The Bridge of Silence was not a bridge in the traditional sense. It was a single, frozen ribbon of tension stretched across an infinite black void. It was made of Crystallized Hush—ice so thin and perfect that it vibrated with the mere memory of a sound.
The rule was simple: If you make a noise decibel higher than a heartbeat, the bridge shatters.
Aryan stood at the precipice, holding a finger to his lips. He looked at his motley crew. It was a disaster waiting to happen.
The First Son: A two-ton wooden giant who creaked naturally.
The Talking Stove: A cast-iron appliance with loose grates.
Barnaby: A fish known for his inability to shut up.
Rhea & Sarah: Two singers who breathed in melody.
Mira: Carrying the heavy Sphere of Dawn.
Aryan pulled out the strips of the wool blanket. He knelt and wrapped the First Son's feet, creating massive, fluffy slippers. He then wrapped the Stove entirely, until it looked like a giant, grumpy ball of yarn.
Finally, he turned to Barnaby. The fish was in a sealed glass jar now, carried by Sarah. Aryan stared at the fish with intense, threatening eyes.
Do. Not. Make. A. Sound. Aryan mouthed.
Barnaby saluted with a fin, looking offended. I am a professional, he mouthed back.
Aryan nodded. He stepped onto the bridge.
Step.
Silence. The ice held.
The Itch of Doom
They walked in a single file. Aryan first, then Mira, Sarah (with Barnaby), Rhea, the Stove (carried by the First Son), and the Giant bringing up the rear.
The silence was heavy. It pressed against their eardrums. It was the kind of silence where you could hear the blood rushing in your own veins.
They were halfway across—about 1.5 miles from safety—when the tragedy began.
Inside the glass jar, a single, microscopic particle of Star-Dust from the Junkyard had remained stuck to Barnaby's scales. As Barnaby floated, the dust dislodged. It drifted slowly through the water. It floated toward Barnaby's face.
It entered his left nostril.
Barnaby's eyes widened.
Oh no, Barnaby thought. Oh, dear heavens. No.
A tickle. A sharp, electric prickle started at the base of his nose (do fish have noses? In this magical reality, yes, and they are sensitive).
Barnaby tried to wiggle his nose. The tickle grew. It wasn't just an itch; it was a biological imperative. It was the Sneeze of the Century loading up like a cannon.
Barnaby tapped frantically on the glass. Tik-tik-tik.
Sarah looked down. She saw the fish. His face was contorted into a mask of pure agony. His mouth was quivering. He was turning a shade of purple that didn't exist in nature.
Sarah's eyes widened in horror. She tapped Aryan's shoulder.
Aryan turned around. He saw the fish. He saw the Sneeze building up.
If he sneezes, Aryan realized with cold dread, the vibration inside the jar will shatter the glass. The glass will hit the ice. The bridge will break. We die.
Aryan rushed back, moving as softly as a shadow. He looked at Barnaby.
Hold it! Aryan screamed with his eyes.
Barnaby shook his head frantically. I can't! It's a Category 5 Sneeze! It's coming!
The Silent Ballet
To make matters worse, the shadows behind them began to move.
The Ice-Stalkers had found the bridge.
They stood at the start of the ribbon, three tall, faceless knights made of frost. They knew the rules. They didn't roar. They didn't stomp. They simply began to run—sprinting silently across the ice, their blades raised.
Aryan was trapped. He had a sneezing fish in front of him and silent assassins behind him.
Think, Aryan commanded himself. I am the writer. Edit the situation.
He grabbed the Mango-Wood Box from Rhea's pack. He opened it and pulled out a handful of Salt.
He turned to the Ice-Stalkers. He couldn't shout a spell. He couldn't use the explosive "Inferno." He had to use Mime Magic.
Aryan threw the salt into the air. He used his mahogany arm to draw a symbol in the air: THE MUTE BUTTON.
The Creation Ink flared silently. The salt suspended in the air, forming a wall.
The lead Ice-Stalker ran into the salt. Usually, this would make a sizzling sound. But Aryan's magic absorbed the vibration. The Stalker disintegrated into water, but the sound of its death was deleted. It died in absolute silence, turning into a puddle without a splash.
One down, Aryan thought. Two to go.
But then he heard it. A tiny, high-pitched intake of breath.
Ah...
Barnaby's mouth opened. His gills flared. The Sneeze was crowning.
Sarah looked at Aryan in panic. She couldn't drop the jar. She couldn't cover it.
Ahhh...
Barnaby's eyes rolled back. This was it. The sonic boom.
Aryan didn't think. He didn't use magic. He used Comedy Logic.
He grabbed the Talking Stove (which was wrapped in wool) from the First Son's arms.
CHOO!
Barnaby sneezed.
It was loud. It was explosive. The glass jar vibrated, ready to shatter.
But exactly 0.1 seconds before the sound wave could hit the glass, Aryan slammed the wool-wrapped Stove down over the jar.
PHMMPHF.
The sound was smothered by fifty pounds of cast iron and three layers of magical wool. The vibration rattled the Stove's grates, but the wool absorbed the shock.
The bridge trembled... once.
Then it steadied.
The Stove, muffled inside the blanket, vibrated with indignation. Did you just use me as a handkerchief?! the Stove's internal vibration seemed to scream.
Barnaby floated in his jar, looking dazed but relieved. Bless me, he mouthed.
The Walk of Shame
Aryan slumped against the First Son's leg, exhaling a breath he had held for two minutes. He looked back. The remaining two Ice-Stalkers had stopped. They looked at the puddle of their fallen comrade. They looked at the crazy group using a stove to mute a fish.
They decided it wasn't worth it. They turned around and faded back into the mist. Even monsters have a limit for absurdity.
"Walk," Aryan mouthed to the group. "Fast."
They scrambled the rest of the way. When their feet finally touched the grey stone of the cliff on the other side, the tension snapped.
"I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO INSULTED IN MY LIFE!" The Stove roared, vibrating the moment the wool was removed. "I AM A CULINARY MASTERPIECE, NOT A MUFFLER!"
"You saved us, Stove," Rhea said, hugging the warm iron. "You're a hero."
"Hmph," the Stove grumbled, cooling down. "Well. I suppose the acoustics were terrible anyway."
Barnaby swam to the surface of his jar. "I apologize. It was the dust. But I must say, that sneeze cleared my sinuses marvelously. I can smell colors now."
Aryan sat on a rock, wiping sweat from his face. He looked at the Sphere of Dawn in Mira's arms. It was safe.
"We crossed," Aryan said, his voice hoarse. "We crossed the Glacier. We crossed the Bridge."
He checked the Mirror-Book. The reflection showed a massive set of golden gates just ahead.
The Gate of the Morning.
"Once we pass through those gates," Aryan said, standing up, "we leave the Unwritten. We enter the Draft of the New World."
"Wait," Mira said. She pointed to the gates.
There was a sign hanging on the golden bars. It was written in handwritten ink—Aryan's handwriting.
"CHAPTER 1: THE END."
"Chapter 1?" Sarah asked. "We're on Chapter 62. Why does it say Chapter 1?"
"Because," Aryan realized, a smile spreading across his face. "Everything we've done so far... the Villa, the Sea, the Tower, the Glacier... that was just the Prologue."
He walked to the gates. He placed his mahogany hand on the bars.
"The real story starts now."
CREAAAAK.
The gates opened.