Chapter 1: There Was Never A Throne
The stars remember her.
Even when the world forgets.
Even when the timeline resets,
even when kingdoms rise with no mention of her name the stars still whisper: Elóranth
But she no longer answers to that name.
The woman who chose truth over power…
who killed every version of herself to become real…
who looked a god in the eye and refused
She did not die in that moment.
She evolved.
The throne of Eristra lies in shards behind her.
Time trembles.
The sky has no color now just memory.
And before her?
A figure in robes woven from the echoes of creation itself.
No face. No body.
Only presence.
"You've become something you were never meant to be,"
the being says.
"You were written to fall. That was the function of your arc."
Elóranth doesn't flinch.
"Then write a new arc," she replies.
"Or watch your pen burn."
This is not a villainess.
This is not a Final Boss.
This is an anomaly.
A soul who refused destiny so violently, the gods had to send in the Archivists—
the ones who wrote the very laws of this world.
But even they didn't expect her to survive her unmaking.
"You've stepped off the page,"
the voice says.
"Now, you'll face what lives outside the story."
The world begins to rot
as if reality itself rejects her.
Trees unbloom.
Time coughs ash.
And in the cracks of her vision, she sees them
The Unread.
Lost characters.
Scrapped timelines.
Worlds abandoned by their writers.
And all of them?
Want her power.
Because she's the only one who ever broke her story and lived.
"You want to erase me?" she whispers.
"Then know this: I was erased before I ever existed. And still, I wrote myself back."