Once upon a time, there was a man who died. He had the power to turn stories into reality and spun a tale of tragedy and death from his grave. But the tale had an unexpected happy ending brought on by a duck and a knight. The town in which fiction and reality mixed together was freed from stories.

But the town was accustomed to playing assigned roles. How could they adjust to the uncertainty of reality after being trapped in magic? Without a tale to guide everyone, was freedom truly worth it after all?


Fakir jolted awake, colds beads of sweat on his forehead. His arm jerked and knocked over a stack of papers. Sucking in a sharp breath, he looked around. The moonlight crept through the curtains, its tendrils stretching across the room. Rain pelted the window with a sharp thud thud thud while water streaked down the glass.

Fakir turned on the lamp, and squinted while his bleary eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. Strewn across his desk was a mess of papers, some half-filled with smeared scrawls but most blank. The room was small, crammed with towering bookshelves and trunks overflowing with assorted trinkets. The floor was littered with crumpled papers and broken quills and empty inkwells.

His writing study.

Ah, that was right—he'd fallen asleep writing again. He stared down at his hands, the calloused palms and ink-stained fingers, the angry red scar marking his skin. Slowly, he clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling his muscles tense. He was here. He was alive.

After the Prince returned to the fairy tale and the villainous Raven was vanquished, Fakir hoped he'd finally found peace. However, the nightmares only intensified. A victim of his own mind, he battled fearsome monsters in his tumultuous dreams. Night terrors had plagued him ever since he was a little boy. When Fakir grew older, the monsters under his bed only became all the more real, all the more menacing. The monsters shifted forms but remained the same at the depths of their rotten cores.

For decades, a twisted tale controlled Gold Crown, fiction and reality intertwined in the grand theatre of tragedy. Everyone played puppet to Drosselmeyer's whims, a story-spinner with the power to rewrite reality, the man who conjured a tale of dread and despair to ensnare the town. Before he died, Drosselmeyer created a mystical mechanism, a writing contraption using his blood as ink, that would allow him to continue spinning his tales from his grave.

With the simple stroke of his pen, Drosselmeyer brought his characters to life, imbuing them with will and consciousness. His most fearsome creation was the Raven, a sinister monster who hungered for Prince's pure heart. Everyone was to fulfill the story's designed roles, his personal playing pieces in a chess game—villain and hero, prince and princess.

Fakir's destiny was the knight fated to die, slashed in two before he could even land a blow on the monstrous Raven. And yet he'd escaped his fate. He'd escaped his assigned role. Descended from Drosselmeyer's bloodline, he laid down his sword and wielded a pen, writing a triumphant end to the story'a reign.

With Drosselmeyer defeated, the grand theatre of tragedy gave way to a new performance, one of hope and redemption, where the characters wrote their own script. The Prince vanquished the Raven and rescued his Princess, and the two found their happy ending in the storybook world.

But Fakir found no such ending for himself, not in reality. All he had was nightly terrors, the scrambling to reassemble the shattered shards of his mind. Whenever he succumbed to the watery depths of slumber, he drowned and choked all while fear dug its dagger-like claws into his heart and tore it apart. The nightmares that occurred during Drosselmeyer's control happened more frequently than ever. With his nights plagued by violent memories, he doubted if he'd ever truly escaped the story.

"Quack?"

Ahiru. The duck hopped off from her pillow in the corner and fluttered to his desk. Fakir lazily wrapped an arm around her, and she relaxed into the crook of his elbow.

"Idiot," he said gently. "Don't worry about me."

Ahiru had always been a duck—that was supposed to be her true self—but Drosselmeyer had made her human to manipulate her into advancing his wretched story. Extended time as one left her unused to the wilderness, and after returning to her animal form, she followed Fakir everywhere.

Now Drosselmeyer's story had ended. Its gears had stopped and the magic had faded. No more tales to guide reality. It left behind an aimless town and people adrift to confront their true identities. Everyone had grown accustomed to playing roles in stories that sheltered them from everyday existence. Could they even confront the challenges of reality?

