“Beautiful,” he exhaled as he ran his hand along my shivering flank. Glancing up to meet my terrified expression he said, “Oh don’t make that face! You were asking for it.”

My eyes whirled with fear as I searched my dorm room for an escape. His Writing kept me lashed tight to my bed. I wanted to beg. I wanted to plead. I wanted him to stop, for it all to go away. Squeezing my eyes shut I tried to force myself awake from the nightmare. The cold sensation of his blade playing along my quivering skin forced me to open my eyes.

He turned back to my bleeding skin and let his hand run along the words he’d carved into my skin. I thrashed under the binding Writ he’d trapped me in. It was hopeless.

Sliding the knife against my chin, he laughed. “Emma Auteer you’re an upstart peasant girl with a measure of talent, nothing more. Did you really think I would stoop so low as to sully myself with a lowborn?”

I couldn’t speak. All I could do was moan in agony, trying to force out a plea for mercy through the gag. He shook his head and said, “No, you may be attractive, but such a thing is easy to buy. I’ve a far better use for your body. Now, now, don’t cry. I’ve only just begun to cut.”

His mocking laughter rang in my ears as I met his eyes for the first time in years. The memory faded back into the endless pool of anger in the pit of my stomach as I fixated on him. My gaze seared into his.

He swept his eyes up my figure. What a grisly phantom I must appear! My dress was undamaged, yet the original color was impossible to see under the heavy Writs covering it and the hue of the blood. With so many Words cleaving to my body the illusions I’d painstakingly Written into my skin gave way exposing the wan and leathery cast of my ghastly flesh. The blood of the Scribes covering my body only added the effect, turning me into a carmine hag. The only clean piece of my body left was my face and hair. My eyes were clear however, and a vicious hate burned in them. Rach was right across from me. I wasn’t hiding any longer.

Recognition dawned on him after a few seconds spent studying my figure. Then arrogance crept into his expression as he flashed a lazy smile and said, “Emma? Why are you here?”

Frightened by my appearance the princess exclaimed, “Lord Rach, I command you to make her go away!”

Contemptuous I Wrote a furious sentence and hurled it at the idiotic girl. A moment later she fell back, her arms bound and mouth gagged. Frowning, Rach regarded her before turning his gaze on me. Then he said, “Emma, what foolishness is this? What have you done you stupid peasant?”

“Trapped you,” I spat.

Sighing, he chided my like a little girl, “Emma you idiot girl, I’ve Written on you!” Throwing his hands wide he laughed and said, “Do you not recall what I've done? You can’t hope to beat me in a Writing duel.”

At his side, the princess squirmed. Seeing my eyes on her he glanced down and dismissed the unspoken inquiry saying, “I’ve Written on her as well. She can do nothing to betray me.”

I inhaled sharply. The sheer audacity of Skin Writing a princess! Rach was far more brazen, or more powerful, than I imagined. At the sight of my surprise, Rach doubled over with laughter.

“How pathetic!” he mocked, “did you think you were special? I’ve Skin Written hundreds of stupid women just like you and can tap into all their power at will.” Then he pulled out his Hummingwhy and flourished it at me with a sneer adding, “Come then, if you need me to beat you back into your place I’m happy to oblige.” His eyes glittered with cruelty. "Perhaps this time I'll pen a few more lines into you, just so you understand your place beneath me."

I had trouble forming words. My anger threatened to explode as I cut back at him by saying, “You’re a vile creature Rach. You’ll die screaming.”

“The same way you screamed when I Wrote on your delicate skin?” he asked in a haughty tone.

Grinding my teeth, I howled in fury as I dug the metal nib of my pen into the meat of my arm. I began to Write in blood on my own skin, unearthing whole chunks of my flesh with a singular purpose. The pain of the injuries hardly registered, I had more important things to focus on. My eyes never left Rach.

