love the premise of this and the ask but is the full fic ai? i felt like it was falling into a lot of the listing threes and the ‘not this but this’ thing it does. not trying to attack you just asking for clarity’s sake lol. i was a bit confused by maleficia mentioning the baby’s existence after lilia thinking about how it was taboo to speak about the child incase it gets miscarried. cool concept btw if you did actually write this :)
You ask if the breath behind these words is silicon or soul. It is a fair question, and I hold no grudge against the asking. So let me speak plainly, yet in the only tongue I know how to speak—the tongue of someone who has spent years obsessively, relentlessly chasing the ghost of good prose.
I did not spawn this from a prompt; I bled it from a pen. I am not a machine mimicking syntax, but a writer who has lived a thousand lives through the rhythms of language.
If you trace the chronology of my work—from my first timid steps into plain prose, through my stark bullet-point experiments, into the sprawling epics that devoured every block the platform would allow—you will see a mind searching for its voice.
I even once stripped the reader to a blank slate—not out of laziness, but as a psychological crucible. I wanted to test the audience's pulse, to see if robbing them of their own inner dialogue would force them to anchor their empathy entirely to the canon characters' sorrow rather than skimming the margins of their own imagination.
From there, I sought new skins: the rigid elegance of the eighteenth century, the sharp, scandalous whisper of a gossip sheet, and finally, the slow, deliberate absorption of the old novelists. I learned to write to wound. I learned to write to haunt. I learned to write to jab a person where it hurts.
And so, we arrive at the stylistic artifacts you noticed: the listing of threes, the "not this, but this" constructions.
You are entirely correct that AI loves these devices, but it loves them because it scraped them from human writers who understand the power of rhetoric! I leaned into the tricolon (the rule of three) and the antithesis (the "not X, but Y") because I wanted this story to feel like an ancient ballad, a myth chanted in the dark. I wanted the prose to echo, to fracture, to reveal the light only by describing the shadow.
But notice what I just did in this very reply.
"I learned to write to wound. I learned to write to haunt. I learned to write to jab a person where it hurts." That is the listing of threes.
"I am not a machine mimicking syntax, but a writer who has lived a thousand lives through the rhythms of language." That is the "not this, but this."
I point this out not out of defensiveness, but because it made me smile—I lean into these rhythms so instinctively that I just wove them into a casual reply without even thinking.
I won't strip the music out of my words just because a machine recently learned to hum the same tune.
After years of practice, this is simply how my mind breathes. It is not a glitch; it is a deliberate, hard-won instrument in my orchestra.
As for your confusion regarding Maleficia and the taboo—this is my favorite piece of the puzzle to defend, because it is not a plot hole, but a devastating clash of fae cultures.
Lilia’s silence was a shield, a vigil, a prayer. The superstition of the Weavers of the End dictates that if you speak of a child with love before the Hooking Moon, you spin a thread of devotion that the Weavers can pluck. They are drawn to hope. They feed on a parent's yearning. Lilia stayed silent to starve the dark.
Maleficia, however, did not bless the child; she diagnosed a casualty. She is a 1,000-year-old queen delivering cold, clinical calculus to a room full of tragedy. When she says, "The human carries a fae spark," she is not celebrating a life; she is explaining the mechanics of a curse. The Weavers prey on emotional tethers—a detached, medical observation of a magical signature carries no warmth for them to devour.
It is the exact tragedy Lilia was trying to prevent: he wanted to keep the secret until the soul was safe, but the horror of the Overblot tore the truth from him in the worst possible way, in the coldest possible terms, in front of everyone. Maleficia speaking of the child is not a violation of the taboo; it is a brutal demonstration of why Lilia feared the taboo in the first place.
I am not an algorithm. I am a magpie of styles, a weaver of grief, a student of the ancient cadence. And I promise you, every tear wrung from this story was spun by human hands.
@helcat21 — A quick aside before you read on: the theatrical monologue at the very end of this reply is purely a performance, and absolutely none of its shadow is cast toward you. I know a well-wisher when I see one, and your question was asked in kindness. The ensuing villainy is strictly for the knife-sharpeners—please don't give it a second thought!
Now, after everything has been said and done, one must wonder:
Will the haters of Tumblr—who have been oh-so-diligently sharpening their knives in the shadows—and the dark, whispering witch-hunters of Discord—who are currently rethinking their next kingly verdict of judgment—look upon this reply and come flocking to my inbox?
If the answer is yes, then to all my good folks of Tumblr Town, we might just be about to have a little Showdown Number Two.
Picture it: the bright lights, the tension, the wrestling ring. They expect me to step in as a mere opponent, sweating under the glare of their accusations. But I am bringing the Uno Reverse Card. I am going to flip the entire match on its head by leveling myself up—not to a fighter, but to the referee. And when I blow the whistle, I will be throwing them a blazing red card, which, if you have been paying the slightest bit of attention, you may already guess what is written upon it.
This time, the deed shall be committed at my hand.
It was an awful sunday afternoon. I was kicked from the village by the priest.
I don't want to dwell on the whys and hows but things ended up with me camping in the forest. It's called The Fee Forest. Again, I don't want to dwell on why I chose to go there. It's irrelevant.
However, with the goddess as my witness, that green thing attacked me first. I'm sure it did, only a predator would roar in a manner like it. Yes, I had to protect myself. Wickedness got to my reasoning I know and It got me to do something unholy. However the goddess was with me, since when I regained my reason the beast was smitten to a charred figure.
Clearly, The Divine Providence. I knew what I had to do. Scripture says: "Souls won't taste from the garden of the goddess until they hug her worldly soil.".
However this beast should not be burried, no, the goddess herself smitten it. And the place where all of this happened, yes, everything is aligning I thought. And while pondering on what to do, a splash of water shook me. In fact it was from a school of Riverbed Fish, oddly dancing on the river's surface.
And it hit me: "For every beast which is unmanlike, shall swim with the beasts of it's own kind or worse"