Ahiru quacked again. Not for the first time, Fakir was struck with a wave of yearning, recalling the ephemeral days when Ahiru was a human girl. All those times when they'd walked to school side by side underneath the expanse of blue sky, the hours in the library when she'd bother him while he attempted to study, when they sat across each other at the table sipping tea with simple bread. Those days, so extremely ordinary, were the ones Fakir missed the most.

Gone was the magic, along with the times he'd taken for granted. Ahiru settled on his shoulder and nuzzled her face in the crook of his neck. Absently, he stroked her feathers. All the animal students returned to their original forms once Drosselmeyer's story concluded, relinquishing their human-like behavior.

Fakir adjusted the blanket around his shoulders. Blanket? He didn't recall falling asleep with one. Had Ahiru wrapped it around him? He imagined the little duck furiously flapping her wings as she struggled to lift the heavy fabric. He patted her head in thanks.

Ahiru quacked in return. Go to sleep.

She waddled back to her pillow and folded her wings. The bird fell asleep almost immediately. Fakir smiled and petted her little head. Her feathers were soft against his calloused hands.

Rubbing his eyes, Fakir turned off the lamp again. The light dimmed and left him in the still darkness. All was silent but for the sound of rain, his beating heart, and his loud thoughts.

He clambered to the couch and pulled the blankets over his trembling body. He laid awake staring at the ceiling despite the exhaustion that plagued him. The faint tick tock of an old grandfather clock rang in his mind accompanied by the rhythmic clang of gears. Seconds, minutes, hours.

Fakir didn't know how much time had passed when he felt movement near his head. A soft quack came from Ahiru who waddled closer. His breathing gradually slowed to match hers and his eyes closed; sleep overtook him. The rest of the night was spent in a peaceful slumber.

When Fakir awoke the next morning, oddly enough, his room had no clock. Not a grandfather clock or even a simple wall clock. Nothing explained the soft tick tock from last, but somehow he knew it had come from a grandfather clock. Despite the bright day and comforting sunshine, Fakir shuddered. He shook his head but couldn't rid himself of the worrisome thoughts that harbored in the back of his mind.

He slid on his blue uniform blazer and adjusted the buttons, then packed his things for school, careful not the waken the sleeping duck on the couch. Fakir's lips twitched upwards. Some things never changed. It was just like Ahiru to sleep late. The advantages of no longer being a girl included not having to worry about punctuality. Fakir left quietly to not awaken his friend.

He had the misfortune of running into Autor at the academy's entrance gates. Though he had his merits, he wasn't what Fakir considered good company. Fakir soon found himself half-listening to a nasally, long-winded speech on Autor's greatness and Drosselmeyer's brilliance. Not even a mere hello or good morning.

"You're blessed with the ability to make stories come to life yet you can't write a single word?" Autor pushed his glasses up his nose and smirked.

Fakir's teeth clenched at the mention of his powers. He was the direct descendant of Drosselmeyer and could rewrite reality. Jealous Autor, who was distantly related to Drosselmeyer as well, wholeheartedly believed that he was more deserving of such power.

Fakir would've gladly transferred the ability to his obsessive distant cousin. Perhaps he could use it to return Ahiru's human form. They'd agreed to return to their true selves when the story ended, but Ahiru was far too sentient to just be a duck. Even before Drosselmeyer's inference, Ahiru had harbored feelings for the storybook Prince—much like a human.

All the anthropomorphic animals had returned to their original forms. No more cats as ballet instructors, penguins as piano players, armadillos as fellow students. They lost all people-likes qualities, forgetting that they'd ever been human.

However, Ahiru remained an exception. She exhibited many human characteristics, displaying an unusual sentience for a mere bird. She responded to Fakir in conversation with an understanding nod or quack. She even attempted to perform ballet spins. Whenever their eyes met, Fakir recognized a distinctly human clarity in Ahiru that he had never witnessed in any other animal.

