Chapter 11 — Like Déjà Vu, But Louder
Elaine woke with a start.
Not the kind of cinematic gasp with wide eyes and dramatic music—more like the awkward jolt of a cat who realizes it fell asleep in the middle of a crowded room. Groggy. Alarmed. And vaguely insulted by her own vulnerability.
She sat up, breath catching in her throat.
Same ceiling. Same guest room in the east wing. Same ridiculously embroidered curtains someone once described as "tastefully royal," though they looked more like a fabric crime scene.
But something had changed.
The air felt... aligned. Like puzzle pieces had stopped spinning in her head and clicked into place.
It was subtle. No glowing runes or magic surges. Just a shift behind her ribs, like the world was no longer pulling her backward.
Time was moving forward.
For the first time since arriving in this story-turned-reality, she didn't feel like a ghost skimming through someone else's memories. This wasn't a replay. It wasn't déjà vu.
It was new.
Elaine touched her chest, as if that would confirm what she already knew. The future hadn't been written yet. Not in the book. Not in her heart.
"Forward," she whispered, letting the word roll off her tongue like honey and fire. "Finally."
Then came the knock.
Three short, polite raps.
Familiar.
Elaine froze. Her eyes darted to the door.
When she opened it, he stood there.
Lior.
Not the cold, unfamiliar knight from their so-called "first" meeting. And not the tender man from the end of the story either.
This was someone in between.
His eyes lingered a moment too long on her face. His stance—casual, uncertain. His fingers twitched at his side, curling as though trying to grasp a memory just out of reach.
"You slept in," he said, voice neutral but softer than usual.
Elaine blinked. "I—I did?"
He held up a scroll. "You promised to meet me in the library. Something about diagrams and 'preventing magical combustion with better punctuation.'"
She stared at him.
"You remembered that?"
He shrugged. "I remember… odd things. Around you."
Her breath caught.
He didn't remember everything.
But he remembered something.
"Sorry," she said, brushing sleep from her eyes. "Guess I lost track of time."
Lior raised an eyebrow. "For someone obsessed with time, you're shockingly bad at keeping it."
She gave him a dry look. "Low blow, Commander."
"You love it."
And she did. She loved every flicker of recognition in his gaze. Every sarcastic jab that came too naturally to be coincidence. Like reflex. Like muscle memory.
Like the soul remembered what the mind could not.
They walked together, shoulders bumping once, twice. Neither stepped away.
The library greeted them in its usual quiet splendor—dusty tomes, soft lamplight, and that warm scent of ink and forgotten hours. Lior pulled out a chair for her, surprising her into a blink.
"Who are you," she said slowly, "and what have you done with my emotionally constipated love interest?"
"I can be polite," he muttered.
She narrowed her eyes. "You also never used to bring me tea without verbally assaulting my taste."
He set a cup beside her. "I still think you drink leaves soaked in regret."
"There he is," she said with a grin.
They worked in silence after that. Scribbling notes. Flipping pages. Existing in the same breath of time. Not backward. Not looped. Not rehearsed.
Forward.
Elaine paused once, sensing him looking at her.
"Do I have ink on my face again?" she asked without glancing up.
"No," Lior said quietly. "I just… feel like I've known you longer than I should."
She looked up.
Their eyes met.
A beat passed.
"You have," she whispered.
And this time—this first time—she didn't cry.
Because this wasn't the end replaying itself.
This was the prologue to something new.
And she was finally writing it with him.
Together.