I walked through Millhaven like a tourist in a town I’d built out of Lego, except I’d never built anything out of Lego, so really, I walked through it like anyone else who had transmigrated into his own creation. I was in awe.
The cobblestones weren’t smooth gray spheres like they were in my head. They were cracked and uneven, and even wobbled under my boots every few steps. The buildings weren’t just "two story structures with peaked roofs." They had plaster walls stained by years of rain, mismatched shutters, and doors with paint peeling in long strips. The market square wasn’t simply a setting, but a place where people sold things, argued over prices, and stepped around puddles of murky water.
I’d written Millhaven in three paragraphs. Only three. I described the layout, the market, the magistrate’s residence on the hill, and mentioned a blacksmith, an inn, and a tavern before moving on. I hadn’t described the smell, which was a mistake on my part because the smell was the most real thing about this place. It reeked of old fish, woodsmoke, and something underneath that might’ve been the cobblestones themselves baking in the sun.
People threw suspicious glares my way. I was a thin man in patched clothes walking through a market with no apparent purpose, and vendors tracked me with the flat attention they usually reserved for potential thieves. One woman even pulled her fabric display closer as I passed. I was an extra. The world hadn’t been built to notice me in the same way it noticed the hero.
I needed to sit down and think, so I found a bench near the market well and opened the Skill Tree. Most of it was locked, with gray nodes bearing names I couldn’t read, connected by lines that faded into fog. Unlike the Hero System, which actively gave the hero everything, my System wasn’t nearly as generous. This one was going to make me earn everything.
Only one skill was available at the bottom of the tree.
Scrivener’s Eye (Rank F)
Description: Perceive narrative structure in nearby events. Detect when a scene is following the scripted plot and when it has been derailed.
Cost: Mental fatigue. Prolonged use causes headaches, blurred vision, and disorientation.
Prerequisite: None.
I unlocked it, felt a small chime behind my eyes, and then the world changed. Not in a dramatic way, but more like someone had drawn over reality with a pen I could only see from certain angles. Thin lines of golden light threaded through the streets, running along the cobblestones, up the walls, and through the market stalls. They pulsed faintly, like veins beneath the skin.
I followed them with my eyes, and every thread in Millhaven converged on the tavern. Every single one. The script was pulling toward my death, the narrative threads stretching taut between the tavern and wherever I stood. I’d walked out through the back door, but the threads hadn’t let go. They wanted me back.
While I was at it, I checked the Author’s Archive for information about the festival. According to Chapter 5, it would take place in the market square the following evening. Clara Dale would arrive with her father, the magistrate, and there would be food stalls, music, and fireworks. During the fireworks, the Thorn Collective would attack. Three men would enter through the east gate, with one going after Clara while the other two created diversions. The hero would intercept the attacker and save her, and Clara would fall for him. The romance subplot would begin.
That was the original script, anyway. The festival was tomorrow evening, which gave me about twenty-four hours, but first I had to survive tonight.
My head was already throbbing from using Scrivener’s Eye, so I let the skill fade. The golden lines disappeared, and the world returned to ordinary cobblestones and fish stalls. But I’d seen enough to know that the script wasn’t done with me. It was waiting, pulling.
I had maybe four hours before the hero arrived at the tavern. I needed a plan, and I needed it now.