I followed him, which was not a decision I’d recommend. Following a stranger in a dark coat who’d been watching the woman you planned to intercept was the kind of choice that got people killed, but I had no better options. The man had no golden threads, which meant I had no way to predict what he’d do next. The only tool I had was my eyes.
He walked east through the market while I stayed twenty paces behind, pretending to browse stalls that had nothing worth browsing. He didn’t hurry. He moved like someone who’d walked this route countless times before. When he passed through the east gate, the soldiers didn’t stop him. I waited behind a cart until he was through, then followed.
Outside the walls, the golden threads tying me to the narrative began to thin. I checked Scrivener’s Eye briefly and watched the narrative lines grow faint, as though the script’s authority weakened with distance from the town center. The farther I moved from the main setting, the less the story seemed to care about what I was doing. That should’ve been reassuring, but it wasn’t. The man in the dark coat wasn’t even in the script, and out here we were both off the grid. The narrative might have known his purpose, but I didn’t. I was the author of this web novel, and I didn’t know a character’s purpose in my own book.
The road curved east through the fields. He stayed on it while I followed the stone wall running parallel to the road, crouching behind it whenever the terrain dipped. Nightfall was fast approaching.
He stopped at a cluster of trees near a bridge. Beneath them sat an unmarked carriage made of dark wood, its curtains drawn across the windows. Two well-fed horses stood in harness, quietly chewing grass. From the looks of it, I’d found my nameless goons, although their equipment was far better than I’d imagined. I’d barely spent a few minutes writing these characters because they served a single purpose in the arc: to kick off the romance.
Two more figures stood beside the carriage, both wearing dark coats. One was tall and broad, built like someone who moved heavy things for a living. The other was shorter and thinner, with the posture of someone who thought for a living. They stood apart, each watching a different direction, the way professionals did.
Three more men stood near the horses. Unlike the other two, they stayed together like soldiers waiting for orders. I knew these three. They were my nameless goons, the ones I’d dashed off in a couple of minutes. Three men in dark clothing, no names, no backstory. They were a plot device I’d built to trigger the hero’s rescue scene.
There were five figures in dark coats, though I’d only written three. The other two were new. And the man from the market was a separate variable, another character I’d never put on the page.
I crouched behind the wall about forty paces away and activated Scrivener’s Eye. The headache came immediately, a dull throb behind my left eye. I checked the men, and what I saw was exactly what I’d expected. Then it wasn’t.
The three by the horses had golden threads. Bright, clear strands ran through them, connecting them to the script, the festival, and the hero. They were men I’d written, characters whose movements I could predict because I’d already decided what they would do.
The thin man and the broad one had no golden threads. Neither did the carriage or the horses. Even the grass beneath their feet seemed fainter, as though the script’s jurisdiction ended at the tree line.
The man from the market was the same. No threads, just like the other two, but he felt different. The thin man and the broad one seemed like characters the narrative had filled in quickly, patching holes and moving on. The man in the dark coat felt as though the narrative had spent time on him, given him more thought and weight. He was the difference between a quick sketch and a painting someone actually cared about.
I’d written the Thorn Collective as three goons who would enter through the east gate during the fireworks. Three men in dark clothing, walking single file. No names, no backstory, no organization, no carriage. They were a plot device, a trigger for the hero’s rescue scene. I was sure those three men would have golden threads when they appeared at the festival. The script connected to what I’d put on the page.
But the narrative had looked at my three goons and asked every question I hadn’t bothered to ask. Who were they? Where had they come from? Why were they attacking? What did they want? Then it answered all those questions, building an organization out of the blank spaces I’d left behind. The carriage, the five attackers, and the organization itself weren’t on my page. The narrative had invented them, and Scrivener’s Eye couldn’t see any of it because I hadn’t written it. I could only see what I’d put on the page. The narrative’s creations were invisible to me, while the threads belonging to characters like Clara were merely faint.
The man in the dark coat was another creation of the narrative, just like the thin man and the broad one. But he was the one it had put the most thought into, which made him the most dangerous. I had no idea what he could do or what he wanted. He was an unknown variable, not because he came from outside the story, but because I hadn’t created him.
