Long ago, there was a boy who loved to write. He had the power to make his stories come to life, to bring forth fiction into reality. The town he lived was infested with ravens. He dreamed of being a hero and tried to write a story featuring him defeating the cruel birds. But the tale ended in a tragedy when it sprung to life. The price to pay was his own parents' lives. In the end, he would have to pay a price in return whether he liked it or not. Nothing was truly free after all.


Fakir slid the duck feather quill into the inkwell, disrupting the smooth pool of black liquid. Tightening his grip, gritting his teeth, he pressed the quill to the parchment. It trembled in his sweat-slicked hands.

He had tried and tried again to make Ahiru human, but had failed each time. He poured his all into heart-wrenching works of a duck becoming a girl, only to have the sentences remain meaningless words on wrinkled paper. Fakir's writing abilities were nothing but a burden to him.

Letters, words, sentences. Fakir had no concrete ideas nor a planned plot. The words failed to flow easily and instead tangled together to create a written cacophony. With a grumble, he slashed out what he'd just written, crumpled the paper, and hurled it aside. It rolled across the rough wooden floor and soon became lost in the shadows of the room.

The door opened with a loud creak. Fakir looked up to see a thin silhouette, the daylight shining behind it to create a halo effect. He winced from the sudden brightness and rubbed his eyes. The door was shut, and Autor came into view. The shadows danced across his face to give him an eerie appearance.

"Writing again?" He raised an eyebrow at the stained paper and streaks of ink across the desk. The shine of his glasses glared stridently in the dimness. "You know, if I had your power, I'd fill my pages with many words and spin numerous tales. A shame such an ability has gone to waste with you."

Fakir clenched his fists and took a deep breath. "I have no interest in meddling in the fates of others."

"While you may not derive pleasure from torturing others, you should want to protect them from Drosselmeyer. Isn't that what you always do, play the hero? How valiant." Autor laughed dryly and pushed his glasses up his nose.

Fakir averted eye contact and focused instead on the parchment in front of him. He couldn't rewrite reality, not on his own. His writing was an effect of reality instead of the causation. Fakir played the powerful knight while cowering behind fear. His cowardice was both a shield and flaw; he was weak and relied on others for strength.

The air remained silent. The light of the lamp before him flickered. More than sufficient evidence hinted towards the Drosselmeyer's return. A sickening feeling of dread lodged itself in Fakir's chest.

Author sighed. "Someone is awaiting your story."

Fakir paused, an act that allowed the ink coating the quill's tip to drip and form a small, dark blot on the paper. Fresh and wet, it shone under the dim light. He rested his forehead on the back of his hand. Long bangs fell in front of his face like the curtain of a performance.

Fakir wasn't certain of Ahiru's feelings. That time in the lake—hadn't they agreed to return to their true selves? But a thought, a forbidden thought, crept into his mind. If his mind was a garden, then the impossible thought was a weed hidden in the dark shadows and prepared to spread its vices to the other greenery.

He wanted to turn Ahiru back. No, not just wanted—needed. Drosselmeyer's story had left the pair with glory but certainly not happiness. Happiness was reserved for those who accepted their fate, not defied it.

Fakir had lent Ahiru strength in the final battle against the story, channeling her voice through his abilities to change the tragic ending. Ultimately, it was Ahiru's determination that won the tale its happy conclusion. He couldn't finish the narrative on his own; he could only help her end it. In the end, he wasn't a good knight or a skilled writer. The only thing he'd ever truly been good at was devoting himself to others. Always the helper and never the hero.

"I can't do it," Fakir whispered hoarsely. He clutched the quill while he awaited a snort and rebuttal.

Instead of arguing, Autor softened and looked at Fakir with sad eyes. "But therin lies the issue. If you do nothing, nothing at all, the entire town will be in danger. You're the only one with such powers."

Autor's words hung in the silent air. Both parties remained still. The words echoed in Fakir's mind. Drosselmeyer was returning, and the burden of saving the town once more rested upon Fakir's shoulders.

Tick. Tock.

