The desk in Benjamin’s study shuddered as Stromwell shut his brother’s book with a slam. His toes curled in his black derby shoes, stretching the leather a bit. Rubbing at his aching head, he could feel it throbbing as he suppressed the urge to make ugly faces. Letting such trivial things get to him was unprofessional, and that only exacerbated his anger.

How dare a mere character in his brother’s tripe speak to him like that? Not clever? Not well performed? Poppycock.

While he didn’t have much time to make a plan, he had taken the opportunity the moment he saw it. And he almost succeeded despite those circumstances. How many of his contemporaries would be capable of that? Few, if any at all.

Without thinking, his wood panel pen was already skillfully twirling around his fingers. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on its soothing clicks and clacks. Getting too engrossed would only blind him. He needed objectivity right now.

This usually calming technique did little for him. No matter how hard he tried to clear his mind, he couldn’t get that stupid scaly face out of his head. He grit his teeth behind his lips as it replayed.

“Why are you here?”

Startled, the wood panel pen fell to the floor as Stromwell looked behind him. That voice belonged to none other than Wendell, another Author in the library.

He was a more ‘casual’ fellow, choosing to pursue slice-of-life stories rather than follow more structured pieces. This applied to how he dressed himself as well, wearing khaki pants and a polo that was one size too large. Grooming was a foreign concept to him with his wild hair and scraggly beard. Stromwell could respect his work ethic, but that was the only compliment he had for him.

“Oh, it’s you,” Stromwell said as he placed a hand over his startled heart.

“Of course it’s me, who else would I be? Never mind that though, what are you doing in Ben’s study?”

Putting on a wholesome face, Stromwell gestured to the table. “I’m just helping him with his book where I can. He could always use some guidance from someone more experienced.”

Wendell crossed his somewhat tanned arms and raised a brow. “Uh-huh. Y’know Stromwell, sometimes people can get by just fine without your ‘guidance’. I would think Ben could handle himself by now.”

“That may be so,” the professional said with a sour expression, “but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t offer it regardless.”

Rolling his eyes, Wendell shrugged. “Whatever dude, I really don’t care. Just strange seeing you here.”

It was a struggle to keep his lip uncurled. Even if it wasn’t technically an insult, getting referred to as ‘dude’ felt just the same to him. He deserved respect as the senior in this exchange. If it would get this nosey man to leave sooner, however, he would let it slide.

“Was there anything else,” Stromwell spoke with an unamused cadence, “or did you just come in here to tell me my presence is weird?”

“There is. Everybody was wondering what you were up to since you haven’t been bugging people around the lounge lately. You aren’t taking a break from Authoring, are you?”

An image Stromwell was painfully aware of. He hadn’t lied earlier when he said he wanted this bet to be over with. Teaching his brother this lesson was coming at the cost of his own projects. To be thought of as a slacker was utterly horrifying, especially if it went all the way to Father. This was unacceptable.

“Of course not, it’s just taking me longer than I expected to help Benjamin. That’s all.”

That seemed to be enough for the intruder who turned to leave. “Alright then, I’ll let everyone know it isn’t a big deal. Catch you later bro.”

Only once the dark wood door had finally been shut did he let his smile down. Not even his brother calls him bro, and this cretin thinks he has the right? Bah!

Now left alone once more, he shifted his attention back to the desk, eyes locked on the book. This was all his fault. Not his brother, he acted just like Stromwell had imagined he would. That dragon, however… His hands strained against his gloves as he clenched them together. This would have all been said and done if he died, but no, he just had to get saved by some random antagonist. He gave him good reason to do away with Ben, and what happens? Getting moralized to by a character who kills sentients at the drop of a hat.

Stooping down to the floor, he scooped up his cherished pen and sat back on the chair. An embarrassing thought rooted in his mind as he looked down at the book: This was personal now. Was it childish, petty, and beneath him to think such a thing about a measly character? Yes, it was. Did that change how demeaning it was to be made a fool of? No, it made it worse. Whipping the book open, he rested the clip of his pen against his chin. The stench of his brother’s writing still seemed to linger on despite his demotion. Simple manipulations weren’t going to produce anything in a world like this one. He had to think bigger without altering what was already here.

His first idea was to provoke the nations into conflict. It got the job done in his own stories, so why not give it a spin here? That lacked the personal aspect he wanted, however, and there wasn’t much he could do to prod the dragon towards it.

Interspecies hatred was another option. It already had plenty of groundwork with what his brother had set up and even looked to be a natural progression. That was the problem with that approach. With how Benjamin wrote things, letting it go ahead as planned might end up helping them more than anything. That may even allow the dragon to finish his arc, and then he’d have lost!

A strike of brilliance took him as he considered his next move. There was one way that he could bring the strengths of the last two options without the negatives. Going back to the index of the book, he placed both hands upon the pages and said the command. “Immerse.”

Sucked into the book once more, he looked around himself to confirm where he was. Clouds rolled beneath him and held up seven huge, ornate thrones. Sat upon them were the still and unmoving bodies of this world’s pantheon. To Benjamin’s credit, they were more abstract than Stromwell had expected them to look.

That was beside the point. In the background of this setting, they had all left the world behind. That wasn’t what actually happened. From what he had gathered, his brother made his deities more like puppets than actual characters. They lacked wills of their own and only existed to spruce up the plot. Once their purpose was served, here they would stay until needed again.

The beautiful part is that they’ve always been here. He wouldn’t be adding anything that his dear brother hadn’t already.

Having the gods return would spark conflicts all over, and it would certainly ensnare that meddlesome reptile. Nations, species, denominations; all would collide.

Best of all is how it would affect that protagonist personally. Envisioning the crushed look as Kinsoriel’s religion fell before him was almost enough to bring a tear to his eye.

With a click of his pen, he began to write.