The thin man spoke, his voice carrying through the evening air. It was quiet and controlled, the voice of someone used to being listened to.
"The festival starts at dusk tonight. The magistrate’s daughter will be on the raised platform near the well. The fireworks begin at full dark. The Collective is ready."
The broad man nodded. "Entry points confirmed. East gate and the service lane behind the tavern. Three primary, two secondary. The secondary team enters during the first firework. The primary team moves on the platform during the confusion."
Five attackers. I’d written three. The narrative had added two more because three apparently weren’t enough for an organization with an actual plan.
The thin man glanced at the broad one. Something passed between them that I couldn’t read.
"The boy who came through the east gate is not our concern. Our people confirmed he matches the descriptions. The traveler the seers spoke of. We’ve dealt with his kind before. He won’t see us coming."
They were talking about the hero, and I almost swallowed my tongue. Not because they were right, but because they were wrong. The thin man believed they were untouchable, that the hero couldn’t track them because they operated beyond his reach. He was half right. The hero couldn’t see them, but not for the reason he thought.
The man from the market remained quiet. He’d said nothing this whole time, just stood apart and watched the road. When the thin man spoke about being untouchable, the man’s expression didn’t change. He carried himself differently from the others, as though the narrative had given him more weight. He seemed like someone who mattered, and people who mattered didn’t need to explain themselves.
I needed to leave. Five attackers, two entry points, Clara was the target, and the fireworks were the trigger. I could work with that. I should’ve turned around and walked back through the gate.
Instead, I shifted my weight, and my boot scraped against the stone. It wasn’t particularly loud, but it wasn’t quiet either. It was the exact sort of sound that got people killed.
The man from the market turned instantly, his whole body snapping toward the wall. The thin man looked up, and the broad man stepped in front of the carriage.
I dropped flat behind the wall, pressing my face into the dirt and grass. My heart was racing as I counted the seconds. One, two, three, four. Nothing. No footsteps, no voices, just the horses chewing.
Five, six, seven. I lifted my head just enough to look over the wall.
The man from the market was staring directly at me. His face was visible now, and it was ordinary: brown hair, clean-shaven, the kind of face you’d forget five minutes after seeing it. He wasn’t angry or surprised. He looked at me with recognition, as though he’d been expecting someone to be hiding behind that wall.
He didn’t shout or point. He simply looked at me, then turned back to the others and said something too quiet for me to hear. The thin man straightened, and the broad man stepped toward the carriage.
They were leaving.
They didn’t run. Instead, they walked calmly, as though a man crouching behind a wall forty paces away wasn’t a problem. Perhaps they figured that even if I’d overheard their entire plan, no one would believe me. Killing me might do them more harm than good if people came searching and the investigation derailed their operation. They didn’t know I was an extra living on borrowed time, though. Even if I died, no one would come looking for me, and the festival would continue as planned.
I stayed flat until the carriage pulled away. The horses moved at a walking pace, turned east at the curve in the road, and disappeared.
When I finally stood, the golden threads had returned, but they were different now. They no longer pulled me toward the tavern. That quest was closed. Instead, they led toward something else: the market square, the hill, and Clara. For once, what I wanted and what the threads wanted were the same thing.
I walked back through the gate. The soldiers barely glanced at me.
I considered going straight to the magistrate and telling him there were five attackers, two entry points, and a plan to target his beloved Clara. But I’d written the magistrate as a sharp man, and sharp men asked questions. How did I know? Who had told me? Where had I gotten the information? I couldn’t answer any of those questions. I certainly couldn’t tell him I’d read it in a novel I’d written myself.
Worse, the Author’s Archive contained nothing about the parts of the Thorn Collective the narrative had filled in. All I had was what I’d overheard behind a stone wall, and that wasn’t enough to count as evidence.
Clara was the better play. I could tell her about the letters, give her enough information to make myself useful, and let her bring her father up to speed. She had the credibility; I had the information. It was a way to earn her trust without having to explain where I’d gotten any of it.
The plan wasn’t clean, but nothing about this whole transmigration business was clean.