CHAPTER FOUR: The True Power Of The Inkwell

As I open my eyes once more, a sense of déjà vu overwhelms me. I’ve been in this position before—the disorientation, the dim light filtering through the blinds, the lingering scent of something metallic in the air. But this time, it’s different. 

The force that led to my losing consciousness feels like a distant memory, and all I can focus on is the sharp, cold clarity that now grips my mind.

“How are you feeling?” Lucien’s voice cuts through the haze, a steady anchor in the storm of my thoughts. His tone is calm, but there’s an undercurrent of tension that makes me uneasy.

“I—I don’t know,” I stammer, my voice small, fragile. It’s the first time I’ve felt truly unsure of my well-being since this whole ordeal started.

Lucien moves closer, his presence comforting in the way a storm is both terrifying and awe-inspiring. His hands rest on my shoulders, the warmth of his touch grounding me as he gently pulls me into a sitting position. He hands me a glass of water, poured from the pitcher I always keep beside my bed. I take it with shaky hands, the coolness of the glass a stark contrast to the heat radiating from my skin.

“This is just the beginning,” Lucien murmurs, his gaze intense as he studies my face. His eyes, the color of Lavender Mist, hold a depth that I can’t quite decipher—a mixture of concern and something darker.

“What—what do you mean?” My voice wavers as I place the cup on the table beside me, my hands trembling uncontrollably. The fear I’ve been trying to suppress threatens to bubble over, and I have to bite my lip to keep it at bay.

“The inkwell,” Lucien begins, his tone cryptic, almost as if he’s speaking in riddles. “It’s much stronger than you can even imagine.”

There’s a weight to his words that sends a chill down my spine, a feeling that I’m on the precipice of something much larger, much more dangerous than I’ve been willing to acknowledge.

“There are other people who would do anything to possess the power of the inkwell,” Lucien continues, his voice solemn, each word carefully measured.

“What other people?” I ask, my alarm growing with each passing second. The fact that I’m able to form a coherent question despite the panic rising in my chest is nothing short of a miracle.

Lucien’s expression darkens as he carefully spins a coin between his fingers, the motion almost hypnotic. “It’s a group of powerful individuals who seek to control everything under the sun. They call themselves the Obsidian Order.”

His words hang heavy in the air, filling the room with a sense of foreboding. The way he says “Obsidian Order” makes it sound like something ancient and unstoppable, a force that has been lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.

“They’ve been searching for artifacts like the inkwell for centuries,” Lucien continues, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Their main motive is to eradicate reality so they can reshape it according to their will. Control everything.”

I can’t help but notice how his eyes glow in the dim light, the soft lavender hue almost ethereal, as if they’re channeling some otherworldly energy. It’s mesmerizing, but also terrifying, a stark reminder that Lucien is more than just a figment of my imagination.

“If they find out that you have it,” Lucien warns, his voice taking on a tone of finality that sends shivers down my arms, “they won’t stop until they take it from you. And they won’t care what happens to you in the process.”

A heavy silence falls between us as his words sink in. The realization that I’m in way over my head is like a punch to the gut, leaving me breathless and reeling.

“But they won’t find out, will they?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper as I rise from the bed, pacing the short space in front of it. The thought of being hunted by some shadowy organization is too much to bear. “I mean, how will they find out? No one knows I have it. Right? It’s just you and me—and the shopkeeper.”

Lucien’s gaze is unyielding, his expression shattering what little resolve I have left. “That’s not a guarantee, Emma.”

“But wait!” I stop pacing, turning to face him. “What happens if they get to it?” My mind races, trying to wrap around the enormity of this situation. The idea that a simple inkwell could hold the power to destroy reality as we know it is too surreal, too impossible to grasp.

“They will control it,” Lucien says, his voice filled with quiet intensity. “The inkwell’s magic can rewrite history, reshape the world. In the wrong hands, it could be catastrophic.”

I feel like I’m drowning in this terrifying new reality. A few hours ago, I was just a writer struggling with a creative block. Now I’m in possession of a magical artifact that could destroy the world, a werewolf partner, and a shadowy organization that is probably hunting me down at this very moment.

“What can I do? Do I return it? Maybe attempt to sell it?” I ask, desperation creeping into my voice as I try to come up with a solution to this impossible predicament.

“That won’t change anything,” Lucien says, shaking his head. “It would rather bring more chaos because then it might truly end up in the wrong hands.”

“Then maybe we can destroy it?” I suggest, my mind grasping at straws.

Lucien pauses, his expression contemplative. “I doubt it would be that easy. And I have no idea if it would even work.”

A thought suddenly strikes me, and I can’t help but eye Lucien suspiciously. “But—how do you know all this?” I ask, my voice lowered in surprise and skepticism.

“I have no idea myself,” Lucien admits, a frown of confusion crossing his face. “I just… happen to have those memories.”

“How is that possible? If you were indeed created by my writing, then you’re not supposed to know all this!” I laugh nervously, the sound brittle and unnatural.

Lucien meets my gaze, his eyes unwavering. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

Before I can respond, a loud scratching sound comes from the front door, pulling my attention away from Lucien. My stomach tightens with unease as a foul stench wafts through the air, seeping in from outside.

“What the fuck is that?” I ask, wrinkling my nose in disgust. The smell is unlike anything I’ve ever encountered, a mixture of decayed flowers and rancid meat that makes my skin crawl.

Lucien is on his feet in an instant, heading toward the door before I can say anything else. His movements are swift, purposeful, as if he knows exactly what’s out there—and it’s not good.

“Hey! Come back! How do we know if it’s safe out there?!” I call after him, my voice laced with fear as I trail behind.

Oh my God. Is this how I die?

The scratching continues, growing louder and more frantic, like nails on a chalkboard. I wince as Lucien pulls open the door with unnecessary force, almost tearing it off its hinges.

I freeze, my eyes widening in shock as I take in the sight before me. My door is covered in symbols, each one carefully etched into the wood with what looks like dried blood. The stench that fills the room is almost unbearable, making me gag.

Expired paint. Used to draw different patterns on my door. The patterns, however, bear a striking resemblance to those on the bottle of the inkwell.

Oh my God. I’ve been found by the Obsidian Order!