CHAPTER 7 — The Friendly Editor
The man was already sitting by our fire when we woke up.
That alone should have been enough to kill him.
I froze halfway through sitting up, heart hammering as my hand instinctively reached for… something. I wasn't sure what. A pen. A book. A large emotional support dictionary.
Puck noticed too. He went completely still, fur bristling.
Valerius reacted first.
Her rapier was out in a smooth, silent arc, the tip hovering an inch from the man's throat.
He didn't flinch.
"Good morning," he said pleasantly. "You're out of tea."
The audacity of it stole my breath.
He was unremarkable in every way that mattered. Average height. Average build. Brown hair going politely grey at the temples. Dressed in a simple travelling coat that somehow never wrinkled.
He looked like someone who apologized when he bumped into furniture.
"I'd advise you not to move," Valerius said coldly.
"Of course," he replied, smiling gently. "I'm not here to escalate."
That made my skin crawl.
"Who are you?" I asked.
He glanced at me, eyes kind, assessing—not hungry like the Curator's, but… curious.
"Marrow," he said. "Assistant Editor. Second Revisionary Circle."
Puck hissed.
"That's not 'assistant' anything," he snapped. "That's a senior position."
Marrow waved a hand dismissively. "Titles are context-dependent."
Valerius did not lower her blade. "Why are you here?"
"Because," Marrow said calmly, "you survived something you weren't supposed to."
I swallowed.
He leaned forward slightly, hands open, nonthreatening.
"I'm not here to erase you, Arthur Vane. If that were the goal, you'd already be a footnote."
"Comforting," I muttered.
Marrow chuckled. "You have a dry tone. I like that."
Valerius's blade pressed closer. "Speak."
"Very well." He straightened, eyes flicking briefly to the trees around us—checking the margins. "The Curator has… disagreements within his own hierarchy."
That got my attention.
"Go on," I said carefully.
"You," Marrow continued, "represent an anomaly that cannot be resolved through flattening or temptation. You contradict too well."
Puck scoffed. "That's our Artie. Professionally inconvenient."
Marrow smiled at him. "Exactly."
He looked back at me.
"Which means you are valuable."
The word landed heavy.
Valerius's wings rustled. "To whom?"
"To anyone who wants the story to continue," Marrow replied softly.
A chill crawled up my spine.
"You're recruiting," I said.
"Consulting," he corrected. "I offer guidance. Advice. Small edits to help you survive what's coming."
"And in return?" Valerius demanded.
Marrow shrugged. "Occasional cooperation. Insight. Perhaps… restraint."
The clearing seemed to tighten around us.
My head throbbed faintly.
Betrayal stirred.
He's lying.
He always is.
I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to breathe.
"You helped the Curator," I said. "You edit worlds."
"Yes."
"You erased people."
"Yes."
"Why help me?"
Marrow met my gaze steadily.
"Because," he said, "the Curator believes in perfection."
He leaned closer.
"I believe in revision."
Silence.
Valerius's blade wavered—not lowering, but no longer advancing.
"You're planning something," she said.
"Everyone is," Marrow replied. "I'm simply honest about it."
I felt the Shard hum faintly—not flaring, not burning.
Listening.
"You want me to become… what?" I asked.
Marrow tilted his head. "A proof of concept."
My stomach dropped.
"Arthur," Valerius warned quietly.
"I know," I said. "I know."
Marrow rose slowly to his feet, careful not to trigger Valerius's instincts.
"You don't have to answer now," he said. "But consider this."
He reached into his coat.
Valerius's blade snapped forward—
—and stopped inches from his wrist.
He produced a small, simple object.
A bookmark.
Plain paper. Handwritten.
He set it gently on the stone between us.
"When the Curator defines you," Marrow said softly, "he will choose a single version of you to preserve."
He looked at me with something dangerously close to sympathy.
"I can teach you how to leave margins."
With that, he stepped back.
The clearing blurred.
Not torn.
Reformatted.
And Marrow was gone.
The bookmark remained.
No glow.
No trap.
Just paper.
Puck stared at it. "Well. I hate him."
Valerius finally lowered her blade, jaw tight. "That was not an attack."
"No," I said, picking up the bookmark with shaking fingers.
"It was an offer."
The paper was warm.
And for the first time since this began—
I wasn't sure which answer terrified me more.