The Rift closed with a soft hiss behind them, its glow fading like a dying ember. Silence reigned in its wake, eerie and thick as fog. Evelyne staggered forward, catching herself on Alaira's arm. The ground felt real beneath her feet—solid, unchanging—but the air tasted different. Sharper. Off.
"We're back?" Evelyne asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Chron stood still beside them, his eyes glowing a dull silver, dimmer than before. "Yes," he said. "But you must understand—back is never the same twice."
They were in the rose garden again, where the curse had first whispered into Evelyne's bones on her first day as the villainess. The hedges were still pruned to perfection. The scent of old petals lingered. Yet something was wrong. The sky was too still. The statues lining the path faced away from the palace now, not toward it.
"We should get inside," Alaira said, her voice quiet but firm. She hadn't let go of Evelyne's arm. "If we've changed the timeline... then nothing and no one is safe."
They passed a servant—someone Evelyne recognized, but who bowed with too much formality and too little familiarity. A new kind of fear crept under her skin.
"Did I do it wrong?" she murmured to Chron as they walked. "Did I not change enough—or too much?"
"You rewrote what was written in blood," Chron replied softly. "Time resists, but it also listens. The consequences unfold in ripples. Some are soft. Some are... not."
They reached her chambers. Or what should have been her chambers. The guards stationed at the door looked at her with confusion, and then concern.
"Lady Evelyne?" one said. "You were supposed to be exiled."
Alaira stiffened. "What?"
Evelyne blinked. "Exiled?"
"Two weeks ago," the other guard confirmed, "by order of the Crown Prince. You disappeared before the escort arrived. There was an investigation... most assumed you fled."
Evelyne exchanged a glance with Chron. He said nothing, simply raised an eyebrow as if to say: This is what it means to shift the thread.
Inside, the chamber was dusty, untouched. A hollow feeling welled up in her chest. This was her home. Should have been her safe space. But it had been abandoned, forgotten by the timeline she now occupied.
Alaira paced the room, visibly agitated. "We need to know who's still on your side. If anyone."
"There's someone I need to see," Evelyne said. "My sister."
"Lady Mirelle?" Alaira's voice trembled with uncertainty. "You don't know if she's still your ally here."
"I have to try."
They moved cautiously through the palace, avoiding key corridors, taking servant paths Evelyne remembered from her first days in this world. She didn't dare act like royalty—not anymore. They passed portraits that hadn't been there before. A different queen. A different general. Whole people had been rearranged in their places like dolls on a shelf.
When they found Mirelle's chambers, Evelyne hesitated before knocking. The door opened too quickly.
Her sister looked different.
Older? Colder?
But still her.
"Mirelle," Evelyne said.
The woman blinked. "...You're alive?"
Evelyne nodded.
Mirelle grabbed her and pulled her inside. "They'll kill you if they find you."
"So you're still—"
"No," her sister cut in. "I don't know who you are in this version of our lives, Evelyne, but you've hurt people. You betrayed House Verenth. You sided with the prince's enemies. You made a deal with the rebels before disappearing."
"That's not me," Evelyne said quietly.
"It was." Mirelle's gaze was sharp. "But maybe not anymore."
Alaira stepped into the room. Mirelle took her in quickly, her eyes narrowing. "You brought her back too? The guard who tried to stop your arrest?"
Evelyne's heart sank.
"She's saved me more times than I can count," she said. "That's all you need to know."
Mirelle shook her head. "The court is divided. The prince has declared you a traitor, but the duchess of Ardeen believes you were framed. If you want to stay alive, you'll need to prove your innocence again... from scratch."
"Then I will," Evelyne said. "I'll rewrite that, too."
She turned to Chron. "What else has changed?"
Chron stepped forward, lips thin. "The death you escaped... someone else took your place. The thread does not break—it swaps."
Evelyne went cold. "Who?"
Chron's gaze darkened. "Lady Vivessa. Your old rival. She died in your place."
Silence fell. Evelyne's chest tightened. She had never liked Vivessa—but she'd never wished death on her.
"Time is not merciful," Chron continued. "You took a future. Another was given yours. There will be balance. There will always be a cost."
Later that night, in a small abandoned chapel on the palace outskirts, Evelyne sat beside Alaira beneath stained glass lit only by moonlight.
"I thought I was saving myself," she whispered. "But I don't know what I've done."
Alaira reached over, took her hand. Held it, firm and warm.
"You gave yourself a chance," she said. "We'll deal with the rest together."
In that quiet space, where no one demanded they be villainess or guard or traitor or savior, Evelyne allowed herself a moment of stillness. A moment where she was not afraid.
And in that moment—just for a heartbeat—she leaned into Alaira's shoulder, eyes fluttering closed.
The world was still unstable.
But this—
This felt real.