Fakir didn't quite believe that Ahiru was really a duck. She might've been one at first, but what if her original form was no longer her true one?

"You're thinking of her, aren't you? That girl who acts like a duck?" Autor pressed. "You really should try harder to write. She's the person waiting for you story."

"She is a duck," Fakir grumbled. "And I have written things for her before. Just none of them have come true."

Autor sighed, then pushed his glasses up his nose. The lenses glared stridently in the bright sunlight. "What a shame. At the level you're at, you won't be getting anywhere."

Fakir grumbled. Autor had a point. His stories were alright, passable—but nowhere near Drosselmeyer's level. The man had perfected the craft throughout his entire life and beyond the grave. It was a wonder Fakir had managed to scrape together a story that ended with everyone coming out alive. But was writing so important to pursue? Fakir was content for the town to return to reality rather than running on fiction.

"What a waste of a wondrous ability," Autor lamented. "I don't suppose you're continuing with ballet?"

Ballet. The way Autor pronounced it, how it oozed out of his mouth with such disgust, irked Fakir to no end.

"And if I am?" Fakir challenged. "Nothing has happened the way we wanted it to, but you cannot live vicariously through me."

Autor sniffed and straightened his collar. "How quick to jump to conclusions. As always, you have quite the temper. I'll have you know I wasn't trying to."

The two parted ways without another word. Fakir stood still, the breeze lifting the ends of his hair and stirring up the vibrant leaves. He watched Autor walk into the music division building.

A contradiction of sorts that Autor was. So hopelessly arrogant about his knowledge, yet really, he knew nothing useful. So awed by Drosselmeyer's sadistic actions, yet he courageously defended Fakir against a tragic fate. Autor was an annoyance, but he was the closest thing Fakir had to a human friend.

Now what was he thinking? He must be going mad if he considered Autor a friend. Yet Fakir couldn't deny that he had also once scoffed at the idea of working with Ahiru, who was now his closest confidant other than his foster father. Perhaps there was a possibility for friends. Autor, however distant, was his only blood relation left. His parents were dead, and he had no other relatives. After all, the little yellow duck had taught him to always have hope—anything was possible.

That, or lack of sleep made him delusional.

After classes, Fakir entered a practice room. The building was mainly empty; most students were grabbing food or studying in the library. He slipped inside. The new ballet instructor emphasized practicing every day, which he had done so diligently. He always practiced in the early mornings and late evenings.

Fakir rested a hand on the barre and cycled through a series of stretches. The wood was rough and cool. One side of the room was a mirror, the glass so clear it would reflect anything and everything. The other side had large windows that allowed sunbeams to deep into the dim room. In the late afternoon, the light tinged it a soft orange-pink.

How many countless hours had he spent in here, occupied with nothing but dancing? Fakir had lost track. He meandered across the room as his hand trailed along the barre. At this moment, he couldn't help but take in the sight before him as though it was the most dazzling scene to ever appear. Even the cobwebs clustered in the corners appeared precious. Everything ordinary was.

The door opened and Fakir looked up. Autor stood in the threshold with music sheets in hand, glasses glinting in the light.

"I thought I would find you here."

The moment, formerly suspended in the endlessness of time, was startled to an end. It was like a beautiful glass vase that had fallen to the floor and shattered.

"What is it?" Fakir's hand fell to his side.

"This was left in my bag—I didn't put it there. Something about it, well, you should take a look." Autor handed him the music sheets.

Fakir flipped through them. The lines and notes were drenched in deep crimson, rendered them nearly illegible. His trembling fingers trailed over the stains, breathing in the sharp metallic scent of blood. The last page was torn in half; a story had never reached its end. A sleek black feather slipped from the pages and floated to the ground.

"How?" Fakir's voice was a hoarse whisper in the hollow silence.

Autor shook his head. "I'm not certain. Perhaps it is a ploy from the Bookmen. A trap."