The faint sound of an old grandfather clock echoed in his mind. Autor had been frozen still. Empty eyes stared at Fakir from behind thick glasses. He hesitantly reached out to touch his friend. Cold and hard, Autor felt like a marble statue. Fakir sucked in a sharp breath and stumbled backwards. A thorn of fear, sharp and merciless, dug itself into his heart, which began to hammer inside his rib cage.

The sound of soft footsteps on the slick wooden floor made him turn. Drosselmeyer stood shrouded in shadows, the heavy red cape hanging off his withered frame, the floppy feathered hat tilted over his weathered face. Heavy wrinkles cut deep into his skin. His mouth spread into a wide grin to reveal large yellow teeth.

"So my descendant wants to write a story, eh? How pitiful." His voice was like the sound of rusted gears scrapping together.

"Drosselmeyer!" Fakir lurched to his feet, clenching his fists, narrowing his malachite eyes. He tried to fight the tendrils of fear entangling his heart while he stared down the man who was supposed to be dead.

Drosselmeyer wasn't supposed to return—Fakir himself had destroyed the man's writing machine, which was supposed to end his ability to create stories once and for all. How could the sadistic storyteller come back to haunt him?

"You're trying to write responsibly, aren't you? Didn't I tell you that wouldn't work?"

And that was the issue. Writing required creativity. But Fakir was too cautious, too uncertain, too goddamn scared to write properly.

"Get out! You have no place here!" Fakir flung a letter opener but it instead flew through the phantom and tumbled harmlessly on the ground.

"Ah, that won't do, will it? You're a hostile character, but then again, all marvelous tragedies have one! Let's see if we can spin a new story!" Drosselmeyer smiled and clapped his white-gloved hands together.

"Don't even try—"

"Once upon a time, there was a duck. She had always been a duck but had once been a human girl. Unfortunately for her, she became a simple bird once more," Drosselmeyer continued.

His bulging yellow eyes lit up with glee. "But oh! One day, the duck received a new pendant that allowed her to become a girl like before. Only this new gift came at a cost..."

Fakir's hand shot across the fresh sheet of paper to fill it with the old man's words. He gasped in horror and gripped his wrist but his hand wouldn't stop. The scar on his hand burned an angry red, a painful reminder of what happened before.

"N-no," he whispered, lips quivering. Suddenly, his hand stopped. The quill went limp.

"Write, boy. Finish the story—you know you want to. Just remember that there is a price for everything." Drosselmeyer cackled and snapped his fingers. A door opened for him to disappear behind it. He was gone with the whirling of gears.

Fakir stared at the fresh ink. The words burned into his mind. He had tried countless times to turn Ahiru human; what difference would this attempt make? Nothing he wrote ever came true. He couldn't control reality like Drosselmeyer for he only wrote what would become reality anyway.

Even if he could bend the world to his words, what was the price? A person couldn't get something for nothing—a price must always be paid. A person must give in order to receive for nothing could truly be created nor destroyed. That was what made spinning tales so dangerous. A happy story couldn't be created so easily: sacrifice and suffering were needed to make a happy ending possible.

When Fakir was a little boy, he wrote a story that caused ravens and crows to descend upon the town. Their beaks sliced into flesh like knives while screams rung in the air. Fakir's childish scribbles ended with him as the valiant hero, but the ravens had taken two lives in exchange for the glory: his parents'. They died to protect their precious son, who hadn't become the hero after all. In the end, Fakir lost much and gained nothing.

But unfortunately, the stipulation hadn't stopped Drosselmeyer. In fact, it only encouraged him. The tragedy-loving sadist had no qualms making sacrifices from the lives of others for the sake of his twisted tales. So just how much was the Fakir willing to sacrifice?

He understood now; in order for Ahiru to become human, he must trade something in return. She had given up everything she loved to save even people she hardly knew. To stand so much to lose and sacrifice it all without a single thought…

Autor stirred to life. Upon seeing Fakir's pale face, his eyes flashed with concern. "What happened?"

Fakir opened then closed his mouth. His throat was dry, and his tongue was heavy. The words wouldn't form. Finally, he choked out, "Drosselmeyer came."

"Really? That's marvelo—"

Fakir's hand shot out and wrapped around the front of Autor's shirt, lifting him from the ground. His eyes were dark and narrowed, his mouth twisted into a scowl. "Don't say that again."

