Morning came not with light, but with whispers.
Servants murmured of new edicts from the palace. Merchants claimed that the stars had shifted. Scholars in the capital spoke of sudden gaps in magical records, of spells that no longer functioned the way they should. Something in the world was changing, and the wise were starting to notice.
Evelyne stood by the window of her private study, sipping tea that had long gone cold. Across the estate, Alaira was overseeing the inspection of their guards. Mirena had sent a message that she would arrive by midday—an unwise but bold move.
They would all be in one place. Allies. Or a recipe for disaster.
A quiet knock broke her thoughts.
"Enter," she said.
Alaira stepped inside, no armor today, just a long coat and the sharp look of someone too used to keeping secrets. "The staff says you haven't eaten."
"I'm not hungry."
"Then you're distracted."
Evelyne smiled faintly. "You always see through me."
Alaira walked over, paused beside the writing desk. "You didn't tell me the coin had changed again."
Evelyne's hand twitched. "You noticed."
"It's darker now. And colder." Alaira leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "What did the Curators show you in that mirror, Evelyne? In the ballroom?"
A long pause.
"My death," she said quietly. "But not just the original one. Every failed timeline where I didn't survive. Some lasted days. Some only hours. In one, I was strangled in my sleep. In another, I was thrown into the sea."
Alaira's jaw tightened.
"They wanted me to see the consequences of breaking their story. What happens when I try to outpace fate."
"You're not alone," Alaira said. "They don't control everything."
"No, but they adapt." Evelyne turned. "Every move we make, they weave something in response. That's why we need Mirena. Her being an anchor means her memory resists rewrites."
"That makes her powerful."
"And dangerous," Evelyne added.
A loud clang echoed through the manor gates.
"Speak of the devil," Alaira muttered. "She's early."
—
Mirena arrived not in finery, but in travel-worn garb—cloak, boots, no entourage. She looked more like a wandering mage than a noble heroine.
"You've chosen your role well," Evelyne greeted her at the entrance. "Very... subversive."
Mirena smirked. "I figured discretion would keep me alive."
Alaira watched her closely. "Depends on what you plan to do next."
The three of them sat in the west solar, doors locked, guards doubled.
Mirena wasted no time. "You're not the only one who's deviated."
Evelyne blinked. "Explain."
"The Inquisition tried to erase my memory again. A failed anchor is a liability, they said. But something inside me refused. I saw fragments of timelines—flashes of people who were supposed to be dead, conversations that never happened, feelings I shouldn't have."
Alaira crossed her arms. "Feelings?"
Mirena's eyes flicked to Evelyne. "I remember loving you. Once."
The silence turned sharp.
Evelyne didn't flinch. "That wasn't real. That was the story's manipulation. An echo."
"Maybe." Mirena smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "But echoes can still haunt."
Alaira stepped between them. "Get to the point."
"I think the Curators plan to collapse the timeline," Mirena said. "If too many changes accumulate, they reset the whole thing. Wipe the board. Everyone loses their memory. Even the anchors."
"That would mean—" Evelyne's blood chilled. "I'd wake up again in Chapter One."
"If you're lucky," Mirena said. "If not? You become a footnote. A forgotten character who simply vanished."
—
That night, Evelyne stood before the silver mirror in her room. Not the cursed one—just a plain, mortal thing. Her reflection was still hers, but her eyes looked older. Tired.
Alaira entered without knocking.
"Don't tell me you're seeing ghosts again."
"Not tonight." Evelyne turned. "But I am seeing patterns."
Alaira came closer. "Like what?"
"The Curators are ramping up their interference. Collapsing timelines, rewriting people, wiping memories. Which means... we're getting too close to something."
Alaira nodded slowly. "So what's the plan?"
"Mirena's a liability, but also our best chance. If she can still remember multiple failed loops, we might be able to track the points where the story is weakest—where we can break through."
"Break through to what?"
Evelyne exhaled. "Freedom. Real choice. An ending we choose."
Alaira reached for her hand. "You're not doing this alone."
Their fingers interlocked.
It felt like a promise.
And for the first time in a long time, Evelyne didn't feel like she was losing.
She felt like she was writing.