If this is a last will and testament then so be it.

The chaff broke through the lines last night. I slept clean through it. Sarah always said I’d sleep through the apocalypse and it looks like she was right.

I woke from a dream of transformation into a world reborn. The sky was a shimmering gold; trees I’d never seen before encapsulated our camp, cutting us off from the rest of our army. A dozen editors meditated in a circle at the heart of the camp, but it was too late. The underpinnings of our world had been changed too drastically to rewrite back to spec.

A despair settled into my bones. Would I ever see Sarah again? Did Sarah still exist?

I wasn’t the only one who felt down. On my way to the edge of camp I passed three men who had slit their own throats, drenched in lavender blood. Their eyes looked like daisies.

The trees had soft spines instead of leaves. They waved like gills.

Plainly the gryphon king had lied: the chaff, like we the harvesters, possessed the technology to edit reality.