Calanthe had finished the quarterly soul-audit in forty-three minutes flat; two minutes faster than her personal best and still fast enough to make her boss, Belus, scowl and complain about her unnatural efficiency.

  She was already reaching for the next stack when her blue ledger blinked. Not a flicker of lamplight. A blink; like an eyelid.

  Across the bottom line, in the same bureaucratic font she’d used for the past year, appeared a line she’d never seen:

  “Calanthe, Senior Archivist – Mana Overdraft: 8.5 million units.

  Collateral: TBD.

  Comment: Report to Boss at once."

  She felt her quill break on her ledger and bead gold ink. For the first time in a year she didn’t know what would happen if she wiped it away. She snarled, not like a rookie, like a veteran who’d just been told the rules had changed after the game ended. Then stomped to the Boss' office to give him a piece of her mind.

  ***

  Calanthe took a moment to steady herself before entering the administrator’s suite. She braced for more of the usual, but the space beyond the door was nothing like what she expected.

  Gone were the mahogany desk, the starlit ceiling, the comforting aroma of old parchment. Instead, the suite had transformed into a hypermodern data hub with holographic terminals and suspended interfaces. The only thing that hadn’t changed was Belus, who sat behind a glass-topped console, eyes glinting with that old, bored entitlement.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Calanthe,” he said without turning to look at her, “I’m afraid you’ve outstayed your welcome.”

  She said nothing.

  “You’re being retrenched. That’s the term now, isn’t it? I think you’ve gone through a few of those exercises in your old life.”

  She processed this, not sure if she wanted to laugh or punch the desk. “Is this because of the One Sky Pavilion?”

  “No,” said Belus. “That was textbook. The best possible outcome, honestly.”

  She waited, jaw set.

  Belus sighed.

  Calanthe sat and met Belus’ gaze. “Is this really necessary?”

  “Yes,” said Belus, without hesitation. “Unless you want to spend another hundred years shelving books for ghosts who don’t know your name. Or,” he said, voice softening, “you could go out there and be the protagonist for once. I hear it pays well.”

  “Not interested,” Calanthe said. "And for the record, I've only been here one year."

  "One hundred sidereal years," Belus corrected, "And no, we are not having a discussion about time again."

  Belus leaned forward. “And getting back to my main point—I think you are interested in the whole protagonist gig actually. It’s just easier to say no when you’re in control.”

  "And what if I do say no?"

  "You don't exactly have a choice. I'm the Boss."

  "I want a plot delay,” Calanthe said, not budging from her spot.

  "What?"

  "I want some free time before I start my stupid adventure. Eight weeks; exactly fifty-six days—I want that as severance pay. And other things which we'll discuss in due course."

  "That's ridiculous.” Belus frowned. “But... I'll think about it."

  Calanthe thought to herself: And if I die as an NPC, wouldn't I just land up back here again. She'd seen it thousands of times before. The Boss was clearly losing his touch. She'd get a vacation and return to the Library after that.

  “I’ll need time to pack,” she said.

  “You have all the time in the world,” said Belus smiling.

  She stood, her chair scraping the floor, and left without another word.

  On her way back to her quarters, she paused by the wall of narrative streams; infinite stories intersecting and diverging, none of them hers. Tomorrow, everything would change. And if everything went according to plan, in eight weeks she would be right back where she started.

  She found her way back to her section.

  In her own space, the lanterns burned with a softer light. She took down her personal red-spined file and opened it.

  Inside, the story had only just begun.