The world shuffled like a deck handled by a bored god.
Paragraphs tore from walls and swung; the floor slid sideways in neat tiles; the blackout roof skated with a scream of bar-on-bar. Men lurched. Children clutched skirts. The oak-ghost split into three pale silhouettes that didn’t know where to root.
The reader’s hand trembled at the dog-ear.
“Don’t smooth it,” Dominic called, voice steady over the skid. His blade went tip-down into the skittering floor; shadow from Kael lashed his wrist to the ampersand knot. “Whatever moves, that fold stays.”
The Reviser purred like a satisfied binder:
—Cut. Paste. Clarify.
Tiles of scene clicked into wrong places. Supper tables set themselves into empty roads. Beds appeared under the broken oak. The council’s half-circle leapt to the dais that