Autor gulped visibly, and Fakir released him. Autor shook his head and pushed his glasses up his nose with shaking hands. Looking away, he turned to leave. The door creaked open, and a sliver of light, warm and pure, crept into the dim room where so many evils had been committed.

Autor finally said, "Take into consideration what I said. Harness your ability. At your level of power right now, you cannot hope to defeat Drosselmeyer."

The door shut. The light faded. Once more, Fakir was left alone in the darkness with his wretched fears. But—

Not wanting to go around for the door, Fakir dove towards the nearest window and leapt through it, feet landing solidly on the ground without breaking his pace. He raced down the cobblestone streets, past the quaint little shops. Faster, he willed himself, ignoring how the icy air sent stabbing pains through his chest.

The Gold Crown clock tower, located in the center of all the shops and homes, struck twelve. The sound of its ringing bell echoed throughout the walled town. Fakir could swear he heard the clang of gears along with it, humming beneath the earth like a heartbeat.

He gasped when he finally reached the clearing on the outskirts of town, and stumbled to the edge of the water. The quiescent pond lay shrouded by the morning mist, hidden behind graceful willow trees. Bugs danced across the water, making the surface ripple, their translucent wings fluttering. The air was silent and still, like a paused story, save for the buzz of insects. Reeds lined the edge of the pond, obscuring a small yellow bird nestled near the shore, who pecking at bits of freshly-baked bread.

Fakir petted her head, a small smile crossing his face. In his right hand, he clutched a bundle of books and papers filled with scribbles. In another story, he had been a cloaked knight who protected everyone, and Ahiru had been a selfless ballerina. Now, he was only a student struggling to spin a story, and the duck was just a bird.

She quacked and spread her tiny wings, waddling closer to him. A small smile crossing his face, Fakir lifted her into his arms. Ahiru's blue eyes stared up at him, filled with concern. She had given up everything she loved to save even people she hardly knew. To stand so much to lose and sacrifice it all without a single thought...

It was time for someone to finally sacrifice for her, to be her hero. There was no reason to make the green-haired boy think twice; the courageous duck deserved to be fought for.

"When I told you that it was okay to be the true you, I meant it. But a duck, that's not the true you," he whispered hoarsely. "You genuinely care for people—you loved Mytho even before you received the pendant, and you still love him. That's something a bird can't do."

Ahiru tilted her head. Fakir ached to know what went on in her mind. Did she believe his words? Or was he a fool to believe she wanted the same as he? Ahiru let out a soft quack and leaned her head against Fakir's chest. In return, he nestled his nose into the duck's feathers.

After a moment, he set her on the grass and pulled out a blank sheet of paper and a quill. Dipping the feather into the pot of ink, he pressed it to the paper, forming words and sentences.

He understood now; in order for Ahiru to become human, he must trade something in return. She had given up everything she loved to save even people she hardly knew. To stand so much to lose and sacrifice it all without a single thought…

It was time for someone to finally sacrifice for her, to be her hero. And so, Fakir spun a glorious tale of a knight and a duck. Without hesitation, he gave his humanity to her. As soon as the last word was written, he stabbed his heart with the quill.

A sharp pain tore through his body like a terrifying raven's claw. Gasping, he clutched his chest in pain and crumpled to the ground. A piercing scream ripped from his throat while his eyes grew wide in agony. The ringing in his ears grew louder, drowning out all other sounds, and he felt nothing but searing pain coursing through his body.

The sky grew dark and ominous. Thunder rumbled in the distance while lightning shot across the black sky with small flashes of red. A bolt blasted a tree, sending it tumbling to the ground, setting the bark ablaze.

Ahiru flapped her wings, racing around the fallen knight in horror. She nudged him with her beak, begging for him be alright. Fakir laughed weakly and managed a faint smile.

"Idiot, there's no need to be so worried," he forced out.

There was a sudden sharp jab in his palm and he lifted his hands. There, in all its glory, was a glittering red heart jewel. The duck quacked in surprise, waddling closer.

"T-take it. It's yours now."

My heart is yours.

He'd traded his humanity for hers.

