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"Proper story's supposed to have a hero," she whispered, the metal meeting metal with a bone-shaking thwack . "But I’ll settle for being the one who’s still standing."

Elara woke up on a slab of marble that used to be a library floor. Now, it was just a raft in a sea of nothing. She didn't remember the fire, but she remembered the smell of old paper burning. That was the Calamity for her—the day the stories turned to ash. lh11rar

She stepped off the marble onto a floating cobblestone path that knit itself together just as her foot descended. To her left, a piece of a clock tower drifted by, its gears frozen at 12:04. To her right, a garden bench held a statue of a man holding a bunch of stone roses. He looked peaceful. Elara envied the stone. "Proper story's supposed to have a hero," she