Teleported into My Own Novel as the Author!

The city unfurled around them as they walked, shifting from the worn stone of the tavern's district into narrower streets where buildings leaned in close, their wooden beams groaning with age.

Ishmael walked with an easy gait, hands tucked in his coat pockets, but his eyes moved constantly, sweeping over passersby, marking details in that quiet, perceptive way of his. Charon knew better than to think it was idle curiosity—Ishmael never did anything idly.

"So," Ishmael said, glancing at him, "what's your story?"

Charon nearly stumbled.

"My… story?" he echoed.

"You show up in the middle of a backwater tavern with no coin, no weapons, and no clear reason for being there." Ishmael smirked. "You can see why we're a little curious."

Right.

Charon had known this was coming. He'd spent the whole night thinking about it, running through the possible answers, trying to piece together a life that made sense in this world.

He inhaled sharply. Time to commit.

"I grew up in the south," he said carefully. "Small place—probably nothing you'd know. Spent most of my time by the coast, near the marshlands."

Ishmael hummed. "Which coast?"

Shit.

Charon had built this world. He knew the maps, the landmarks, the histories—he could rattle them off without thinking. But now, with Ishmael watching him, waiting, he scrambled for something realistic.

"Uh… near the Fenwater Reach."

The words tumbled out before he could stop them.

Ishmael's eyebrows lifted.

"The Reach?" His voice held a note of surprise. "I grew up near there myself. What village?"

Charon's stomach lurched.

Of course. Of course Ishmael was from there. You wrote him that way, idiot.

He swallowed hard, trying to keep his face neutral. "Small fishing town. Haven't been back in years."

Ishmael let out a short laugh. "I know the feeling. I left when I was young. Haven't seen those shores in a long time." His expression softened slightly. "Still, it's rare to meet someone from there. Most people don't leave."

Charon nodded, forcing a smile, but guilt coiled in his gut.

Ishmael seemed pleased—like he'd found an unexpected connection, a sliver of familiarity in a world that had long since changed for him. And Charon was lying.

He tried to push the thought away.

It wasn't like he had a choice. What was he supposed to do? Tell Ishmael, Oh, I actually made you up, and technically I've known you since you were a first-draft character?

Yeah. That'd go over great.

"I take it you've been all over, then?" Charon asked, changing the subject.

Ishmael chuckled. "You could say that."

They turned a corner, stepping onto a wider street. Vendors had begun their morning shouts, hawking fruit, bread, and bolts of cloth dyed in rich reds and blues. A few men were arguing over the price of salt fish near the docks, and the scent of spices curled through the air.

Ishmael slowed slightly, glancing around before continuing.

"When I left the Reach, I spent some time with a merchant caravan. Picked up a few skills, learned to keep my head down. Eventually, I ended up in Oryn-Vel."

Charon already knew this, of course. He had written Ishmael's backstory in painful detail. Still, hearing it from him firsthand was… surreal.

Ishmael glanced at him. "That's where I met Tess."

Charon kept his expression neutral, but his heart lurched.

Tess.

Out of everyone in this world, she was the one who unnerved him the most. Not because she was dangerous—though she was—but because of the way she had spoken to him by the fountain when he'd arrived last night. The way she had looked at him, like she had known something she shouldn't have.

"She was running a job," Ishmael continued, shaking his head. "A damn reckless one, too. Nearly got herself arrested. I figured she could use a second pair of hands, and, well… the rest is history."

Charon nodded, watching as Ishmael's gaze flickered over the street ahead, scanning for familiar faces.

And just like that, the moment of ease was gone.

Ishmael's world was a dangerous one. It had always been. Charon had designed it that way. And though Ishmael was calm now, Charon could see it—the way his shoulders never fully relaxed, the way his eyes checked corners, the way he walked like a man who expected trouble at any moment.

The realization settled over him like a weight.

This isn't just a story anymore. These people aren't just characters.

This is their life.

And he had no idea what was coming next.