A storm rolled in that night—not of thunder, but of whispers.
Throughout the estate, people noticed it: the slight shimmer in candle flames, the odd skips in conversation, the way a word would vanish from the page just after being read. The world was… hiccuping.
"Timeline instability," Evelyne said as she stood beside Alaira on the balcony. "It's getting worse."
They had left Mirena in the west tower with two trusted guards, though trust now felt like a fragile word. The more Mirena remembered, the more the story tried to erase her.
Alaira leaned over the railing. "She mentioned the 'nexus point' again."
Evelyne nodded. "A moment where we can either collapse everything… or escape it. I think it's near."
Alaira didn't answer right away. She was watching the horizon, where lightning flickered without sound.
"You ever wonder what version of us might've lived in the original story?" Alaira asked suddenly.
Evelyne blinked. "You and me?"
"In the first draft—before you woke up here. What were we?"
Evelyne gave a soft, pained laugh. "Probably enemies. Or you were just a background character meant to die protecting me, so I'd spiral dramatically."
Alaira turned to her. "Do you think we would've still found each other?"
Evelyne didn't answer.
Instead, she reached out and gently tucked a strand of Alaira's hair behind her ear.
In that quiet moment, she said, "I like this version better."
—
The next morning, a new visitor arrived—unannounced.
Cloaked in dark red and bearing no crest, the man introduced himself only as Chron.
"Another Curator?" Alaira asked, hand already on her dagger.
"No," he said smoothly. "I'm what happens when Curators start playing favorites."
Evelyne tilted her head. "You're a remnant."
"Something like that." Chron's gaze was sharp, but not cruel. "I've survived three collapses. Each time, I retained… fragments. Like Mirena. Only I stopped trying to follow the story."
"What do you want?" Alaira asked.
Chron stepped forward, eyes meeting Evelyne's.
"To help you break the loop."
—
They convened in the war room, where maps of the known kingdoms lay faded beneath lines of scrawled magical theories and rewritten timelines. Chron pointed to a mark etched near the center.
"This," he said, "is the rift. It's not a place—it's a moment. You're racing toward it."
"How do we survive it?" Evelyne asked.
"You don't," Chron replied. "Not all of you. But someone can pass through. Rewrite the ending from the other side."
Alaira's fists clenched. "You want her to sacrifice herself?"
"No." Chron looked at her, then at Evelyne. "I want you both to choose. That's the only way it will work."
Mirena entered then, pale and shaken.
"It's starting," she said. "The palace just declared Evelyne a traitor."
"Chapter Ten," Evelyne whispered. "The original timeline. It's reasserting itself."
Alaira drew her sword.
"Then let's rewrite it—properly this time."
—
Night fell again, and Evelyne found herself alone in the mirror chamber—the one that shouldn't exist, the one buried in the old wing of the estate. It showed not reflections, but possibilities.
She touched the surface.
Dozens of versions of her looked back—smiling, screaming, dying, laughing. One held Alaira's hand. One held a crown. One lay in chains.
"What am I meant to be?" Evelyne whispered.
Behind her, a voice answered.
"Someone who decides."
She turned. Alaira stood in the doorway, uncertain but unflinching.
Evelyne stepped away from the mirror.
"If we fail, we die."
Alaira stepped closer. "And if we succeed?"
"We live."
Alaira smiled softly. "Then I'm with you. Whatever this becomes."
For a moment, Evelyne thought of kissing her—like a scene in a story. But that wasn't how theirs would begin.
Not yet.
Instead, she took her hand again, warm and real.
And together, they stepped out of the chamber—not as villainess and knight, not as players in a doomed story—
—but as co-authors of the next chapter.