The Roar

Elara heard the question not as a whisper, but as a roar. It was the sound of her own heart, the voice of her own grief, the question she had been too afraid to ask herself. ‘And now what?’ The silence had been a shield, a way to avoid the answer. But the story, her story, would not let her rest. It demanded a new chapter, a new verse, a new reason to exist. She had unwritten the world, but she could not unwrite the need for a story. And in the face of that need, her power was not a weapon, but a burden. The author was no longer in control. The story was.