At the other end of the stage, he used the Hummingwhy to begin Writing with the leftover ink of the reservoir. The first of his constructs launched at me a few frantic seconds later. His opening blow was a spear of black ink. I didn’t even bother protecting myself. I wrote my dress with these sorts of attacks in mind. Twisting, my skirt flared and changed from fabric into a blue aegis. When it met the spear, the weapon shattered back into droplets of ink.

Nonplussed at the sight of my protective shell he paused and cried out, “Write all you like Emma! It won’t change anything. Skin never forgets!”

Pushing his words out my head as I continued to cut I forced myself to focus. He wasn’t wrong. Skin never forgets. I had no room for errors and he knew it. He didn’t need to know what I was doing to know that if I made a mistake it would be my doom. But the Librarian taught me focus. If I could read a book while Writing to his exacting standards then I could ignore Rach's pathetic taunts, the pain, and focus on the Words.

So when he saw my lack of a reaction to his words he decided to simply overwhelm me with constructs. Blades, spears, weapons of all sorts materialized and attacked me. Each one met my aegis and broke.

Triumphant I couldn't resist crowing at him. I raised my head, looking away from my work, and exulted, “Is that all you can do? Variations of the same Story, over and over again? Pathetic!”

Growling in irritation, he redoubled his efforts. A few new weapons joined the torrent of attacks meeting my shield. I dismissed the sight of them knowing it would change nothing. Rach simply couldn’t Write anything original. A life of aristocratic indulgence had dulled his authenticity, his edge. Without struggle, without purpose, his skill was a hollow thing propped up by his stolen power and the Hummingwhy. I designed my dress to survive this volume of attacks. It was a flimsy defense against any real Writer. Even one original Writ would render it useless instantly, but I knew Rach. He wasn't capable of innovation.

If it had one fatal flaw besides this singleminded purpose it was that the dress wouldn't last. I wrote it out of fabric and blood, after all. It couldn't maintain itself for too long.

The knowledge fueled my continued efforts even as my shield slowly began to wither around me. His assault broadened as he ran out of ink. Turning to the princess in a blind rage, he grabbed the knife used in the first challenge and cut her shoulder open. He dipped the Hummingwhy into her blood and started to Write. His constructs began to hammer with renewed force as the blood of the royal fueled his onslaught, hastening the decay of my aegis.

“Take this!” he crowed as a wave of earth rose above me. “Shield all you like,” he screamed, “if I can’t break you I’ll bury you!”

An original attack. Perhaps I had underestimated Rach.

I didn't have time to pause writing on my skin. Instead, I activated my first contingency and used my left hand to tear off a scrap of my remaining dress. Hurling it toward the tsunami of earth, it transformed into a giant fist that punched the tidal wave apart. Dirt rained down on both of us as he prepared another attack.

“Die!” he fumed at me as a creature of spikes and jaws rose from the ground.

I felt the rush of his Skin Writing eating at my insides as it formed. The drain quickened, tearing at my stretched vitality. If Lord Wairth could see me now! I was a caricature of my former beautiful self, my skin ashy and waxen, my hair flat and lifeless, my blood dripping in rivulets as I felt my life flowing out of me to feed Rach's ambition. My time was running out.

I spun away as the creature's jaws snapped at me and tore off my bodice, leaving me with just a set of flimsy undergarments. My left hand held the bones of the bodice aloft like a torch warding the darkness. The creature scrabbled across the grass on several legs that dragged it’s bulk towards me. The grass around it withered as it approached. Saliva dripped from the elongated, crocodilian jaws. It launched itself at me with its multiple maws open wide. I dropped the ridgid bodice and it exploded, pushing the creature back but not killing it.

My eyes widened as I cursed.

"I win!" Rach proclaimed in excitement watching the demon shake off the effect of my bomb, letting one of the heads fall to the ground and wither away before starting to chase me again.

I had one card left to play. The remaining pieces of my dress fell apart as I ripped the word tucked underneath my undergarments lose.

