Page 157 of She Who Devours the Stars

“If you can’t overcome me… you don’t deserve to not-be me.”

I stared at the words for a long time, the arrogance of them so pure it bordered on spiritual. Lioren, even in death or mythic recursion, was the kind of narcissist who left journal entries for future versions of himself to feel inadequate about.

Zevelune laughed, low and full of something close to pride.

“Did you ever meet someone you didn’t want to replace?” she said.

The paper cut into my palm, and I didn’t let go.

I kept walking, because the alternative was to stand still and let the Ruins finish the job. Each step was an argument against entropy. Each step, the world tried to steal a little more of me, until I started to enjoy the fight.

The Ruins learned.

Now they conjured Eventide at dusk, the sky smeared orange, the dorm windows full of ghosts. I saw myself, maybe a hundred versions, each frozen in a moment I half-remembered: me with Gallo, me with Dyris, me alone on the roof smoking what I’d sworn was my last cigarette. Sometimes the other Ferns looked up, caught my gaze, and shook their heads in pity.

In one overlay, I saw myself kissing Dyris, but the face that turned to her afterward wasn’t mine—it was Lioren’s, with the same star-hungry eyes, the same wolfish grin. I watched as Lioren-Me pulled Dyris close, whispered something in her ear, then let her go so slowly. It was the kind of pain that left no room for breathing, watching my past life court my wife like she’d always been his, and seeing her remember it.

Zevelune interrupted, stepping in between me and my own memory. “You know, darling, if you want to kiss her again, you’ll have to survive this.”

“Keep moving,” I growled, but the Lioren cadence was getting louder, swallowing my own.

We moved on. The Ruins let up for a second, the path widening into a clearing ringed with the petrified trunks. In the center, a pedestal, maybe once an altar, now just another dead thing waiting to be noticed. I approached, cautious, expecting a trap. There was nothing on the pedestal, but my mythprint pulsed hard, blue-white flaring along my knuckles and wrists.

I looked down.

There was another note. This one was shorter.

It said: “You can’t win by refusing to play.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fuck off, Lioren.”

Zevelune’s laughter echoed through the clearing.

I needed to ground myself, remind my body it was still mine. I pressed my hand to my stomach, expecting the soft squish of someone who lived on tacos and pizza, but instead I found abs, hard, ridged, absurd. I traced them with a finger, baffled. I couldn’t help but imagine Dyris worshipping my stomach like it had answers.

“Aw, fuck,” I muttered, then poked at my biceps, which were also suspiciously present. “When did I turn into a gym rat?”

Zevelune smirked. “You’re adapting.”

“Not on purpose,” I snapped, but I didn’t stop poking at myself.

The mythprint on my arms was bright now, the lines so tight they buzzed against my skin. I flexed, watched the light ripple, and for a second, I thought I saw another hand flexing in perfect sync, larger, older, but definitely mine.

I blinked, and the illusion was gone.

The Ruins thinned, the path narrowing again, the air going cold. Zevelune was in front of me, leading but not rushing, as if savoring the last few minutes before everything broke.

My feet felt heavy. The paper in my hand was gone, but the words had sunk in, carved into the back of my eyes.

I stumbled, caught myself, and realized my own shadow had lagged behind. I turned, expecting to see nothing.

Instead, my shadow was standing five steps back, hands in pockets, head tilted in precisely the way Lioren did in the old holos.

It smiled at me, wide and knowing.

I froze.

Zevelune stopped, glanced back, and said, “Now we’re getting somewhere.”