Eloise**
The estate stands before me like a monument to a past that never should have been. The air is thick with silence, heavy with things left unsaid.
Caius stands beside me, his gaze distant, his expression unreadable. But I *know* what he feels—I can feel the weight of it in the air, pressing against us both.
I swallow hard, my heart aching in ways I never expected.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
His head turns slightly, his sharp golden eyes flickering toward me, unreadable.
"All this time... when I wrote your story, I only thought about *structure*. Conflict. Motivation. A past that would make you strong, make you *resilient*." I force out a breath. "But I never stopped to think about what it would *do* to you."
I look at him, really *look* at him—the man I created, the man I forced to endure a life of loneliness and pain.
"I didn't know," I admit, my voice shaking slightly. "I didn't understand."
Until now.
Until I stood in this place, saw the emptiness in his eyes, and recognized it for what it was—because I had felt it too.
Because I had lived it too.
My grip tightens around the leather notebook in my hands, my fingers trembling slightly as I pull it open. I reach for my pen, the ink already forming words in my mind.
"I can change it," I say suddenly, my voice firmer now.
Caius stiffens.
I glance at him, but my hands don't stop moving. The pages in front of me feel alive, the magic of creation stirring in my veins.
"I can rewrite it," I continue, my voice filled with certainty. "I can give you a childhood where you were loved. Where your mother lived. Where your father—"
A hand grips my wrist, stopping me mid-sentence.
Caius is staring at me now, his golden eyes burning, his grip firm but not painful.
"No."
I blink. "What?"
His gaze doesn't waver. "I said *no*."
"But... why?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "I can fix it. I can make it so that you were never alone. I can give you a father who—"
"I don't *want* it changed."
His words hit me harder than I expect.
I stare at him, struggling to understand.
"You don't have to live with this pain, Caius," I plead. "I wrote it this way because I thought it would make you a stronger character, but now I see how cruel it was. I see how unfair it was. I *can* fix it."
His grip on my wrist tightens, not in anger, but in desperation.
"I don't *need* it fixed."
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
Caius exhales sharply and looks away, his jaw tightening.
"This pain... it's part of who I am." His voice is quieter now, rough around the edges. "If you take it away, I won't be *me* anymore."
I feel my chest tighten. "But you *deserve* to be happy."
His golden eyes meet mine again, and for the first time, I see something raw there. Something fragile.
"I know," he says. "And maybe one day, I *will* be. But not like this."
I look down at my book, my fingers hovering over the ink-stained pages. The words are half-formed, waiting to be written.
But slowly, reluctantly, I close the notebook.
For the first time in my life, I am not the one writing this story.
Caius is.
And for once... I will let him decide how it should be told.
Caius**
The wind rustles through the empty corridors of the estate, stirring the dust of forgotten years. I watch as Eloise hesitates, her fingers tightening around the notebook she was so eager to rewrite.
She doesn't understand.
She *wants* to, I can see that. But she doesn't. Not yet.
I exhale, the weight of my past pressing against my ribs. This place is suffocating, filled with memories I'd rather leave buried. But as much as I want to walk away, I *need* to hear her answer.
"Why?" I ask. My voice is quieter now, but the question is heavier than any sword I've ever wielded.
Eloise looks up at me, her blue eyes wide with something I can't quite name.
"Why did you write it this way?" I continue. "Why did you *create* a life filled with pain, with loss, with nothing but betrayal and suffering?" I tilt my head slightly, searching her expression. "Was it just for the sake of the story?"
She flinches, and I know I've struck something deep.
For a moment, she doesn't speak. Her hands tighten around the notebook, knuckles turning white.
Then, finally, she whispers, "Because I thought that's what made a hero."
The words are soft, but they hit harder than any battle I've ever fought.
Eloise lifts her gaze, and in it, I see something raw, something unspoken.
"I thought suffering made a character stronger," she admits. "I thought the more pain they endured, the more powerful their story would be. That's what people *want*, right? A hero who rises from nothing? A warrior who carries their scars and still fights?"
She laughs, but it's hollow.
"I didn't think about what it would *mean* for you to *live* it," she continues, her voice shaking slightly. "I didn't think about what it would feel like to be abandoned by your own father. To grow up unloved. To fight for a world that never fought for you."
Her breath shudders.
"I just... wrote."
I watch her carefully, the way her fingers tremble against the leather of her book. The way her lips press together like she's holding back more words than she can bear.
She's realizing it now—the weight of creation.
"You never planned for me to be happy," I say quietly. It's not an accusation. Just truth.
Eloise closes her eyes. "I did," she whispers. "At first."
Something in my chest tightens.
She swallows hard before continuing. "I wanted you to have a happy ending. I really did. But... the publishers said it wasn't *good enough*." Her voice is bitter now, thick with frustration. "They said your story was *boring*. That you needed more *conflict*. More *tragedy*."
She lets out a breath, her shoulders slumping.
"So I rewrote it." Her voice is barely above a whisper now. "I took away your happiness. I gave you loss, betrayal, war... because I thought that's what people *wanted*."
I stare at her.
For so long, I have questioned my existence. Questioned *why* my life was forged in suffering, why I was forced to endure the things I did.
And now I know.
It was never fate.
It was *her*.
Eloise doesn't look at me. She just stares down at her book, as if it holds all the answers she'll never find.
"I thought I was making you stronger," she whispers. "But I think... I just made you suffer."
A long silence stretches between us.
Finally, I speak.
"You were right about one thing."
She looks up, hesitant.
"Suffering *does* make a person strong," I say. "But it also breaks them." I take a step forward, closing the space between us. "Do you know what it feels like to live a life where everything is taken from you? To carry the weight of loss over and over again until you forget what happiness even *feels* like?"
Eloise doesn't answer.
She doesn't have to.
I reach out, my fingers brushing against the cover of her notebook. "You wrote this story, Eloise. *You* decided how it would unfold." My voice drops lower. "So tell me... did you ever think about what it would be like to *live* in the world you created?"
She shivers under my words, but she doesn't look away.
For the first time, I see guilt in her eyes. Real, aching guilt.
I exhale and take a step back, my fists clenching at my sides.
"I am not asking you to change my past," I say finally. "I don't need you to rewrite my pain." My gaze hardens. "But if you truly want to make things right, then give me the ending I *deserve*."
Eloise watches me, her breath unsteady.
I don't know what she's thinking. But something in her expression shifts.
Determination.
Resolve.
Maybe even regret.
Whatever it is, I know this—she's finally beginning to understand.
And for the first time in my life, I *may* just have a chance to change my fate.