It unfurled to show a single word, “Cleanse."

The second lesson of the Librarian rang in my mind as I funneled power into the Word. Dangling freely it began to blaze with light. Blinded by the sight, I couldn’t see what it did to the monster. But I could hear.

The horrible thing started to scream. I almost fell to my knees as my eardrums protested. It sounded like a child howling into the night. Then the sound was gone and the light faded.

Rach was ashen faced and clearly shaken by my display of Writing at the other end of the stage. The princess lay on the ground with her eyes shut and blood leaking out her ears.

Stumbling forward he raved, “Impossible!”

“Not impossible,” I crowed, triumphant, “this is the power of the Written Word!”

Falling to his knees, drained by the loss of his creature, Rach screamed at me in a blind rage, “NO! I’ll win!”

Shaking my head I answered, “You can’t. You’re nothing Rach.”

“Nothing?” he howled across the stage. “You’re nothing! Emma Auteer is a disgrace, a failure! The only student expelled from the University in fifty years!”

I closed my eyes and allowed myself to feel the despair of my expulsion once again. The Words embedded in the tattered remainder of my dress lit up with power. The azure threads began to unravel, leaving me truly exposed, and yet more powerful than I had ever been. I knew what would happen next. The threads would flash and burn as they fell, igniting and turning to ash before they ever hit the ground. My emotion would go with them, carpeting the field and priming the exposed and bloody words running across my skin for the final act as well as giving Rach a taste of what was to come. I opened my eyes.

Rach struggled. He grappled with the weight of my concentrated depression. Bound by the weight of it, he struggled to reach for his pen. Snarling, he curled his fingers around the Hummingwhy and cut the nib of it into the wood of the stage, Writing a few quick words. The emotion began to disperse a second later, but the bindings remained. He struggled to his knees as I walked toward him.

The sight of my approach enraged him. Slamming his fist into the ground, he strained his vocal cords shouting, “I Wrote on you! This is impossible! How can you muster such power under my curse?”

Stopping a few feet away from him I said, “You’re a poor Scribe Rach. You made mistakes when you Wrote on me that night.” Mockery ringing in my voice I spat at him, “Skin never forgets.”

Driven wild by my proclamation Rach drove his pen into the palm of his hand and shouted, “I am an Author! Writing in blood and skin I create wonders you can only dream of.” Muttering to himself, he began to cut his palm in jagged lines. I watched, impassive.

I wanted this. I wanted him to fight back so I could break him the way he tried to break me. The fury that built all day in my stomach now transformed into a frigid certainty. Rach could curse, harangue, and spit at me all he wanted. It wouldn’t save him. Nothing would.

Blood dripped down my arms and across my nude torso. I’d finished Writing my half of the Story after banishing the monster he constructed. All that remained was the final punctuation. My fingers hesitated. I was poised to drive the metal nib into my stomach and complete the Writ. First, however, I had to place a few lines on him.

“I want you to understand what this will do to you,” I stated. “It reverses the curse you placed on me. Instead of slowly cannibalizing my talent and youth to sustain your own it will force you to relive every agony you inflicted upon me until you die screaming. Then it will return what you stole to me, with interest.”

Rach flung his palm upwards at me. A demon of bone and sinew began to sprout from his palm. With a swift motion of my pen, I flung the bleeding Words, “Render Asunder,” at it. The dead thing fell to the ground, half formed.

Clutching his hand, Rach spat up at me, “You were an experiment. Just some peasant girl to practice on. How can you be so strong?”

My pen nib glinted in the lights of the stage. I placed it along his cheek and watched as he recoiled from the ruby red stains on the sharp metal tip.

“Now, now, don’t cry,” I whispered, “I’ve only just begun to cut.”

