As Fakir exited Mytho's story, he tried his best to maneuver himself where he wanted to be in Gold Crown Town, and was pleased when he got it right on the dot.

Drosselmeyer's grave.

He stood at the tombstone, and hardened himself for the confrontation to come. He drew in a breath, and yelled, "Drosselmeyer! I know you're there! Come out and talk to me, you bastard!"

A low chuckle emitted from the bushes next to him, and a pair of eyes appeared from above the gravestone. "Why, if it isn't my dear grandson, Fakir. What a pleasant surprise!"

Fakir growled, "I didn't come here for pleasantries. I came here about Ahiru."

"Ah, yes, that little duck who's in love with the prince. I've been watching your attempts to change her into a human. Quite amusing."

"So you have been inserting yourself into my stories."

"Yes, it's been very entertaining. I haven't seen this many stories since I was a young writer myself. It really takes me back. You and I, we really think very similarly, you know." The chuckle sounded again.

"We aren't alike at all, you crazy old man," Fakir growled.

"Why, whatever are you talking about, my dear boy? And might I ask whose story you just went into?"

He glared at the eyes. "I think you know that I went to Mytho's story."

"Yes, going to reclaim his heart shard, weren't you? It's a shame that you failed in killing him, that would have been just the thing to do the trick and turn that duck human again."

Fakir's heart turned to ice. He hadn't been entirely sure if the heart shard from Mytho would have worked again on Ahiru, but hearing now that he had been correct, and remembering that he had failed...he gritted his teeth against the thought. No! He had to think of the cost it would have come at! Even if Ahiru had lived as a human, she never would have been able to forgive herself.

A rustling in the bushes drew his attention. He saw a flash of yellow, and stared in open-mouthed horror as Ahiru flew away, out of her hiding place. "Ahiru!" he called out, hoping desperately that she would come back. How much had she heard, exactly?

Drosselmeyer laughed. "Oh, this is too perfect. It doesn't even matter now that you didn't get my essence, she'll never forgive you for trying."

The phrasing clicked something in Fakir's head. "Wait...your essence? Is that what the necessary component is?"

The shadows around the grave darkened, and the eyes narrowed. "What are you thinking, boy?" Drosselmeyer snapped.

"Of course. It all makes sense now," Fakir murmured. It explained everything. All he needed was… "Essence."

Drosselmeyer was screaming now. "What are you thinking? You'll never be able to overwrite my story! You may have played me once, but that was only because I allowed it! Up until then, everyone and everything in this town danced to my tune, and you'd do well to not forget it!"

"Yes, but now you are just a washed-up third-rate ghost of a writer, with no real place and no real power here," Fakir replied coldly. He turned around and began to walk away from the grave.

"Stop! Where are you going? Don't mess with my story!" the shadow screeched.

"Goodbye, old man. I doubt I'll ever be back here again." As he walked away, Fakir relished the outraged cries of his ancestor's ghost.