The words Miriam had once typed in the safety of her bedroom now echoed in the cold, damp air of a world she no longer controlled.

«Whenever I get the opportunity, I’m gonna run as far away from you as I possibly can,» she had written for her protagonist. «To a place where you’ll never find me.»

But now, she wasn’t just writing the dialogue; she was living it. And the reply didn’t come from a page—it came from the gold-skinned, giggling monster standing right in front of her.

«Then I’m gonna hunt you down, dearie,» Rumplestiltskin whispered, his breath smelling of spun straw and ancient malice. «For the rest of your life.»

His grip on Miriam’s wrist was like a rusted iron shackle. They stood atop a jagged hill, the Dark Forest looming behind them like a wall of living shadows. In the distance, his obsidian castle rose against a blood-red sky.

«You can let go now,» Miriam said, her voice trembling. «It’s not like I’m going to run. Not here.»

Rumple didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned in, his eyes glowing with predatory glee. He pointed a crooked finger toward the fortress.

«That is where you stay until Ahsoka returns with the braid. And then, Author… you’re going to write everything I say. You’ll bleed your ink onto the page until my story is the only one left.»

Miles away, a shadow detached itself from the trees. Ahsoka, the Great Shadow Warrior, moved with a silence that defied nature. She was a living weapon, a blur of grey and white in the dim light of the royal camp.

She had tracked her sister here. Her amulet throbbed against her chest, a rhythmic heat that led her to a silk tent where Zilla lay.

Zilla wasn’t just sleeping; she was twitching, her eyes darting beneath her lids as if fighting invisible demons. When Ahsoka pressed a hand to her side, Zilla bolted upright with a jagged, terrifying laugh. Her hair was matted, and her eyes held a frantic, shattered light.

«Sister?» Ahsoka hissed. «Zilla, I need the braid. Do you still have it?»

Zilla’s face shifted from a manic grin to a mask of pure horror. «Ahsoka? Oh, the little shadow is home!» She grabbed Ahsoka’s face with trembling, cold hands. «But you must run! If the King sees you, he’ll never let you leave. He’ll lock you in a golden cage and call it mercy!»

«I’m only here for the braid, Zilla. Give it to me. Now!»

Zilla’s expression went hollow. She looked at her empty palms as if seeing blood. «The Padawan braid? Oh… I gave it to Anakin. He looked so lonely, Ahsoka. I figured he’d want a piece of you to keep.»

Ahsoka felt a chill deaden her heart. «You did what?»

«He loves us, you know,» Zilla whispered, her voice cracking into a sob. «He loves us so much he wants to own our very breath. If you ask him nicely, I’m sure he’ll let you see it… before he chains you to his side.»

Ahsoka shook her head, her hand moving to the hilt of her blade. «I won’t let him see me. I won’t be another one of his ‘beloved’ trophies.»

Back at the castle, the heavy thud of a wooden door signaled the end of Miriam’s freedom.

Rumplestiltskin pushed her into a cell that smelled of dust and forgotten prisoners. There was no window, only a slab of stone for a bed and the suffocating weight of the dark.

«And here is your room, dearie,» Rumple cackled. «A quiet place for a creative mind.»

Miriam spun around, her eyes flashing with a spark of the fire that had created this world. «I’m not one of your objects, Rumple! I’m the one who made you! I just want to go home!»

Rumple stopped in the doorway. He didn’t look like a character anymore; he looked like a god.

«But the deal isn’t fulfilled, dearie. You wrote the contract. Did you think you could just play with our lives and walk away? That I wouldn’t come to collect?»

«It’s just a story!» Miriam screamed. «It’s just a fantasy!»

Rumple leaned into the cell, his face inches from hers. «Is it? Or did you just open a door you weren’t strong enough to close? Ask yourself that while you’re in the dark.»

The lock clicked. The heavy iron bolt slid home. Miriam was left in the silence of her own imagination, and for the first time, she was terrified of what she might write next.