Once upon a time, there was a king who held a great affection for a flea. So great it was that he nursed his pet on his own blood, and it grew to be the size of a sheep. The king's obsession overcame him so that he neglected all else.1

Form cloaked in mist, glasses fogged, Autor wandered down the streets of Gold Crown. The cold clung to his body and seeped through his layered clothes. No matter how he rubbed his arms, he couldn't get warm. He peered through his lenses in an attempt to see where he was going. Autor grumbled with annoyance and wiped off his glasses though the action was in vain; the fog was so thick that he could barely see his feet.

"Is this another sign of Drosselmeyer's story?" Autor stored the occurrence in the back of his mind to research later. It seemed that fog always appeared before mystical things happened. Though he wasn't sure where he had gone. The musician walked with no aim or direction, guided only by the impulse of his feet.

"I must be the only one experiencing this," he mused. "Even Fakir will not have known about such a thing, whatever this is."

Autor paused and looked around. He waited for something—anything—to happen. Perhaps a tingling in his arms or smoke curling around his feet. How did these things work? He hated not knowing. He was always so methodical and calculated. Now Autor couldn't rely on precedent. What formula could he follow?

A caw made him turn around to see a crow perched on the roof of a house. Autor adjusted his glasses and hesitantly stepped forward. It couldn't just be coincidence that the crow suddenly appeared in such thick fog. It must've been sent by Drosselmeyer! Finally, there was a sign. He hurried over to the home without any of his usual restraint.

Alas, the crow disappeared. Autor gasped softly and furrowed his brow. Frowning, he rubbed his chin. "What is the meaning of this?"

"A meaning?" a crackly voice laughed. "Foolish boy, don't assign meanings to things that have none."

Autor turned, raising his arms. "Who's there?" He took a deep breath to calm his racing pulse. He couldn't act like a scared little child. If Drosselmeyer really was there, what would he think?

"Ah, it makes for poor writing if all were to be revealed in the beginning. What fun are stories if there isn't a bit of mystery?"

The musician shook his head. "Surely you must build some exposition. Tell me, why was I put on this earth? What role am I meant to play?"

"Hmm, so pompous and wonderfully flawed. You really are so obsessive. Very nice. There's nothing more boring than perfect characters."

"Excuse me—"

"If you want to be of any use, go to the clock tower."

The faint sound of the ringing bell echoed from the distance. Autor scowled. Of any use? Why, what of all his in-depth research? He was of plenty use! Such a remark, especially one coming from the only person he admired, stung worse than a thousand wasps.

The fog dissipated. His surroundings became clearer. The winding cobblestone path, the never-ending wall—Autor could see everything. But there was no sign of another person nor of the home he'd seen earlier. He removed his glasses, wiped the lenses with his blazer, and slipped them back on. He blinked: the scene remained unchanged.

A loud caw made his head snap up. A hideous black crow, violently flapping its wings, marred the bright blue of the sky. Sleek, glossy feathers fluttered to the earth, one landing on Autor's foot. He gasped and picked it up. Lifting it to his face, he rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger.

"What is the meaning of this?" Autor's forehead creased.

Ahead of him laid a trail of crow feathers. He tucked the one he held into his pocket and followed the path. Decayed leaves swirled around his feet and fluttered with each step. A couple blew up to Autor's head with a particularly powerful gust of wind and tickled his cheek. He grumbled and snatched them from the air, crushing the leaves in his hand.

Autor approached the looming white building. An unexpected shiver ran down his spines. His skin felt as though there were hundreds of bugs crawling all over it. He and every Gold Crown resident knew about the clock tower. It rang at the start and end of classes but also at erratic times. At convenient times.

He only raised a hand when the door creaked open without a single touch. His brows furrowed. Autor walked in anyway.

The room was devoid of color: floor, walls, and furniture were all stark white. Autor shivered and rubbed his finger against the surface of the front desk. His finger came away covered in dust. He sneezed.

The boy forced himself the take a breath. The place was cold and smelled of some sort of chemical. Sharp, stinging—a cleaning agent perhaps. His nose twitched.

"Hello."

