Destiny Needs Better Architects

Tobias had been staring at the parchment for ten minutes when the Keeper finally spoke.

"You can't do this."

He didn't look up. The prophecy was written in the old script, the kind that moved if you watched it long enough. The child born under the seventh moon shall tear the veil. Kingdoms will drown in starlight. The world ends in song. He'd read it a hundred times. It still said the same thing.

"I have to try."

The Archive was cold. It was always cold. Shelves stretched up into darkness, packed with scrolls and books and tablets that recorded every destiny ever written. Most of them had already happened. A few were still waiting. This one was three days old.

The Keeper materialized across the table from him. She was translucent, barely there. "The Council will kill you for this."

"Probably." Tobias reached into his bag and pulled out a small bottle. The ink inside looked black at first, but when he tilted it, colors swirled through it. Moonstone dust, mostly. Some other things he'd rather not think about too hard. It had taken him six months to make. "But that baby doesn't deserve to die because some ancient scribe had a vision."

"The prophecy doesn't say she dies."

"It says she destroys the world. Same result." He uncorked the bottle. The smell was strange. Sweet, but wrong somehow. "She's three days old. Her mother's name is Elena. She lives in a fishing village on the coast. I was there when the baby was born."

The Keeper's eyes narrowed. "You went to see her?"

"I had to know if it was real." Tobias set down the bottle and pulled out a pen. Not a quill. A pen, the modern kind with a metal nib. He'd brought it specifically for this. "The baby has her mother's eyes. She was crying when I got there, but Elena got her to calm down. Normal kid. Completely normal."

"Until the seventh moon rises and she tears open reality."

"Unless I change the prophecy."

The Keeper laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "That's not how this works. Prophecies aren't suggestions. They're fixed points. The universe writes them, not us. We just record them."

Tobias dipped the pen in the ink. His hand was steady. He'd practiced this. "Everything's just language. Prophecies are sentences. Sentences can be edited."

"You'll break causality."

"Good. Causality is what's going to kill that kid." He leaned over the parchment. The first word he needed to change was right there at the start of the second line. Shall. Such a small word. So much weight on it.

The Keeper reached out like she might stop him, but her hand passed through the table. She had no real form anymore. Just consciousness, bound to the Archive. "Tobias, please. Think about what you're doing."

"I have thought about it. For six months." He touched the pen to the parchment.

The reaction was immediate. The parchment screamed. Not metaphorically. It made a sound like tearing metal, high and sharp. Tobias gritted his teeth and kept going. The ink from his pen hit the word "shall" and the letters started to smoke.

Around him, books fell off shelves. The temperature dropped another ten degrees. Somewhere in the Archive, something exploded. The Keeper was shouting, but he couldn't hear her over the sound of the parchment.

He crossed out "shall." Wrote "may" in its place.

The child born under the seventh moon may tear the veil.

The screaming stopped.

Tobias pulled back, breathing hard. His hand ached. The pen felt hot in his fingers. The word "may" sat on the parchment in his strange ink, glowing slightly.

"What did you just do?" The Keeper was staring at him.

"Changed a verb." He looked down at the prophecy. The other words were still moving, rearranging themselves around the change. Trying to compensate. "It's not done yet."

He bent back over the parchment. His nose was bleeding. He wiped it with his sleeve and kept writing.

Kingdoms will drown in starlight became Kingdoms may survive the starlight. He had to cross out three words and add two new ones. The parchment fought him. The ink tried to evaporate before it could set. He had to write each letter twice.

His vision blurred. The pen was getting heavier. Or his hand was getting weaker. Hard to tell.

The world ends in song was the last line. The worst line. He stared at it. Three days ago, those words had been inevitable. Now they were just probable. He could feel the difference. The whole Archive could feel it. The air was thinner. Less certain.

He crossed out "ends" and wrote "transforms."

The parchment went white-hot. Tobias jerked back, but not before the heat seared his palm. He dropped the pen. It clattered on the table, the metal nib smoking.

For a long moment, nothing happened. The Archive was absolutely silent.

Then the parchment cooled. The words settled. Tobias picked it up with his good hand and read it.

The child born under the seventh moon may tear the veil. Kingdoms may survive the starlight. The world transforms in song.

Not perfect. Not safe. But not certain death either.

"You actually did it." The Keeper sounded amazed. Or horrified. Maybe both.

Tobias set down the parchment. His burned hand throbbed. His head felt like someone had driven a spike through it. He was pretty sure he'd aged about twenty years in the last five minutes. "I did."

"The Council—"

"Can come find me if they want." He stood up. His knees nearly buckled. He grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself. "I'll be in that fishing village. Someone should tell Elena her daughter has a chance now."

"A chance to what?"

"To choose." Tobias picked up his bag. Left the pen and the ink. He wouldn't need them again. Either this worked or it didn't. "Isn't that all anyone really wants?"

The Keeper didn't answer. She was looking at the shelves. Other prophecies were starting to glow. Not much. Just a little. Like they'd noticed something had changed.

Tobias walked to the door. Each step hurt. Outside, the world was waiting. Still intact. Still turning. A baby girl was probably crying right now, hungry or tired or just because that's what babies did. Her mother would pick her up. Feed her. Love her.

And maybe, when the seventh moon rose, nothing would happen. Or something would happen, but it wouldn't be the end of everything. It would just be a girl, making a choice, living a life that was hers.

Tobias opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight. It was afternoon. His shadow stretched long behind him. He started walking.

Behind him, in the Archive, the Keeper stood alone. She looked at the prophecy Tobias had changed. Then she looked at the pen he'd left behind.

She picked it up.

The ink bottle was still half full.

There were a lot of prophecies in the Archive. Thousands of them. Most were small. A merchant losing a ship. A farmer's drought. A soldier's death. Little tragedies that added up to an ocean of inevitable suffering.

She dipped the pen in the ink.

The nib was still warm.

She reached for the nearest scroll and began to write.