The Aftermath

Prologue

For as long as I can remember, my imagination has been a secret getaway - literally. Individuals that behold this talent are called Delvers. The gift of living by what we write has run on my father's side of the family for generations, and has been passed on to me.

By gift, I mean the ability to delve into our own literary creations, or writings, as well as various tales created by others. Later, I would find that this gift is not so much a blessing, but a curse.

For the majority of my life, I stuck to creating light-hearted fantasies, those of which would not negatively impact my well-being if I were to become trapped in the fictional dimensions. Tales which contained little emotion and mild adventure.

But as I grew older, my imagination craved more: unbreakable bonds, passion, despair, things that didn't abide by a Delver's regulations. These are forbidden aspects of the fictional realm, because all have the same consequence: causing grief to the creator.

I've heard tales of how previous Delvers had created masterpieces, with raw emotion and unfathomable passion, usually amidst the characters. But upon mingling with the inhabitants of their creation, the writers would form close bonds with certain characters. This would always result in tragedy, as later events would lead to either the death or separation of memorable characters.

A drawback of creating these fantasies is that once a Delver enters the realm of their creation, they cannot make any changes to the script, meaning that whatever has been written will remain the same forever.

Regardless, I still created a work involving all of these aspects, driven by a yearning to experience a tale revolving around raw, tangible emotion. A tale consisting of friendship, grief, courage, and all things forbidden in the Delver's realm.

And never once did I consider the consequences of my actions until it was too late.

Words have more power than humanity could ever fathom.