Novels by Perfect Pen

There is a room at the edge of all endings.Not grand, not glowing, not wrapped in prophecy or encased in myth. It is quieter than silence. Smaller than memory. It smells of paper warmed by sunlight, and dreams that never asked to be written down.It is yours.It is called the Reader’s Room.There is no door, yet you enter. Not with footsteps, but with presence. With the hush of one who realizes something profound is about to endbut has also just begun.The room is lined with echoes.Not of wordsbut of you.Moments glimmer faintly along the walls. You see the breath you held when Kael stood at the brink of forgetting. The tear that never reached your cheek when Riva whispered goodbye to her former name. The warmth that moved through your chest when Aurea sang to a book that had never been read. The soft, impossible awe when Soryel first wondered aloud, “What is a story?”And thereagainst the far wallyou see the time you flipped back a page. Not to check, but to feel again. That moment

It opened not with words, but with warmth.The Book of Forever, ancient yet newly born, unfurled in silence deeper than language. No ink bled across the vellum. No titles, no chapters, no dialogue, no footnotes of the past. Instead, it breathed.Each page was a pulse, a faint thrum beneath the fingertips of those gathered. A heartbeat that did not echo from itselfbut from them. From the ones who had lived, wept, doubted, dreamed.Inside was not contentbut connection.Soryel, eyes wide, hand still resting on the warm skin of the book, felt not storiesbut sensations. A sigh under a blanket at midnight. A page turned with trembling fingers. A smile between tears as hope flickered back. A gasp when a truth struck too deep.The book was not remembering what it was. It was remembering who had held it.And so it remembered you.It remembered the nights you promised just one more chapter, and kept your promise only with sunrise.It remembered the moments you closed its cover not because the s

He walked not upon ground, but between definitions.Kael found himself in a realm where the world did not end, because it had not yet agreed to begin. It was a place not of story, but of the possibility of storya pale world inked only with the margins of unwritten thoughts, each footstep brushing against the hush before language. No sky greeted him. No soil embraced him. Above, below, aroundonly pale parchment that curved inward forever, a vast cathedral of potential. The air smelt faintly of unvoiced questions, and every echo carried the hush of a reader holding their breath, not to listenbut to allow.Margins, endless and recursive, ruled here. Margins where footnotes once dreamed of being chapters. Margins where the discarded became threshold. Margins where a comma’s curl might house an entire forgotten world.And in that world of spectral syntax, Kael wandered.He did not walk with certainty, for such a thing had long abandoned him. He walked with breath. And each breath became in

The skies did not darken in warning. There was no thunder to herald the fall. Only stillnessso absolute, so quietly woven through breath and branchthat even the whispers of possibility seemed to hold their tongues.And then, the rain began.It did not fall like water. It fell like memory re-shaped as light. Each droplet a prism of unchosen lives, each splash a ripple of futures almost dared. The air tasted of stories that had once knocked against the ribs of time but were turned away by fear, duty, silence. Dreams unborn. Songs that flickered at the edge of sleep and dissolved with waking. Hands never held. Truths never spoken. Lives unlived.And yet, in this garden grown not from narrative but from the marrow of belief, every droplet found root.Pamela appeared first. Not as a specter nor a memory, but as herselfno longer searching for who she had been, but arriving fully as who she had chosen not to become. She stepped beneath the silvered fall, carrying an umbrella spun from negati

It began with stillnessnot the stillness of death, nor the hush of waiting, but a silence so alive it pulsed like breath held in wonder. The Book of Forever had closed itself with the tenderness of an old friend who knows when to let go. And in that sacred pausebetween the breath out and the next one ina world emerged.No ink had summoned it. No prophecy had etched its edges. No architect of realm nor map of intent had shaped it. It rose, simply, gently, because it had not been forbidden. Because someone, somewhereperhaps a Reader, perhaps a dreambelieved there might still be more.So the Unwritten Garden grew.Not out of earth. Not even from time. But from the cracks between words. From the gaps between moments. From the hollows of hearts that had once whispered, What if there’s more? Its sky was not painted with stars but with glimmers of stories that had never made it to page. Its wind carried no scent, and yet every inhalation brought the ache of childhood memories you were never

It began, not with ink, but with a breath so soft it could have been a sighor the silence left behind after someone almost said I remember you. The Book of Forever rested open, its final page no longer blank, but expectant. Not filled, not writtenbut humming with the ache of what could now be said.Soryel stood before it, no longer a child, no longer the Future Reader, no longer the one who held questions like fragile lanterns in the night. They had spoken many namesKael, Selene, Riva, Pamela, Aureaand each had become a constellation of meaning. But now, Soryel closed their eyes and invented one. Not from memory. Not from ancestry. Not even from wonder. But from the future itself.A name never uttered before, shaped not by the past, but by the vast and unclaimed territory of what might yet be felt. The name rang out not in sound, but in permission.And the page… accepted it.Not with ink. Not with letters. But with light. A light not golden, not celestial, not radiantbut tender. It bl

