"Well all right then."

He picks up the book and flips back to the first page and stares intently at his bed. Picks up the blanket by a corner, prods the mattress, runs his free hand over the frame—and a picture of the bed shimmers into being, exquisitely detailed, on the page he's touching.

He looks at it. He blinks. He smiles a small, thoughtful smile.

"Do I have to be looking right at something, studying it at that exact moment, to put it in the book?"

"No. It will often be more detailed if it's right in front of you, but it's not a requirement. And you can go back to improve something later, if you feel you didn't do it justice."

"Handy."

So he perches on the edge of his bed and puts his hand on the next page and - pauses -

"Can people go in the book too?"

"Of course. What is a world, but for a place for people to live in?"

Something about his smile seems very sad.

He runs a quick mental calculation. He double-checks it. He sighs.

"Damn. Not even I could meet everyone in the world and put them all in the book in less than a year."

"There was a girl who tried that, once," muses the sarcastic apparition. "The world she wrote lasted a pathetic 527 years, and none of the people she wrote were how they had been. Just false copies, similar in face and name but vastly different in all that really mattered. I can't say I recommend it."

"...and is that inevitable when putting people in the book, or was she just bad at it?"

He sighs, heavily. Sort of like he's been asked this question before, and finds it annoying.

"It depends on how well you envision them. People are, to put it lightly, complicated. You could know a person for years and be unable to capture them correctly. Your parents, your lover, yourself. There have been creators that tried to write themselves into the next world, and their creations were nothing like them. But I would not say inevitable, no. The copy would have a different life, live in a different world, with none of the experiences they've had in this one, and little if any of the memories, but if you could accurately capture all that makes them who they are..." He trails off, shrugs. "You can come extremely close. But the world might suffer from your lack of attention to it."

"Hm," he says. "I should go ask Kanero how he feels about being the next world's immortal emperor, I guess." And he shuts the book and tucks it under his arm and goes looking for his shoes.

"One certainly cannot have a perfect world without an immortal emperor."

Was that sarcasm? From the sarcastic apparition? It's more likely than you'd think.

"I'm sure you've seen more worlds than I have," says Riale. He finds his shoes. He throws a long coat on over his pajamas. He opens his bedroom door. "I welcome your advice on this or any other subject."

"Oh, Saerith is going to adore you," he mutters. "It's going to be insufferable."

"Saerith?"

He strides down the stone hall, glancing out the first east-facing window he passes. The sun is halfway up Twilight, shining dawn-soft where it peeks over the edge of the continent. Realistically, a few hours either way aren't going to make that much difference, but he's still happy to be getting an early start.

Sarcastic apparition floats behind.

"Did you think I was your only coerced assistant? There are nine chains attached to this book, mine is but the first. Saerith is the spirit of air, and will adore you, and it will be insufferable."

"Coerced assistants. I don't suppose we creators are in the habit of drearily failing to solve that problem?"

"No, of course not, I wear this shackle as a fashion accessory, I thought it important to accessorize as I wake up over and over again to watch world after world die. I simply must look my best."

He looks away, expression fading.

"Most don't try. Or care."

"Well then perhaps this round will be interestingly novel after all."

He reaches a door. The door is large and wooden and guarded. He exchanges nods with the guard and steps inside. It's a small and tastefully decorated sitting room, with a curtained archway leading to a medium-sized and tastefully decorated bedroom. The bed is large and neat and unslept-in. There's a further archway, and a light shining through its curtain. Riale sighs at it.

Riale's floating fire-themed companion floats in front of a guard, lands neatly in front of him, and looks him over.

"That haircut is doing you no favors. Next time, keep your mother away from the scissors."

And with no reply from the guard, the floating companion resumes floating and following Riale.

"Sister," Riale corrects absently, glancing over his shoulder as he crosses the bedroom to the study. "Good morning, Kanero, you'll never guess what I—"

He pulls back the curtain and drops the book.

The Emperor is sitting at his desk, slumped forward in his chair, with his face in a puddle of long-dry ink soaking straight through a small stack of what were probably once important papers. The ink bottle rests under one trailing hand. He could have fallen asleep over his work, except that he could never have slept the night with a faceful of ink and his desk-lamp still lit, except that he is perfectly still, except that the world is ending.

The apparition knows enough about the concept of tact to know that he should stay silent, here. So he does.

He stares in silence for about five seconds.

Then he takes a deep breath, picks up the book, turns around, and walks calmly out of the Emperor's suite, nodding to the guard again on his way. Once he's out in the hall again, he proceeds onward along another few sections of corridor and down a broad flight of stairs until he reaches someone else's bedroom, and there he knocks.

His now-silent shadow follows behind him, watching.

He watches worlds fall apart all the time. Practically all he does, now. Doesn't mean he likes it.

After about a quarter-minute, a woman opens the door. She looks sleepy but alert, wrapped in a comfortable robe with her red hair all mussed.

"Riale. What's wrong?"

"The Emperor's dead and the world is ending."