Elle

Stories have teeth. And they're hungry. Some stories starve before they have a chance to grow. But some stories are so big and powerful and ancient that people feed them without even realising it. The Creators' story is like that.

I see it all around me as I hurry through the Draft, the rucksack I left hiding behind the impossible door on my back. There are hints of it in the constant rain that soaks my overalls and the bleak rows of black, crumbling skyscrapers. In the distance, smoke signals the factories and the power plants that never shut. They take people's dreams and never give them quite enough to live on in return. I pass billboards with black-and-white images of the Creators on them, reminders of who is letting us live here. And neon Sacred Styluses flicker in the darkness, marking some buildings as Houses of Truth where the Tellers can spread their gospel.

There are hints of the Creators' story too in the spattering of bullets that crunch underfoot as I cross a square, and in the blood that runs into the drains. Even in the tattooed men I have to hide from as they head into a tavern.

Reminders not to sin, not to deviate from the story that has been written, not to get curious. They remind us that we belong to the Creators, and if we step out of line, we will be Cut from the story altogether.

Like I am supposed to be Cut.

I glance over my shoulder, wondering how close my Blotter is to catching up with me. I wonder if he followed me down the ladder into the sewers or if he took a more conventional route. I quicken my pace.

It takes me about twenty minutes to reach the black market. It's housed in the old power plant, a series of looming shadows beside the river. It shut down when an earthquake struck just before I arrived in the Draft, and I have heard whispers it's a sign the foretold Ending of the Creators' story is upon us.

The slightly brighter lights from the Draft Two skyscrapers blink across the river as I hurry towards the doors, the smell of river weed hanging in the air.

Does the Blotter know I'll come here? Is it written? Am I a part of the Creators' story? Or is this a story of my own? Either way, it is the obvious place for me to go right now, and I'm not trying to escape him. Not yet.

I think he is different, and different is dangerous.

I am dangerous too.

The main hall of the power plant is lit by candles and roaring fires in metal bins. People trickle through the wooden carts and tables selling forbidden items: ink, tattoo needles, weapons, food, pieces of parchment. Low voices echo around the room.

There's a tavern at the end where I intend to wait for the Blotter, but I make a detour when I spot my book dealer—a dark-haired girl around my age, nineteen—behind a table covered with battered tomes.

'I've got an old one for you today,' she says, her breath misting in front of her face. She hands me one of the leather-bound books the Tellers read from. 'Any good?'

It's called The Book of Truth, a tool used to spread the Creators' story, and I flick through the scratchy pages, unable to stop myself from inhaling its musty scent. How can something so dangerous smell so sweet? I shake my head when I get to the end. This isn't the version I'm looking for. My disappointment is reflected on her face as she slips it back into her satchel.

When I walk into the tavern, it's quiet. There are only a few people drinking at the metal tables in the dank space. It's quiet enough that I can hear water dripping from a leak in the roof.

I grab the arm of a young girl as she scampers past. 'Where is everyone?'

She looks up at me with wide, frightened eyes. 'A hurricane is coming.'

I smile, satisfied. My story is spreading. Then I crouch in front of her.

She's scrawny and dirty, her blonde hair tangled in knots and her clothes swamping her body. Her parents have probably been Cut and she's been left to fend for herself.

'You remind me of someone,' I say.

'Who?'

My smile widens. 'Once, there was a girl just like you,' I tell her. 'She had hair as white as the tiled streets in the Final City. And she was brave, like you. Part of her was afraid of the Blotters, but do you know, it was the Blotters who should have been afraid of her.'

'Why?'

'Because the girl had a dragon,' I say, 'and one day, the Blotters came for her. And do you know what happened next?'

She shakes her head, and her eyes brim with curiosity. I like that about children. They are so often curious, even when it is dangerous to be so. Even though soon, if she survives and is taken into one of the workhouses, they will drill it into her that to wonder, to question, to imagine, is to sin. And those lights will die from her eyes.

I grin. 'The dragon ate them.' Swinging my rucksack in front of me, I hand her a couple of nutrition bars. 'Head to the Edge of the World. There's a place for you there.' I give her a little push. 'Hurry. There's a hurricane coming.'

At the bar, I hand a couple of bronze coins with Creator Michael's face to the owner, and he pours me two beakers of weak beer in return.

'Don't stay long,' he says. 'I'm clearing out soon. They've kept pretty quiet about it, but the Creators are sending a hurricane at midnight. I've heard the Ending is approaching, and you know Draft One will be the first to go.'

'Thanks,' I say.

I carry the drinks over to a table and take a seat, throwing down my rucksack. I slip out of the arms of my too-big overalls and wring them out on the floor, then I let flames from the metal bin behind me cast warmth onto my skin.

I keep my eyes trained on the door as I wait for him. I wait for the hurricane too. They will both be here for me soon.

Some stories have teeth, you see. But some stories are like dandelions. You plant them, and if they take, they grow roots and flower and spread on their own. My father told me that.

I used to try it when I was a child. I wasn't allowed out of my living quarters, so I'd give the seeds to the nannies and maids and cooks. I'd tell them about dusty hallways filled with butterflies, and birds singing in the dark, and bees nesting in the rafters.

And sometimes they'd take root and I'd hear the fluttering of wings through my keyhole, or a bird would perch by the bars of my window, or the sweetest amber honey would dribble down my walls.

My father was angry when he found out what I had been doing. Because stories are forbidden. Because stories are dangerous. Because stories are hungry. He was afraid the Creators would find out about me—about what I could do. He was afraid their story would swallow me whole.

Well, now they have found me.

And now they have sent one of their monsters to kill me.

But he had curiosity in his eyes. He let me touch him. His rough hands were gentle as they brushed against my cheek. And he had a dandelion seed tattooed on his chest. Why would he have that inked amongst all the murder?

It makes no sense.

I think he might be different than the others. I think I might be able to persuade him not to kill me. I think I might be able to get him to deviate from the Creators' story. I think he might even be useful.

And if not, well. . .I have been planting a story of my own.