A plausible point, but still, Fakir couldn't ignore the pit of dread that formed in his stomach. The Bookmen were a dangerous conspiracy that sliced off writers' hands, but they were only human. This was so much more. Something more powerful than mere mortal doings.

"Let's hope it is." Without another word, he brushed past Autor.

"Where are you going?" Autor demanded.

"The library."

"I'm going with you." Autor stepped in front and drew himself up to his full height. His lenses glared in the lighting, hiding his eyes so that his only visible feature was a haughty smirk. "Remember what happened? It was me with my superior knowledge who helped you bring Drosselmeyer's story to an end. Face it, need me."

Fakir debated crumpling the music sheets in his hand and hurling them at Autor's face. Taking a deep breath, he entered the library feeling like an out-of-control wreck. The sensation was only exacerbated by the quiet calm of the few studying students. Students in their crisp blue school uniforms sat at desks with large textbooks opened, not bothering to look up when the pair entered.

What it was like to be normal? Drosselmeyer's stories had ruined the lives of everyone involved. Ahiru, who fought with all her might to give the story a happy ending, ended up as a duck, never to dance or talk with her friends. Autor, who so maniacally researched Drosselmeyer and composed theories on the stories controlling the town, was abandoned by the girl he loved and spent his days knowing that his theories would never be validated.

The town had forgotten everything and moved on. All the tears shed, the pain endured—that meant nothing to the townspeople who simply continued on with their daily lives. Fakir himself could barely stand it. He needed Ahiru and Autor. He needed people who remembered, who cared.

Upon reaching the librarian's desks, Fakir stopped dead in his tracks. The hairs on the back prickled, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. All he could hear was the pounding of his heart and the blood rushing in his ears.

Tick tock.

Instead of a human at the desk, a bat hung upside down from the ceiling with books in its little hooked claws.

"Fakir, what is it?" grumbled Autor, who had run into him. Upon peering over his shoulder, Autor gasped.

Annoyed, the bat glared at the two, demanding in a nasally voice, "Haven't you two ever heard that it's rude to stare?"

"My apologies." Fakir cleared his throat and backed away. Grabbing Autor's arm, he dragged him to a secluded area of the library.

"The talking bat, no one noticing a thing, Drosselmeyer magic..." Author rambled.

"I know," Fakir whispered. "A story is returning."

Autor adjusted his glasses. "Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating. To think Drosselmeyer could possibly come back."

Dread coiled in his stomach. Fakir gripped the edge of a desk to steady his trembling hands, pressing until his knuckles were white.

Tick tock.

Little did he know, the very man he spoke of watched with undivided attention. From his realm of clocks and gears, the man who was supposed to die lounged in his rocking chair, a cup of tea in his hand. Three parts Darjeeling and one part Assam—his favorite blend, especially for the beginning of a magnificent tragedy.

Puppets and machinery were suspended by thin strings in the dark nothingness, ready to be summoned at his whim. The world existed between time and space, in the emptiness between the living and afterlife. No sun could be seen in the world beyond death, but a light illuminated Drosselmeyer as though he were the star of a play. The chair creaked in the still silence as he rocked back and forth, occupied by the scene depicted in the spinning gear unfolding before him.

"Ah, you failure of a knight, you didn't really think that was the end of me, did you?" Drosselmeyer cackled. The light glinted off his leering orange eyes. "Now, tell me a magnificent tragedy, a cataclysm of tears in which not a single person survives and to which a happy ending shall never come!"

"Drosselmeyer-zura!" The banging of a drum interrupted his laughter. The sound grew louder; Uzura, a miniature green-haired puppet, hopped closer.

"Zura zura!" she repeated the vocal tick in a high-pitched voice.

Eye twitching, the old man turned to look at her. What did she want that was so important she had to cut off his session of fun? And oh, that wretched habit she had of tacking zura onto her sentences.

