The Lost Library was nothing like Evelyne had imagined. The air shimmered with the scent of parchment and ozone, the walls shifting subtly as if alive. Tomes floated lazily mid-air, bound by golden light. Some books whispered to each other; others cried out in languages she didn't understand. It was beautiful and terrifying.
"This place exists outside of time," said Chron, his voice echoing faintly despite standing right beside her. "It is both a sanctuary and a prison."
Evelyne's fingers trailed the edge of a floating book. Her reflection stared back at her from its cover—only, it wasn't quite her. This version wore a crown, her eyes colder, almost... unfeeling.
Alaira, close at her side, reached for Evelyne's hand. "Don't trust everything you see here. The library remembers things that never happened."
Chron nodded. "And forgets things that did."
The three of them walked deeper. The hallway expanded into a cathedral-like chamber, and in its center stood a figure cloaked in starlight, long silver hair flowing like a river down her back. She was neither old nor young, and her eyes held the weight of centuries.
"You've brought her," she said. Her voice was quiet but carried power.
Chron bowed. "As the rules demand."
The woman turned to Evelyne. "You are not from here. You never were. And yet, you are rooted deeply into this world's fate."
"I didn't ask for this," Evelyne said.
"No one ever does. Yet the Rift opened, and you walked through. A soul with borrowed time, wearing a name soaked in blood."
Evelyne stiffened. "I didn't kill anyone. I'm trying to change the ending."
The librarian studied her. "That may be. But your presence destabilizes everything. The prophecy was written for someone else. You… are a glitch."
Silence settled heavily between them.
"What happens if I anchor myself?" Evelyne finally asked. "If I choose to remain here for good?"
"Then the world will begin to write around you," the librarian said. "The timeline will try to adapt. But in doing so, others will be… erased. Realigned. Forgotten."
Alaira's hand tightened. "You're saying she has to choose between herself and everyone else?"
"No," the librarian replied. "She has to choose who remains in her story."
Evelyne's breath caught.
Chron stepped forward. "The anchor is a memory—a choice made permanent. If she binds herself, it must be to a truth she refuses to lose, no matter what the world demands."
The librarian reached into the folds of her cloak and withdrew a key made of light. "You may browse. But be warned—truth has a price. Sometimes, what you find is not what you wish to remember."
Evelyne took the key, her fingers trembling.
"Only you can open the door," the librarian added. "And once it opens, you must walk through."
They moved toward a towering archway. The key pulsed in her hand as she unlocked it. Inside was a chamber of memories—some hers, others not. Evelyne saw herself as a child, then as the cruel noblewoman the original Evelyne had once been. But most vivid of all was a moment:
Alaira's face, flushed after a duel, smiling through bruised lips. Her laughter rang clear as Evelyne offered her a hand.
That moment. That warmth.
A truth she refused to lose.
"She's choosing," Chron whispered.
Evelyne turned, heart pounding. "Can I anchor myself to someone?"
The librarian's eyes softened. "You may. But be certain. The bond will define the shape of the world."
"I choose Alaira," Evelyne said. "Even if everything else changes—I want her to remain."
Alaira looked stunned. "Eve..."
Chron raised his hands. The air warped, and threads of time coiled around them, weaving a knot of magic too deep to undo. The librarian chanted words in a language Evelyne didn't understand, but the moment it was done, she felt it—like a thread pulling tight through her chest, tying her fate not to the plot, but to a person.
The library shimmered.
Reality shifted.
And everything turned white.
When Evelyne awoke, she was standing in the garden of House Marcellus. But it was not quite the same. The roses were wild, untamed. The servants bowed awkwardly, unsure of her status.
And Alaira was there, dressed not in a guard's uniform but in scholar's robes—confused, wary, but still herself.
"You're awake," she said.
"You're here," Evelyne breathed.
Alaira touched her own chest. "I had a dream. You were there. And then… I remembered everything. Even now, I shouldn't. But I do."
Evelyne smiled through tears. "Then the anchor worked."
The world had changed—but Alaira remained. Not as a warrior, not as a follower, but as a constant.
As her truth.
And somewhere, in the depths of the Lost Library, the books began to rewrite themselves.