My hand shook with anticipation. My body trembled. It was cold in the night air, but that wasn't why I shivered. I was trembling with excitement. I grabbed his hair and drove the nib into his spine. Any uncertainty I held fell away as I started to Write on him. Holding his head steady, I carved the Words deep into his flesh. Then I cast his head down and left his body sprawled out on the stage.

Struggling to speak, Rach said, “So you want to curse me?” He threw his head back and laughed, “Fine. Do it! Do it and doom every other woman I’ve Skin Written. They’ll share my fate, one and all!”

I hissed and turned to the princess in shock. She was stirring. Looking back at Rach I prepared to drive the pen into my stomach and damn the consequences. Then I glanced back at the princess. She was sixteen. The same age I was. Innocent. Just like me.

“Is it true?”

Rach didn’t answer me. He just laughed and laughed, mocking me. Frantic, I spun on my heels and raced to the princess before pulling her dress away. Her eyes radiated fear as she struggled against me. Swatting aside her pathetic effort, I threw her over and ripped away the lace and silk of her dress to expose her back. Ruby letters ran down her spine.

“No,” I breathed.

Unconsciously my hand went to my own back. I let my fingers run up the scarred letters Rach cut into me. The scarred Words matched the Writing running down the princess’ back, near as I could tell just by touch. Was Rach lying? Without Reading what he’d put on my own back I couldn’t tell. I didn’t have the time to find out either. The construct hiding us from the Scribes still held but I didn’t know what was going on outside. For all I knew a platoon of Guard Scribes was breaking through right now.

I whirled back to face Rach and asked, “How could you?”

“I am the Author of Skin Writing foolish Emma,” he replied with a haughty sneer. He continued his tirade by adding, “You’ve no idea what I’ve accomplished. Be grateful, I’ve used your strength to do wondrous things.”

A deadly calm settled about me. Standing in just my underdress I walked slowly, deliberately, towards him.

Seeing me approach Rach cried out, suddenly uncertain, “What are you doing?”

Ash in my mouth I answered him, “I need to be close. Otherwise my Writing won’t have the intended effect.”

“What about the princess?” he asked with fear in his voice.

I kept walking. “She’ll suffer. And she'll die.”

“You, you would doom them?” he said incredulously, “all of them?”

I looked around at the ruined field, how empty the courtyard in contrast to earlier tonight.

“They’re not here, are they?” I asked. “I’m the only one who had the courage to come forward. I’m the only one who clawed my way into enough power to challenge you. I’m the only one who earned my revenge.”

Rach started to speak but a thin female voice cut him off. “Please,” begged the princess, “please don’t do this. We can go to my family instead, we can fix this.”

“Skin never forgets,” I said, composing my features into a blank mask. “There’s no fixing this.”

“Please!” she shouted at my back, “I’ll give you anything! Nobility, titles, land, or whatever else you want!”

Contempt broke through my remorse. I flicked my gaze back to the girl. “You think I want to become one of you?” I snarled.

Fear radiated from her eyes as she continued to beg. “I can make you a Writer!” she exclaimed before amending, “No, I can make you an Author, the only Author in the Empire! Your work would be respected, venerated, even taught at the University!”

I turned around to face her. “Nobody makes you a Writer or an Author. You’re a fool if you think I need or care about your approval. I know what I am.”

“I don’t want to die,” she sniveled, broken by the vociferousness of my response.

I answered her in a bitter voice, “You’re a royal. Writers, Scribes, and the rest of the kingdom protect you everywhere you go. He’d never have had the chance to Write on you if it wasn’t for your own folly.”

Suddenly angry, the princess screamed at me, “And you’re so much better? Did you know to protect yourself? You went to him! You let him take you! Why should I die for your mistakes?”

I shook my head. “You aren’t. You’re dying for your own.”

She began to thrash about in her bindings as I turned and walked the last few steps toward Rach. He simply gazed up at me, disbelief radiating from his face. “You won’t,” he said in a calm voice, “you can’t.”

“I can,” I said.

Then I placed the nib against my stomach and pushed.