Morning bled gray through the broken windows of the safehouse. The storm had passed, leaving a hush so complete that even the hum of the city seemed afraid to intrude.Jason sat at the edge of the couch, eyes half closed, one hand stretched over Emily’s sleeping form. The air around them shimmered faintly—threads of gold twisting like fine smoke, forming a translucent veil that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. Every pulse cost him.Each breath drew the warmth from his veins, a slow siphon that left his skin pale and his head aching. The System whispered inside his skull, cold and unyielding:[Protection Protocol Active: Shield of the Heir.][Energy Source: Divine Core.][Warning: Excessive strain will result in loss of function.]Jason ignored the warning. He adjusted the veil, watching its glow settle over Emily like soft dawn.A voice from the doorway broke the quiet. “You’ve looked better.”Bill leaned against the frame, holding a coffee mug and a folder stuffed with printe

The rain hadn’t stopped since they fled the mansion. It hammered the windshield, washing the world into streaks of gray and gold. Bill kept both hands tight on the wheel, driving by instinct through backstreets no GPS remembered.In the back seat, Jason held Emily close. She drifted in and out of consciousness, her head on his shoulder, murmuring half-formed words that broke against the hum of the engine. Every time she stirred, Jason’s arm tightened, as though the smallest motion might steal her away again.“Where to now?” Bill asked at last, his voice raw.“Keep going,” Jason said. “Old district. Dockside. The warehouse by the tracks.”Bill glanced in the mirror. “That place? You said you’d burned it years ago.”“I lied.”Bill grunted. “Of course you did.”When the car finally rolled to a stop, the warehouse looked like every ghost story Bill had ever told—rusted gates, windows blind with grime, puddles that reflected only darkness. Jason pushed the door open, rain slappin

Smoke drifted through the ruined hall like ghost-light. The marble floor still glowed faintly with golden cracks where Jason’s power had scorched its memory. Silence lay over everything; even the chandeliers had stopped swaying, their crystals quivering in mid-air as if afraid to move.The Inquisitor knelt in that silence, his once-shimmering cloak now dull and torn. Silver runes flickered and died along its edges. Each breath rattled inside the hood.Jason stood before him, motionless, the gold fading from his eyes but not the fire behind them. Emily clung to the edge of a broken pillar, her face pale, her breath catching in soft, terrified gasps.Jason’s voice was low. “Speak. You came here to judge me. Judge yourself instead.”The Inquisitor lifted his head slowly. Beneath the hood, only shadow remained, but his voice had lost its arrogance; it was raw, human, almost weary.“You think this victory matters? You think this house was your battlefield? Fool. The moment you

For a heartbeat, time itself forgot how to move.Dust hung in the air like frozen rain. Every candle in the mansion dimmed to a trembling spark as Jason and the Inquisitor locked eyes.Power bled silently from both of them—Jason’s gold, the Inquisitor’s cold silver—filling the room with a shimmering haze that hummed against the skin. The guards who had survived the earlier chaos clutched their heads and fell where they stood, breath leaving them in quiet groans. Servants collapsed beside them. Even Mrs. Lee staggered, her hand gripping the banister as if the marble itself were tilting.Only Emily remained standing, though the air pressed against her chest like a mountain.“Jason…” Her voice broke. “What’s happening?”He didn’t look at her. His gaze never left the man beneath the hood.The Inquisitor’s tone rolled like a storm tide. “You can still stand under the weight of judgment. Impressive—for a fallen god.”Jason’s mouth curved in that dry half-smile that always meant dan

The hall fell into a silence so heavy it crushed the air from every chest.The cloaked figure stood like a shadow carved into stone. His very presence warped the light; lantern flames sputtered and bent toward him, as if afraid. The guards who had moments ago aimed rifles at Jason now pressed themselves back against the walls, rifles forgotten at their feet.Emily’s hands clutched Jason’s arm, her voice trembling. “Jason… please… who is he?”Jason didn’t answer. His eyes, burning faint gold, never left the figure.The man’s voice thundered, low and resonant. “Ar-Zekar.”The name cracked through the hall like a whip. Even Mrs. Lee, poised and cold, flinched as if the syllables carried weight older than stone.The figure continued, voice heavy with disdain. “It has been centuries since I last looked upon you. I did not expect to find you crawling in the dirt of mortals, parading as a husband, a servant, a nothing.”Jason tilted his head, his lips curving into a cold smirk. “Funny. You t

The marble hall vibrated with noise as armored guards stormed in, rifles raised, laser sights dotting Jason’s chest like a swarm of red insects.“On the ground!” the captain barked, his voice cracking with the weight of authority. “On the ground, now, or we fire!”Jason didn’t move. His body was loose, calm, hands folded behind his back as if the rifles aimed at him were nothing more than children pointing toy guns.He smirked faintly. “You sound nervous. Maybe you should lower your voice before it cracks again.”The captain stiffened, grip tightening on the trigger.From the staircase, Mr. Lee’s triumphant sneer echoed. “Do it. Shoot the dog where he stands.”Emily screamed, stumbling forward, tears streaking her cheeks. “NO! Don’t shoot him! Please!”Jason’s eyes softened for half a second at her voice, then hardened as he lifted his chin toward the guards. “Listen to me carefully. If you pull those triggers, your lives will unravel faster than your bullets can fly.”The head guard