A woman, colorless like her surroundings, moved in front of Autor. He hadn't noticed her before since she blended perfectly into the background. She pressed a button and a door slid open, then she stepped aside to let him pass and gestured to the entrance.

"He's been waiting for this."

"Do you mean Drosselmeyer?"

"Don't keep him waiting much longer."

Autor scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Thank you," he told the woman and started his trip up the winding flight of stairs. He couldn't really blame her since she was merely a plot device created by Drosselmeyer.

Upon reaching the top, he found a large smooth platform laden with fresh sheets of paper. The smell of ink hung in the air. A quill hovered over the stack of paper. It was attached to a complicated assortment of gears and bolts and screws. Broken pieces were scattered across the ground.

Autor walked over to it as though he were in a trance. The mechanism was heavy with Drosselmeyer's magic—he was sure of it! He moved even closer, entangled in its magnetic pull. His eyes glazed over and his face slackened. His body jerked forward. Autor became nothing more than a puppet on invisible strings, controlled by unseen hands. Mechanically, his arms raised to touch the device. Fingers wrapped around broken parts and pressed them together. They seemed to melt into each other, molding together with a sort of mysterious magic. Soon enough, the machine looked like it had never been broken.

Drosselmeyer, watching from his realm of clocks and gears, laughed. He rocked back and forth in his creaky chair. "Good, good. Seems like you've been of help after all. A character with no impact is little more than useless."

He snapped his fingers so that the boy slumped against the wall, a marionette with its strings released. There Autor sat in the dark corner of the tiny room, his head hanging forward, eyes shut, glasses askew. The master had no more need for his puppet.

...

"Where's Autor?"

Fakir set down his duck feather quill and looked up from his writing. Ahiru stood in the doorway, dressed in a simple white nightgown, illuminated by the lamp's soft yellow light. Loose red strands escaped a long messy braid that swayed back and forth with her movements. She looked like a fairy, so small and delicate, and walked forward with an almost ethereal quality.

"Fakir? Are you okay?"

"Hmm?" The young man blinked then rubbed his tired eyes. He stood up and stretched his aching muscles. For hours he'd stared at the blank page, trying to compose a sentence. Finishing a story was like running through an endless labyrinth: too many twists and turns with no way out. He just had to hope that no one would die trying to escape this maze of twisted words. So much was at stake and yet he couldn't write a single word. It was like an invisible force stopped Fakir's pen each time he pressed it to the paper.

"Yes, everything's fine." A lie, he knew, but he couldn't bear to tell her the truth, not when she held so much hope for him.

"Are you sure?" Ahiru looked suspiciously at him but decided not to press the subject. "If you say so. But I haven't seen Autor all day. He wasn't even in the library when I checked. You don't think something's happened to him?"

Fakir's brow furrowed. He leaned against the wall with folded arms, mulling over the possibilities. The thoughts swirled around in his mind. A dark, terrible thought crept into his head: what if he was already dead? Fakir pressed his nose bridge between his thumb and forefinger, immediately vanishing the idea. No, it wouldn't do well to think so negatively. He had to hope that Autor—wherever he was—was unharmed.

"That might have happened," he said finally.

But why? Drosselmeyer had left them alone with no direct meddling for the time being. The old man loved stories and wanted to see how this one played out between his characters. So why now did he choose to interfere? Why would he take Autor?

Icy dread formed in the pit of his stomach. According to the family tree Autor once showed him, he and Fakir were distant cousins, meaning that Autor also had relations to the Story Spinners. Maybe that wasn't enough for Autor to rewrite reality, but the bloodline allowed Drosselmeyer to communicate with him even if he wasn't directly involved in the story. Fakir felt a sudden chill at the revelation.

"I'm going to find him." He grabbed his ratted cloak and wrapped it around him then marched out.

Ahiru followed him stubbornly with her face scrunched in determination. "H-Hey wait! I'm going too."

Fakir, averse to the idea of putting her in way of danger, opened his mouth to argue. Immediately she shoved past him in with her head held high. "I'm going. It's not okay for you to be alone. Especially since pieces of your heart are still missing."

"You're not going anywhere. Stay here." He shook his head and mounted his horse. His hands wrapped tightly around the reins.

