The sun filtered weakly through the towering windows of the High Arcanum, casting golden light across the velvet drapes and polished floors. Evelyne stood motionless, fingers lightly grazing the cold marble balustrade. The city below, familiar yet different, buzzed with an energy she couldn't quite place—like a song played off-key. She recognized the buildings, the layout of the streets, the chime of the tower bells, but it all felt... hollow.
"You're thinking too loudly again," Alaira said behind her, approaching with her usual silent grace. The woman carried two steaming mugs, placing one beside Evelyne.
"How do you know it's not just the city echoing back at me?" Evelyne asked, taking the cup with a grateful nod. The tea was mint and something darker—licorice root perhaps. It grounded her.
Alaira leaned against the stone balustrade beside her, facing the morning sun. "Because I know what you sound like when you're anxious. You hum in your throat."
Evelyne blinked. "I do?"
"Mm-hmm."
She offered no further commentary, letting the silence stretch between them, filled only by the distant cries of merchants and the occasional clatter of hooves on cobblestones. After a long moment, Evelyne turned toward her.
"They're calling me a traitor now."
Alaira looked at her, eyes unreadable. "And yet here we are, in the palace library tower, not in a dungeon."
"Chron said the timeline was soft… that things weren't settled yet." Evelyne wrapped her hands around the warm mug, its heat anchoring her. "I think we're still in flux. Still being judged."
"Then we make our case."
Evelyne tilted her head. "You make that sound easy."
"It's not. But it's possible. We'll gather allies. Remind the people who you are."
"But I'm not the same Evelyne they remember. And in this version, I might've committed treason—what if they're right? What if I'm guilty here of something I don't even remember doing?"
Alaira placed a firm hand over hers. "You're Evelyne now. And you are not that woman."
The words rooted in her chest like seeds taking hold.
A knock echoed from the lower stairwell, sharp and urgent. Evelyne and Alaira exchanged glances. Alaira moved first, drawing her blade—just in case. They descended carefully, each step echoing louder than it should have.
At the door stood a girl—no older than seventeen, cloaked in soot and travel-dust. Her hands trembled around a rolled parchment sealed with a crimson sigil: the crest of House Verdaine.
Evelyne froze. That was her mother's house. Her real mother. The one from before she died and woke in this world.
"You have to come," the girl rasped. "It's starting again. The fractures…"
Alaira reached out, steadying the girl. "Breathe. Who sent you?"
The girl looked up, eyes wide and far too old for her face. "Chron."
The tavern beneath the cliffside glowed dimly with enchanted lanterns. Evelyne stirred the fire with a poker, watching the embers dance. Chron had arranged the meeting in a place outside the capital, in the Rift's shadow. The irony wasn't lost on her.
Chron arrived precisely on time, stepping from shadow into lamplight as though it bent to accommodate him. His presence still stirred the air like a ripple in a still pond.
"You're stabilizing faster than expected," he said as he sat.
Evelyne didn't smile. "You sent a child to fetch me."
"She's older than you think. Time in the fractures isn't linear."
Alaira narrowed her eyes. "And why summon us now?"
Chron folded his hands on the table. "Because the cracks are widening. And you're the only constant between them."
Evelyne's breath hitched. "What does that mean?"
"You," he said slowly, "are the variable every version of this world hinges upon. Whether you die, live, betray, love, or redeem—each choice you make sends ripples. But you are always the axis."
Alaira bristled. "Then why not end it? Why not pull her out?"
"Because pulling her out breaks everything," Chron replied. "The world won't survive the vacuum."
A silence fell. Evelyne broke it. "Then what do you want from me?"
Chron studied her, something unreadable in his gaze. "I want you to do what you've already begun. Rewrite the story. Not just to survive—but to remake the world."
Alaira glanced between them. "And what does that mean exactly?"
"It means," Chron said, standing, "the next step is yours. You've rewritten fate once. Now you must anchor it. Or this timeline collapses like all the others."
He vanished, light flickering where he'd stood.
That night, sleep eluded Evelyne.
She sat in the tower again, the same mug cold in her hands. Alaira joined her eventually, draping a shawl around her shoulders without speaking.
"What if I fail again?" Evelyne whispered.
"You won't."
"You sound sure."
"I know you."
They watched the stars in silence. Below, the city sparkled like it was alive.
"I want to believe this world can be more," Evelyne said. "Not just a broken loop."
Alaira smiled faintly. "Then let's make it more."
For the first time in days, Evelyne reached for her hand—and Alaira didn't hesitate.