Teleported into My Own Novel as the Author!

Charon woke to silence.

It took him a moment to remember where he was. The bed beneath him was too stiff, the air too still. No distant hum of street traffic, no faint glow of his laptop screen. Just the dim morning light creeping through wooden slats in the window, casting long stripes across the floor.

For a second, he let himself believe it was a dream.

Then he shifted, and the thin blanket slid off his shoulders. The wooden ceiling above him didn't dissolve into the familiar plaster of his bedroom. The scent of dust and old fabric lingered, not the detergent from his sheets. And when he pressed a hand against his face, his fingers came away grimy.

Yeah. Not a dream.

Char—no, Charon, he had to remember that—exhaled sharply and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

The room was small, barely more than a cot, a chipped wooden chair, and a rickety nightstand with a dented metal basin. His boots sat by the door, and his borrowed coat—a plain brown thing that Marin had tossed at him—was folded on the chair.

It was a safe house.

One of his safe houses.

Or at least, a place that was supposed to exist only in his novel.

His head throbbed just thinking about it.

He had spent the entire night convincing himself that this wasn't real. That the details would start slipping away, or something would happen to snap him back to reality. But the longer he stayed here, the more solid everything became. The wooden walls, the dusty air, the distant voices outside.

And the worst part?

He wasn't even supposed to be here.

He was the writer, not a character. This world was supposed to exist only on paper, its people just names and dialogue and half-formed thoughts swirling in his head. But now, they were real.

Tess, Marin, Callen, Ishmael—he had written their histories, shaped their lives, and yet, when he had seen them in the tavern last night, they had spoken like they knew more than they should. As if they had once been aware of him.

But that awareness had faded.

Why?

Charon swung his legs over the side of the cot and ran a hand through his hair.

He needed air.

He pulled on his boots, shrugged into the coat, and slipped out the door.

*

The tavern was mostly empty at this hour. A few groggy-eyed patrons nursed drinks at the bar, and a man in the corner snored against his folded arms. The innkeeper gave Charon a cursory glance but didn't say anything as he stepped outside into the morning chill.

The city of Oryn-Vel stretched out before him.

Even knowing what to expect, it still took his breath away.

He had spent years building this world, sketching out streets, naming districts, giving them life on the page. But seeing it now, standing in it—

It was overwhelming.

The streets were cobbled, worn smooth by years of footsteps and carriage wheels. Wooden stalls lined the alleys, where vendors arranged crates of fresh produce and spices, their voices already rising as they set up for the day. The air smelled of damp stone, fried dough, and something distinctly metallic from the blacksmith's forge down the street.

And the people—

They weren't just background details anymore. They were living, breathing individuals, moving with purpose. A woman haggled over a bundle of fabric. A pair of children chased each other past a man selling roasted nuts. A group of dockworkers, faces lined with fatigue, hauled crates down the road.

It felt real.

Too real.

Charon sucked in a breath. He needed to focus.

How had he even gotten here?

He had been writing—he remembered that much. His fingers moving against his will, scrawling a sentence he hadn't meant to type. And then, in a burst of light—

He had been here.

Thrown into his own story.

Why?

And—perhaps the bigger question—could he get back?

"Well, well. If it isn't the mysterious newcomer."

Charon barely had time to turn before a solid presence stepped into his path.

Ishmael.

Of course.

Charon had given Ishmael an effortless kind of presence, the kind that turned heads without meaning to. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his deep brown skin contrasted by the white scarf draped loosely around his neck. His coat was fitted but worn at the edges, proof of a man who had traveled far too many roads. A silver pendant hung around his neck, glinting faintly in the morning light.

His expression, however, was as unreadable as ever.

"Where are you sneaking off to this early?" Ishmael asked, arms crossed.

Charon cleared his throat. "Just needed air."

Ishmael hummed, unconvinced.

It was strange, seeing him like this. Charon had written Ishmael as observant, careful, the kind of man who weighed a person's worth in how they carried themselves rather than what they said.

And right now, Ishmael was watching him.

Measuring him.

"I take it Marin and Callen let you stay the night?" Ishmael asked, leaning casually against a post.

"They did," Charon said. "Which I appreciate."

Ishmael studied him for a moment, then nodded toward the street. "Care for a walk?"

Charon hesitated.

He should probably stay put. He was still piecing things together, still trying to make sense of his own existence here. But at the same time… if he wanted to survive in his own story, he needed to act like he belonged.

And right now, Ishmael was giving him a chance to do just that.

"Sure," Charon said, falling into step beside him.

Maybe, just maybe, he could figure out what the hell was happening to him before this world swallowed him whole.