"What about Ahiru, zura?" Uzura looked up at him with wide green eyes. She folded the drumsticks across the drum, pressing her lips together.

Drosselmeyer stroked his beard. A wicked smile spread across his wrinkled face. "That is a marvelous idea! A perfect heroine is the epitome of boring, but an imperfect one would certainly add some flourish to this story."

Snapping his gloved fingers, he conjured a grandfather clock, its pendulum swinging violently from side to side. Tick tock, tick tock. Giggling like a little child, the man stepped inside and was transported to a pond on the outskirts of town.

The pond was shrouded in thick fog and obscured by towering trees. All was silent but for the buzzing of the bugs who floated on the water. Near the edge of the water, peeking through a cluster of reeds, was the bright yellow of a duck. Ahiru gobbled up the bread Fakir had left for her midday.

Upon hearing the leaves crunching under feet, she looked up, heart quivering with expectancy, expecting to see the very boy who had left her food. Her blood ran cold when instead of Fakir, Drosselmeyer's looming figure appeared before her. His orange eyes lit up, and he grinned at her to reveal large yellow teeth.

"Ah, it's been quite some time, hasn't it?" When her eyes widened in horror, Drosselmeyer laughed, a raspy sound that collided with nature's melody.

"Quack!" Ahiru furiously flapped her wings and kicked her feet, propelling herself to the other side of the pond.

Her heart pounded in her rib cage like Uzura's drum. She was imagining things. This must've been another nightmare! It couldn't be true. The old man's return simply wasn't possible. She had seen Fakir destroy his machine with her own eyes.

An illusion of the Drosselmeyer's face appeared in the rippling water before Ahiru. His thin lips split to reveal a menacing grin that exposed his sharp teeth. "Did you forget, little duck? You're just another pawn for me to create a brilliant tragedy!"

Ahiru bird flailed wildly, sending water splashing everywhere, and turned the other direction. She plunged headfirst into the water and tumbled below the surface. A surge of water rushed through her throat. She choked and coughed, her chest compressing while her lungs burned.

Ahiru released a strangled quack and tirelessly kicked her feet, ignoring her burning muscles and lungs. She struggled to regain momentum and swim away from Drosselmeyer. Yet no sooner had she reached the edge of the pond did his form appear before her once more.

Drosselmeyer leaned over with outstretched hands. "This time, you won't be so lucky as to have a happy ending!"

Ahiru shook her head. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed him away. If only this were a horrid nightmare, the man would simply be a figment of her imagination. When there was no response, the bird relaxed and opened her eyes, only to be greeted with Drosselmeyer's face right in front of her. She quacked and fell backwards in an attempt to escape.

"Ah, but it doesn't look like you have a happy ending now, does it? Oh, how interesting! Things will be changing in your peaceful pond life very soon!"

Cackling, Drosselmeyer stepped back inside the grandfather clock. With the faint whirl of gears and the soft tick tock, the clock faded. The air became silent again as though the world was holding its breath.

Ahiru peered through the tall reeds, through the curtain of fog, through the clustered trees. Everything was as it had been before: it was as though Drosselmeyer had never appeared. A little spark of hope lit up in the duck's chest. Perhaps he had never appeared. Perhaps it was really all just a horrid dream, one to be locked in the back of her mind.

No, that was foolish. To deny was like asking for trouble later on.

Ahiru took in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. Her heart still pounded wildly, beating faster than the ticking of a clock. Time. She was running out of time.

The bird waddled up on land then paused at the expanse of trees before her. The forest stretched on for miles. A seed of doubt took root in her mind. What could she do? It would take hours as a duck to make it to the town. Being so small, she would only be trampled beneath the townspeople's feet.

In addition, there was no guarantee that she would even find Fakir. Tears welled up in her eyes. She couldn't do anything, not even alert Fakir of Drosselmeyer's appearance. Not for the first time, Ahiru felt helpless, useless, and unneeded. For lack of a better option, she waited for her knight to arrive.