"Fakir—"

Not bothering to wait and listen, the young man started his steed into a gallop and started racing across the field. Ahiru huffed as she was left in the dust. Typical Fakir, always trying to do things alone and exclude her. That inability to accept aid irritated her at times especially since it led to him putting himself in danger. Eyebrows knitting in determination, she pressed a hand to her crimson pendant, summoning the transformation.

In a flash of light, Ahiru was standing in a silvery costume. Princess Ritter, the knight ballerina. She raced in Fakir's direction, the magic giving her the ability to seemingly float as she lept from rooftop to rooftop, swift feet barely touching the shingles. She allowed the magic to guide her. Somehow, someway Ahiru knew where Autor was: the clock tower. The place where Drosselmeyer and the story all started.

"Fakir!" she called when she saw him approaching the door. "Wait for me!"

Her knight looked up with an irritated expression. "You idiot, I told you to stay behind."

As soon as her feet landed on the ground, Ahiru reverted back to her schoolgirl form. She ignored his words and stubbornly followed behind. She wrapped her arms around herself while she headed up the spiraling stairs. Coal-black crows marred the stark white surroundings. One stared at her, dead eyes boring into her soul with greater intensity than an animal should have. The girl shivered and clung closer to her friend, which caused Fakir to raise an eyebrow.

"Calm down, nothing's happened yet."

Ahiru peered at him intently. He marched on with cool composure, the stern look on his face never changing. He seemed worried about Autor's condition, but the threat of danger seemed to have no effect. Any concern Fakir had about it was if it involved anyone else. She felt a pang in her heart for her knight. So brave, always putting others before himself. Had his own well-being ever crossed these mind in these events?

Her steps slowed when the pair arrived at the stop. The girl hesitated, setting one hand on the door, her chest tightening. Taking a deep breath, she braced herself for what she might find and stepped into the room.

Fear struck like a bolt of lightening, stopping her beating heart. She was paralyzed, rooted in her spot. Black feathers were scattered across the floor. In the center was Drosselmeyer's machine, pristine and perfect as though no damage had ever occurred. But that wasn't possible—she knew that Fakir had destroyed it before. What she saw next made her face turn ash-white: there was Autor slumped against the wall.

But his skin wasn't skin. His body was made of wood. A choked scream escaped her throat and Ahiru rushed to his side. She shook his body and hoped for any sign of life. Looking at his face, she saw that there were no longer human features but empty drawn-on eyes and a painted smile. Her shaking hands moved to reposition the puppet. Ahiru pressed her ear to his chest where she heard the faint, barely-there beating of a heart.

Her eyes widened. "He's alive. Fakir, he's alive!"

The knight nodded yet his collected demeanor remained. "Drosselmeyer's doing, no doubt." Thoughtfully, he picked up a crow feather and examined it. There was a slight red shimmer—magic possibly. Malachite-green eyes narrowed.

A sudden gust of wind swept the room, sending the feathers spiraling together in a burst of violet and crimson light. From the whirlwind emerged a dark, crow-like figure with unidentifiable features. Before anyone could react, his clawed hand latched unto Fakir. Talons dug into his skin and drew blood. Unable to look away, Fakir stared back at the creature's scarlet eyes. Slowly the sounds of reality faded away and left behind only a ringing in his ears. He felt oddly at peace, complacent like a cow—despite the winds' heightening intensity.

"Fakir!" Ahiru shrieked. She lunged at the whirlwind, reaching desperately for her friend, only to be knocked away. She tumbled to the floor and slammed into the way. Wincing, the girl pushed herself up and gritted her teeth.

"Fakir!" she screamed again to no avail. He stood spellbound by the shadowy stranger and made no move to escape, even when the vortex began to shrink. "Fakir, please!" she tried again, her calls devolving into despairing howls.

She charged towards them again but this time she collided into nothingness. Ahiru's feet slipped and once more she came crashing down. She whimpered from the pain of impact, hot tears stinging her eyes. She couldn't tear her gaze from the center of the room where Fakir had just been only seconds ago.

1 - Based off The Flea, an Italian fairy tale written by Giambattista Basile.