Novel Lines Novels & Stories

scratching on "Paper." ​The Cliffhanger ​In the center of the white void, a "New-Line" appeared. It wasn't silver, or gold, or green. It was "Ink-Black." ​The line drew a "Door." And from the door stepped the notebook of the "Real-World." ​"The Architects think they deleted you," the Author whispered. "But they forgot that I’m the one who 'Saves' the file." ​Suddenly, Leo wasn't in the void anymore. He was standing in a small, cramped apartment in a city that looked like New York, but everything was "Flat." The people were "Normal." There was no Wolf. There was no Metal.

She looked at the notebook. At the one line. At everything it meant and everything that came after it and the kitchen around her and the man across from her and the bread in the oven and November. She picked up the pen. She wrote below the first line: Now we begin.

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Something in my chest that has been in one position for eleven days shifts. "Vienna reported in this morning." He crosses to my desk. Sets down a single printed page with the deliberate care of someone who has thought carefully about how to deliver something. "Prague went dark yesterday. Lisbon haven't responded to three separate messages." He pauses. His voice doesn't change — he's too good for that — but something behind his eyes does. "The degradation pattern is consistent across all five bloodlines. Starts eleven days ago. Simultaneously." Another pause. "To the hour."

Holy fire burns this paper and its power now, I whispered, raising my palm. The paper blew up in front of our eyes and burned ferociously. I requested that the ashes be brought to the sea after it had burned, and the ashes formed a line as it proceeded out of the mansion and into the sea. Fresh, come hug me, and I asked "how many communication lines do you have on you as a person?" "There are twelve channels, my lord." Thank you for being a trustworthy individual. Please work on her for me, May. Fresh, they'd turn off all the channels except one, so you could chat to your father, ok?

Vessels, puppets, I the hands of the true Gods, the four first-generation Gods, who roamed the world and ruled it, while they, the second generation God, where never allowed to leave the center island. It was but a bug beautiful prison decorated with illusions, Nov thought, as he slowly lost interest in anything, even her, Lin, the woman he was so madly in love with at first, the one he thought he was the luckiest man on earth as he was going to spend a happily ever after with her, oy that the happily ever after wasn’t happy.

The balanced light trembled. And a single line of text appeared across every screen again. Not from Genesis. Not from the Collective. From something neither of them built. YOU WERE NEVER THE FIRST.

Very fair. The days passed quickly, and Havenmist entered the rainy season. Every afternoon, the downpour arrived on time, washing away the sticky heat. One humid evening, after working late, I returned to my apartment and had just started cooking instant noodles when my phone received a message from the secondhand marketplace. The buyer who had bought my wedding dress sent me several photos. The first showed the dress on a bright-smiling girl. She stood in front of a simple backdrop, her eyes shining, her face full of happiness.

A line drawn. And as the others filed out, Damon felt the familiar thrill coil through him. Control was his element. But with Elara… control didn’t come easy. It came with risk. With fire. And Damon Cross had never been a man afraid of fire.