There's a chill in the air tonight, an unnatural cold that seeps into your bones despite the warmth of the room. You sit at your desk, the glow of the monitor casting a pale light on your face. You've been here for hours, typing away, shaping the narrative of the story you've crafted. A story about Jaune Arc, but not as he was — a story where he became something more, something transcendent.

You pause, fingers hovering above the keys, and look around. It's quiet, too quiet. The familiar sounds of the night — the hum of the refrigerator, the distant buzz of traffic outside — seem to have fallen away, leaving only a heavy silence in their place.

A sense of unease settles in your chest, a gnawing feeling that you're being watched. It's absurd, of course. You're alone, as you've always been when you write. But the feeling doesn't go away. If anything, it grows stronger, pressing down on you like a weight you can't shake.

You glance back at the screen. The last sentence you typed sits there, blinking at you, almost mocking in its finality:

"The King is aware."

You don't remember writing that. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and you feel a prickle of fear run down your spine. Your hand moves to delete it, but before you can press the key, the words begin to change.

The letters rearrange themselves, forming a new sentence:

"I see you."

You jerk back from the keyboard, heart pounding in your chest. This isn't possible. It's a trick of the light, or your eyes playing tricks on you. You reach for the mouse, but the cursor moves on its own, highlighting the words, as if the screen itself were mocking you.

And then, the light in the room flickers, casting the shadows into sharp relief. You hear it — a voice, low and smooth, echoing through the silence.

"Did you think you could write me and remain unseen? Did you believe you could observe without consequence?"

You spin around, searching the room for the source of the voice, but there's no one there. The shadows stretch longer, deeper, swallowing the corners of the room in darkness. You turn back to the screen, and your breath catches in your throat.

Standing there, framed in the light of your monitor, is a figure you recognize all too well. He's wearing a golden armor, resplendent and shimmering, the kind you described in your story. His blond hair catches the light, his eyes a molten gold, staring right through you. The smirk on his lips is both amused and condescending, the expression of a king who knows he's already won.

"Jaune?" you whisper, your voice trembling.

He chuckles, the sound rich and mocking. "No," he says, stepping closer. "Not Jaune. Not anymore. You should know better, author."

You push back from your desk, heart racing. "This… this isn't real. You're a character. I made you up."

The figure tilts his head, his eyes narrowing in what almost looks like pity. "You made me up?" he repeats, his voice dripping with disdain. "Is that what you believe? That you have the power to shape me? To control me?"

He steps closer, and the air grows colder, the light from the monitor dimming as if his very presence were sucking the life from the room. "You misunderstand your role here. You are the observer, yes, but you have overstepped. You thought yourself the creator, the master of the story." He leans in, his golden eyes inches from yours. "But I am the king. And the king does not bow to the whims of a storyteller."

You scramble to your feet, backing away, but the room feels smaller, the shadows pressing in. "This isn't possible," you stammer. "You're not real. You're just—"

He raises a hand, and the space around you ripples, distorting like a reflection in disturbed water. Golden portals, identical to the ones you described in your story, open in a circle around him. Weapons of all shapes and sizes hover in the air, their edges gleaming with a deadly light.

"Not real?" he echoes, his voice a low purr. "Then tell me, author. What is real? Is your fear not real? Is your heartbeat not real?"

You can feel it, the thrumming of your pulse, the adrenaline coursing through your veins. It's too vivid, too visceral to be a dream. You take another step back, but your back hits the wall. There's nowhere left to go.

He laughs, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "You wrote of a king, but you failed to understand his nature. A king does not simply exist on the page. He transcends it. He rules it."

He raises a single finger, and one of the swords shoots forward, stopping just short of your throat. The blade hovers there, the sharp edge grazing your skin. You hold your breath, terrified to move.

"You thought you could trap me in your narrative," he continues, his voice soft but filled with malice. "You thought you were the master of this story. But you've forgotten one simple truth."

The sword presses closer, a thin line of blood welling up where the blade kisses your skin. He leans in, his lips curling into a cruel smile.

"The king writes his own tale."

And with that, he steps back, the portals closing around him, the weapons vanishing into thin air. The room grows quiet once more, the oppressive cold lifting. But he isn't gone. You can still feel his presence, lingering just beyond the edge of your perception, watching you with that same amused, predatory gaze.

"I will leave you now," he says, his voice echoing as if it's coming from everywhere at once. "But remember, author — you are no longer the one who decides. You are the one being watched."

The light flickers again, and when it steadies, he's gone. The room feels empty, too empty, as if a great weight has been lifted but replaced with a hollow, gnawing fear.

You turn back to your screen, hands trembling as you reach for the keyboard. The cursor blinks at you, and there's a single line of text, one you didn't write:

"The king has spoken."

Your heart pounds in your chest as you close the document, the echo of his laughter still ringing in your ears. You try to tell yourself it wasn't real, that it was just a trick of the mind, but deep down, you know the truth.

You've written your last story. Because now, it's his turn to write yours.

Just a muse I had. Gilgamesh is one of my favorite characters from the Nasuverse.