Teleported into My Own Novel as the Author!

The heat from the fire slowly seeped into Charon's bones, chasing away the last of the river's chill. He was still damp, and the scent of murky water clung to his clothes, but at least he wasn't shivering anymore.

The restaurant bustled around him, patrons coming and going, the sounds of clinking plates and quiet conversation filling the space. Every now and then, he caught people throwing glances his way—some curious, others wary.

They had seen him jump in. They had seen Ishmael cut a man down. And in this world, actions like those were rarely forgotten.

The server, the same middle-aged woman who had given him the drink, approached with a dry cloth. "You're lucky, you know," she said, handing it to him.

Charon raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't feel like it."

She gave him a look. "You could've drowned. Or worse."

He looked away, rubbing the cloth against his damp sleeves. "Didn't exactly think about that at the time."

"Obviously." She sighed, folding her arms. "Still, it was a damn fool thing to do… but it was something. People don't usually bother trying to save the likes of Braelen Marrow."

Charon hesitated. He didn't know what to say to that.

The server must've noticed, because she shook her head and continued, "Doesn't matter what kind of man he was—nobody deserves to die like that. So, whether or not it made a difference, you tried." Her gaze softened. "And that means something."

Charon swallowed. He wasn't sure it did.

Still, he gave a small nod, and she let out a breath before moving off to tend to other customers.

He lingered a little longer, letting the warmth of the fire work through him, before finally stepping outside.

The evening air was crisp, the scent of the river still thick in the wind. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting the city in soft, golden light. Shadows stretched long across the streets, and the murmur of people heading home filled the air.

Ishmael was waiting just beyond the entrance, arms crossed as he watched the passersby.

Charon stepped up beside him. "So… now what?"

Ishmael hummed, glancing at him. "Now, we follow up on what Marrow said."

Charon frowned. "The whole 'garden's been poisoned' thing?"

"Exactly." Ishmael adjusted the strap of his belt, where his sword rested. "Marrow was deep in the business—if something was happening with the supply, he'd know. But since he's dead, we'll have to ask someone who knew him."

Charon didn't like where this was going. "And that would be…?"

"Rook." Ishmael's expression darkened slightly. "Former client of Marrow's. Low-level, but he kept his ears open. If anyone's got a clue what's going on, it's him."

Charon shifted uncomfortably. "And you trust this guy?"

Ishmael let out a quiet chuckle. "Not even a little."

"Great."

"But," Ishmael continued, pushing off from where he'd been leaning, "he owes me. And he doesn't want to be caught between two warring sides, so if we're lucky, he'll talk."

Charon wasn't sure about any of that, but at this point, he didn't have much choice.

Ishmael tilted his head down the street. "Come on. Let's get moving before it gets dark."

Charon exhaled, rolling his shoulders. The evening air felt lighter than before, but there was a weight settling in his chest—one he couldn't quite shake.

He followed Ishmael down the winding streets, the sun sinking lower behind them.

*

As the city streets gave way to uneven dirt roads, Charon felt a growing unease settle in his stomach. The scent of damp earth mixed with the distant tang of smoke, and the buildings became more sparse, replaced with gnarled trees and thick vegetation that loomed in the fading light.

Ishmael walked ahead, his steps purposeful, his expression unreadable. Charon followed, his boots crunching against dead leaves and brittle twigs, eyes flickering over their surroundings.

The Whispers.

The name came to him in a rush, dredged up from the depths of his half-forgotten drafts. He had written about this place—at least, in pieces. It had started as an abandoned outskirt, a remnant of the city's past, slowly being reclaimed by nature. But somewhere in his drafts, it had evolved.

The Whispers had become a haven for those who wanted to be forgotten. Smugglers, runaways, exiles. The city barely bothered policing it, letting it fester into something half-wild, half-lawless. It wasn't quite a slum, not quite a forest.

It was a place people went when they had nowhere else to go.

A place like that had its own ghosts.

Charon swallowed, forcing himself to focus. He had written the world, but that didn't mean he knew it. His knowledge was fractured, shifting. He had left so many details vague, meant to be filled in later, but now he was walking through those gaps.

And he was changing things.

His thoughts drifted back to Silas Roake—the man Ishmael had killed back at the restaurant.

In Charon's original drafts, Roake had been a reoccurring character. Not just some nameless thug in the background—he was supposed to be a mid-tier antagonist, one of the men responsible for pushing the drug war deeper into the city.

But now?

Dead. Cut down in an instant.

The story wasn't playing out the way it was supposed to.

His presence was disrupting it.

Charon exhaled slowly. Maybe it was for the better. Maybe the story had needed changing. Maybe this was his chance to fix things, to build something stronger than the half-finished drafts he had abandoned.

Or maybe he was making everything worse.

"Stop thinking so loud," Ishmael muttered ahead of him.

Charon blinked, startled. "What?"

Ishmael glanced over his shoulder, smirking faintly. "You've got that look. The one people get when they're about to make my life more complicated."

Charon rolled his eyes, but the tension in his chest didn't ease.

They walked deeper into the Whispers, where the trees grew denser, the houses sparser, and the night crept in faster than it should have.

Up ahead, nestled between two overgrown ruins, a flickering lantern marked their destination.

Rook was waiting