left the Whispers behind, emerging from the maze of tangled alleyways and twisted trees that lined the outskirts of the city. The distant hum of nightlife had grown louder as they neared the heart of Oryn-Vel, the square alive with voices, flickering lanterns, and the scent of spiced meats and smoke curling through the evening air.

For a moment, Char slowed his steps. His mind still reeled from everything Rook had said—from the implications of Marrow's death to the gaping void it had left in the Syndicate's hierarchy. Every time he thought he had a grip on the situation, something else shifted beneath him, another thread unraveling in the story he thought he had already written.

This world was filling in its own blanks. Adapting. Evolving without his hand guiding it.

It terrified him.

"You look like you're about to be sick," Ishmael remarked without looking at him. He walked with the same loose confidence as always, but there was an extra edge in his voice, as if Rook's words had weighed on him more than he was willing to admit.

"I'm fine," Char muttered.

Ishmael didn't push.

The city square was bustling even at this hour, pockets of people gathered beneath awnings, their voices thick with drink and lingering laughter. It was a strange mix of the familiar and the unknown—Char recognized the layout, the names of certain streets, the signs hanging over the shops. Yet there were details he didn't recall ever writing: a flower vendor with bruised knuckles, an old man asleep beneath a statue of a long-forgotten king.

And then, there was her.

Tess.

She was lounging at a table outside one of the taverns, her boots propped up against the wooden railing, a half-empty plate of food in front of her. The lamplight caught in the loose waves of her dark hair, casting shadows across her sharp cheekbones. She had the air of someone who owned the place without actually bothering to claim it.

Ishmael sighed. "Of course she's eating."

Tess glanced up at them lazily, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Of course I'm eating," she echoed, as if she had read his mind. "Some of us have simple pleasures, Ishmael. You should try it sometime."

Ishmael scoffed but pulled out a chair without invitation, sitting across from her. Char hesitated before taking the seat beside him.

Tess turned her gaze on him then, her head tilting slightly. "And who's this?"

Char had been expecting this. Their first proper introduction. Still, under her direct scrutiny, he felt exposed. Tess was intense in a way that was different from Ishmael—where Ishmael had an air of easy lethality, Tess's danger came from her unpredictability. She was a character Char had once described as a blade wrapped in silk—beautiful, but no less deadly for it.

He swallowed. "Charon," he said.

"Tess," she returned, studying him with lazy amusement. "You're the one who's been trailing after Ishmael, then?"

"Something like that."

Her smirk widened. "Well, well. Aren't you mysterious."

Ishmael rolled his eyes. "Don't encourage her."

Tess ignored him. She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on the back of her hand as she examined Char with the same casual interest one might give a puzzle. "So? What's your story, Charon?"

Char hesitated. He had already fabricated a backstory for himself—one that Ishmael believed, at least for now. But Tess was different. She wasn't just perceptive; she was calculating.

"Nothing special," he said carefully. "Just trying to survive like everyone else."

Tess clicked her tongue, unimpressed. "Vague. But I suppose that suits you."

Ishmael leaned back in his chair. "Are you done playing games, or do you actually have something useful to say?"

Tess huffed a laugh, plucking a piece of bread from her plate and popping it into her mouth before speaking around it. "You're the one who found me, darling. Should I be expecting trouble, or are you just here to admire my company?"

"Unfortunately, we need a place to stay for the night," Ishmael said.

Tess sighed dramatically. "And here I thought this was a social visit."

Char watched their exchange with interest. He had always enjoyed writing their dynamic—the way Ishmael's sharp pragmatism clashed with Tess's playful defiance. It was natural. The banter, the tension. He could hear their voices in his head as he wrote them all those months ago, but now… now they were here. Real.

And they had no idea he had created them.

Tess took another bite of her food before stretching her arms above her head, the movement slow, deliberate. She eyed Char once more before standing. "Alright, fine. Let's go before I change my mind."

Ishmael didn't argue. He stood as well, and Char quickly followed.

The three of them wove through the square, past the last remnants of the evening's crowd. As they moved, Tess walked a little closer to Char, her voice low when she spoke.

"So tell me," she murmured. "How did you get tangled up in all this?"

Char tensed. He could feel her gaze on him, assessing, waiting for any slip in his response.

"Like I said," he answered, keeping his voice steady, "just trying to survive."

Tess hummed, unconvinced but seemingly uninterested in pressing further—at least for now.

The safe house was tucked into the back streets, barely distinguishable from the other aging buildings surrounding it. Tess led the way inside, lighting a lantern as she did. The interior was modest—wooden floors, scattered furniture, a few closed doors leading to other rooms. It smelled of old parchment and dust.

Ishmael wasted no time, pulling off his coat and tossing it over a chair. "You can take the cot," he told Char, nodding toward a small bed against the far wall. "I'll take the floor."

Tess smirked. "Chivalrous."

"I don't hear you offering."

"I'm delicate," Tess said smoothly, settling herself into a chair. "Unlike you brutes, I require comfort."

Ishmael muttered something under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. Char barely heard him. He was too busy processing everything, his mind still whirling with the weight of the day.

He was exhausted, but sleep felt impossible. Every breath, every movement in this world felt too real—and yet, not real at all.

He was trapped inside a story.

A story that was changing around him.

And he had no idea where it was going next.

As he lay back on the cot, staring up at the ceiling, a single thought looped through his head:

I need to get home.

But deep down, he wasn't sure if that was even possible anymore.