She walks where even gods dare not name.
The Archive Tomb is not a place.
It's a wound in the fabric of fate a graveyard of timelines where unwritten souls whisper in languages that never made it past the outline.
Here, stories rot.
There are no stars, only ink.
No ground, only parchment bleeding black.
And the air tastes like lost potential.
But Elóranth?
She walks without fear.
She's not a heroine.
She's the final contradiction:
a character who no longer obeys plot.
A door forms in front of her.
Not made of wood or bone but prose.
A page torn from her past.
The first sentence she ever spoke in this world…
"Where am I?"
It glows. Then crumbles.
And from the dust, something rises—
a girl with her face. Her voice. Her eyes.
But not her spine.
This version of Elóranth is soft, scared, naïve.
Still wearing her villainess script like shackles.
"You… left me,"
the ghost says.
"No," Elóranth replies.
"I burned you."
She remembers this one.
The draft where she begged for love.
Where she cried in the prince's arms.
Where she died to redeem herself and was thanked for it.
A version beloved by readers
but never by herself.
The ghost smiles sadly.
"They loved me more. I made them cry."
"You made them comfortable," Elóranth says, stepping closer.
"But I made them wake up."
The ghost snarls now.
Hair wild. Hands trembling.
"You're unnatural. A glitch. You don't even care if they like you!"
Elóranth leans in, eyes like stars drawn in a scream.
"They don't love me because I'm good.
They love me because I'm true."
And with that, she reaches out—
and rewrites the ghost with one touch.
Not erased.
Not destroyed.
Absorbed.
A piece of herself returned.
A piece she no longer needs to perform.
The Tomb groans.
Reality trembles.
And deeper inside the void…
something else awakens.
Not a ghost.
Not a god.
A reader.
One who remembered her original ending and wants to rewrite her for themselves.