The hall was too quiet.
Evelyne's footsteps echoed against the marble as she crossed the familiar yet unfamiliar corridor of the high council's manor. It had once been the heart of her downfall—the place where noblemen had whispered her fate with sneering grins and veiled daggers. But today, it pulsed with a different kind of silence. Not plotting. Not disdain.
Fear.
Alaira walked beside her, armored now—not in steel, but in clarity. She had not left Evelyne's side since the Rift. Her presence was a wordless declaration: "You are not alone." Yet Evelyne's heart thudded like a war drum.
As they entered the council chamber, the lords did not rise. The gesture—subtle, almost invisible—carried weight. An old world rule, still clinging to life.
At the far end, Lord Beran shifted. In this timeline, he bore no smile, no reverence.
"You are not Evelyne di Asterin," he said without preamble. "Not the one we knew."
Evelyne raised her chin. "She's dead. I live in her place."
He studied her, the deep lines in his face drawing like sword cuts. "That's the problem, Lady Evelyne."
She didn't flinch. "You fear me."
"No," he said. "We fear what you've brought back."
Alaira stepped forward, hand resting casually on the hilt of her blade. "Watch your words."
Beran didn't waver. "The Rift was not meant to be touched. Do you think time is forgiving? That fate forgets?"
"Time is unraveling," Evelyne said softly. "I saw it in the void. The timelines are colliding. If I had not acted—"
"If you had not acted, the world would still have its laws. Its order."
"Order?" she snapped, temper flaring. "Like the order that damned me before I ever drew breath?"
The council murmured.
Beran stood slowly. "You've returned with knowledge that doesn't belong here. You shift with every step you take. Your memories stretch across lives, don't they?"
Her breath caught.
"Your eyes flicker with things no one has said. You speak of events that have not happened. Even now… look around you."
She turned.
And the council hall was… rippling.
A breath too long, a banner fluttering backwards. Alaira's shadow moved half a second before her arm.
No one else saw it. Or pretended not to.
"I thought it was me," Evelyne whispered.
"It is," Beran said.
Later, in the tower chamber they now shared, Evelyne paced. The fire cast long shadows across the stone walls. Alaira sat with arms crossed, watching her.
"I didn't think they'd notice," Evelyne muttered. "I thought I had more time."
"Time isn't ours anymore," Alaira said. "It hasn't been since you touched the Rift."
Evelyne stopped pacing. "What do I do? If I stay, I tear at the world. If I leave—"
"You'll die," Alaira finished, quiet.
Silence stretched. Then:
"I'm not letting that happen."
Alaira rose. Her voice had always been soft when no one listened, but now it thundered in the stillness.
"Every version of you I've known," she said, stepping closer, "whether cruel, kind, broken, or brilliant—has been worth fighting for."
Evelyne's eyes burned. "You knew me in other timelines?"
"I remember flashes. Dreams. Your voice screaming as you fell. The way your laugh sounded when you weren't pretending. Every version of you chose to change. That has to matter."
The fire crackled between them. Evelyne stepped forward, just once. Her hand found Alaira's without thinking.
"It does matter," she whispered. "But I don't know how long I can hold this."
"Then let's find the anchor."
"The what?"
Alaira pulled a folded parchment from her cloak. "Chron left this. Before he vanished."
Evelyne opened it. The writing shimmered and shifted.
"Anchor the self to truth, or the world will bend until it breaks. The Rift has memory. Seek the heart of your story."
"Seek the library that remembers what you forgot."
Evelyne closed her eyes. "The Lost Library…"
"It doesn't exist," Alaira said.
"Not yet," Evelyne replied. "But we're going to find it."