The road to the Inkborn was not straight.
It twisted between crumbling plots and overgrown genres, cutting through fading tropes like a blade. Every hour they walked, the world became less structured. The sky unraveled at the edges, clouds spilling out like ink from an overturned well.
Page walked with purpose, scanning the horizon with practiced wariness. Auron, though composed, felt the shift—felt something watching, not with eyes, but with narrative focus. They were being included in something. Or about to be.
Then came the sign. Literally.
"Unwritten Inn – 0.3 Leagues Ahead. Bed, Bards, and Bread. Beware of Banter."
Page raised a brow. "You think it's a trap?"
Auron studied the curling font. "At this point, it would be rude not to walk into one."
The Unwritten Inn stood at the edge of a plot fracture. Half of it was pristine Tudor woodwork and flower boxes. The other half hung suspended in air, beams and rafters floating like memory fragments. The door opened before they touched it.
Warm light. Spice-laden air. The sound of laughter, clinking cups, and the occasional dramatic sigh from a bard in the corner.
And then—her voice.
"Well, if it isn't two delicious little narrative accidents walking right into my parlor."
She glided into view like the star of a genre that never went out of fashion. Tall. Voluptuous. Hair like storm-drenched velvet. A knowing smile painted on full lips that had probably whispered promises to both heroes and villains. She wore a dress that clung lovingly to her curves and revealed enough to raise questions—and enough mystery to deepen them.
Page blinked. "You're…"
The woman bowed. "Call me Mother Lin. Hostess. Healer. Hazard. Depends on the mood."
Auron inclined his head. "This place is… stable."
"Miraculously so," Lin replied. "It takes a woman with strong hips and stronger plot armor to keep it this way." She winked. "I cook, I pour, and I sometimes erase customers who try to get fresh."
Page glanced around. "You get many travelers?"
"Only the interesting ones," Lin said. "Though you two are special. I can smell the conflict dripping off you."
Auron tensed. "You know about the Inkborn?"
Lin smiled, but this time there was no warmth behind it. "Honey, I knew about them before they named themselves. Half of them drank my wine. The other half I probably raised."
Page tilted her head. "You're not what you seem."
"No one worth remembering is," Lin said with a shrug. "But don't let that stop you from enjoying the soup. House specialty: Melancholy and Mushrooms."
They ate at a corner table. The soup was strangely comforting, like a memory you didn't know you had. Lin flitted from table to table, pausing to flirt with an old warlock, scold a snoring centaur, and refill their cups with an amber liquid that changed flavor depending on mood.
"This place shouldn't exist," Page said. "It's outside of conflict. Outside of arc."
"That's precisely why it does," Auron replied. "Narrative needs interludes. Places to rest. Or hide."
"You think she's hiding?"
"I think she's waiting."
Lin returned and draped herself into a chair opposite them, as if the furniture had been waiting for her all along.
"So," she purred, "what are two pretty protagonists doing in a place like this? Escaping? Planning? Having an identity crisis?"
Auron didn't answer. Page stared her down.
"Why are you helping us?"
Lin sipped from her glass. "Because chaos needs comedy, darling. And you two are exhausting."
Auron smirked despite himself. "You're not afraid of the Inkborn?"
Lin leaned closer. "Sweetheart, I dated worse."
Page coughed on her drink.
"Oh yes," Lin continued with a wicked grin. "There was one who tried to rewrite me mid-argument. Let's just say he's now a cautionary tale told to arrogant apprentices."
She stood and adjusted her bodice, an act which for some reason caused three light fixtures to dim and a bard to forget his rhyme.
"I'll prepare your room. You're staying. That wasn't a request."
She vanished behind a beaded curtain.
The guest room was cozy, almost suspiciously so. Two beds. One window. A wardrobe humming softly with contained metaphors.
Auron leaned on the sill, watching fog curl around the hills beyond.
Page spoke first. "She's dangerous."
"I know."
"She's also funny."
"I know."
Page crossed her arms. "Do you think we can trust her?"
"I think… she's part of something bigger. Maybe a remnant. Maybe a wild card."
He turned. "But I do trust that she hasn't tried to kill us. Yet."
"That's a low bar."
"We live in a low-bar universe."
That night, Auron couldn't sleep. He stepped into the common room, drawn by the soft sound of a piano playing a tune that didn't belong to any genre.
Lin sat at the keys, barefoot, hair tied up, glass half-full beside her.
"You play well," he said.
"I play truthfully," she said without looking at him. "There's a difference."
He approached. "What were you? Before this inn?"
She played another note, something minor and aching.
"I was a lover," she said. "A mother. A muse. A monster. A mentor. I was written, rewritten, and eventually… forgotten. So I rewrote myself."
She looked at him. "And you?"
"I'm still figuring that out."
She smiled. "Good. Don't rush it. Mystery is a kind of armor."
He hesitated. "Why did you really let us in?"
"Because what's coming needs witnesses. And I think you two might survive long enough to tell the tale."
She stood, stretched, and for a moment the light caught something beneath her skin—lines, like ancient runes. A buried structure.
"Good night, protagonist."
"Good night… whatever you are."
She laughed and walked away, humming the tune she'd just played.
In the morning, they awoke to find a note under their door.
"The road ahead forks. One leads to memory. One to rebellion. Choose wisely, but don't overthink it. Overthinking is how plot holes are born. – M.L."
Page tucked it into her journal.
As they stepped out into the dawn, Auron looked back once. The inn shimmered slightly, like it was never quite there. Or not yet written.
"I have a feeling we'll see her again," he said.
Page sighed. "I have a feeling we won't be the same when we do."
They walked on.
And somewhere behind them, Mother Lin laughed into her wine, her eyes glowing with secrets even she hadn't dared write down yet.