His shaky hands held out the piece to Ahiru. His arms gave way, falling limp while his eyes fluttered closed. The incessant tick tock echoed in his mind accompanied by the sharp clang of gears—all humming beneath the earth like a heartbeat. Seconds, hours, days lost. Time had slipped through grasping fingers like grains of sand.

Fakir didn't know how much time had elapsed, whether it had been mere minutes or hours, until darkness engulfed him.

Horrified, Ahiru rushed forward, her beak catching the heart shard. Upon contact, there was a flash of red light and she was lifted into the air. The duck's yellow feathers faded to reveal skin while her arms and legs elongated into human limbs.

Sheets of paper swirled around Ahiru and assembled to form a silver ballerina's tutu. Dark green vines shot from the ground, tightened around her feet, and turned into black pointe shoes. Combining with the heart shard, they formed an elaborate pendant choker with gossamer wings. The plants continued swirling around Ahiru, encircling limbs and fabric, decorating her costume.

The light faded and Ahiru fluttered to the ground. A strangled cry escaping her throat, she lunged at her fallen knight and cradled his cold body.

"Fakir, wake up! Please!"

Laughter echoed throughout the pond and cut through her desperate cries. Drosselmeyer appeared before her and clapped his gloved hands in joy.

"Ah, poor little duck! Now it's time to fix your dear knight's broke heart."

"Drosselmeyer!" Ahiru glared. "What did you do to him?"

"Ah, my little duck, I never did anything. The knight decided to give you a piece of his heart so you could become human once more."

Ahiru's eyes widened in horror at Drosselmeyer's words, her cheeks paling, her blood running cold. So Fakir really had sacrificed his heart for her. Her lip began to quiver when the realization hit her: it was her fault.

"But he is foolish and inexperienced with magic," Drosselmeyer continued. "He accidentally shattered not one piece, but half of it." He vanished with an ominous cackle.

"No! I'm so sorry! I'm sorry!" she shrieked, burying her head into Fakir's chest.

Tears dripped from her eyes, soaking the front of his shirt. Clinging tighter to his body, she allowed grief to drown her. It crashed into her like a whirlwind, wrenching her heart in two. Ahiru struggled to her feet, her chest tight, and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Papers and leaves fluttered about to help support the fallen knight. She began to drag him home and tried to stop the tears blurring her vision.

Fakir was suffering.

Part of his heart was gone.

Drosselmeyer would get the tragedy he wanted.

And all because of her.

Her legs crumbled, sending the two crashing to the ground. Ahiru shaking hands dug into the grass. Her body trembled as she choked back a sob.

Fakir. The boy who stood strong and steadfast, always so willing to endanger himself to protect others. He had looked right at fate and defied it, refusing to die by the Raven's claws. He had clung to his sword and pen, fighting against the odds. Even when Mytho was poisoned with the Raven's blood, even when Ahiru was a duck, he stayed loyal to them. He was a true knight despite what his ancestor's wretched tale said.

Gritting her teeth, Ahiru stood back up. If Fakir could be strong then so could she. Lifting her chin, she continued on, refusing to stop until she reached his home.

What she had done could not be undone. Pain ripped open deep wounds in a person's heart. Ahiru prayed that her tears would drown her and wash away the guilt. But it stained her, clinging to her body like an ugly scar.

Ahiru carried the unconscious Fakir to his room, where she laid him down on his bed. After checking him for wounds, she pulled the covers over his shivering body. Finally having exhausted her last bit of energy, she crumpled to the floor.

She clasped Fakir's frigid hands in hers. His face was peaceful and relaxed instead of twisted in pain. At least sleep offered him respite from his suffering. Ahiru laid her head on his chest, feeling it rise up and down, and fell asleep to the faint beating of his incomplete heart.

Meanwhile, as his characters fell into a deep slumber, Drosselmeyer watched from his realm of gears and rocked back and forth in his wooden chair. It creaked loudly, and the sound echoed in the hollow darkness. He sipped a cup of tea, and a gleeful smile painted his weathered face.

"Ah, how marvelous! Everything's going just according to plan. Soon the duck and the knight will be tangled in trouble—what a wondrous tragedy!"