There it was—the paper creature. A clumsily folded airplane. Impossible for it to reach a high window. That was Alicia's assumption. But more unsettling than that was knowing who had sent it, and why.
She unfolded it.
Inside was a note in shaky handwriting:
"Walk toward the path beside the mill. At sunset. I will bring the truth. – Antoine"
There was no signature, but none was needed. Alicia knew immediately it was from Antoine. And with that certainty, a chill swept over her. It ran from her toes to her scalp—and back again. Was Antoine Goliath, and she David? Or would this meeting be something more equal?
Despite all the dark intrigue surrounding the Dessendre estate, nothing about Antoine suggested he was a manipulator or a killer. But… maybe his power wasn't his own. Maybe it was being used. Still, those were only conjectures. Alicia needed certainty—for herself, and for Clea.
When the appointed hour drew near, Alicia used all her stealth to slip out of the mansion unseen. She no longer had Maelle's powers, but she remembered how to move her muscles silently, to become unnoticed.
The sky was ablaze in orange and violet when Alicia arrived along the path. Her sketchbook hung from her arm. Each of her steps was quiet but heavy with what she could not say aloud.
Antoine stood there. Beside a mossy stone wall. He had deep circles under his eyes, but a firmness in his shoulders Alicia didn't remember. At his feet, two bundles of papers tied together with simple string. One with yellow pages splattered in blue ink; the other, torn white sheets, stained around the edges.
"Thank you for coming," Antoine said. His voice was soft, deeper than months ago, but with restrained urgency.
Alicia quickly scribbled into her notebook:
"Was it you? The fire? The Writers? And... Verso?"
Antoine shook his head desperately, his hands trembling. He had to be honest—at least in part. First, he had to show that, despite everything, he had never wanted any of this. He admired the Dessendres. Just as Alicia once had the urge to write, all Antoine ever wanted was to paint his days.
He took a breath. His muscles tensed, and his face flushed.
"No! I could never do that. They ordered me to... write a robbery. Just a simple heist. But they never said where... or from whom. But... I already knew you. And… that was the perfect link. All they had to do was fill in the blanks. And that's exactly what they did..."
He stopped. Swallowed hard. His eyes sought hers but stopped just short of meeting them.
"I never imagined they'd recreate a scene inside your family's house, using my memories. They used what I saw. What I felt when I greeted you. When I met your family, eight years ago. Everything. So... it wasn't just a robbery, in the end."
His voice cracked. He looked at Alicia with difficulty. Her face reflected fury, pain, disappointment—her single tearful eye said it all. And that broke Antoine more than anything. He had to keep going. He had to be honest.
"It was a murder."
Alicia stepped closer. The drafts were poorly stitched together, untitled, coverless. The pages rustled in the wind. She touched Antoine's arm with determination. Looked him in the eye with her single, condemning gaze.
Maybe he wasn't fully responsible—but he was the one who could answer. Answer for her, for Clea, for their parents. And one day, go to Verso's grave and apologize. For himself, for his family. And face justice. Alicia was certain of that.
Then came a dry noise. Footsteps. Heavy breathing. The kind of fury that arrives before the storm. Because Clea could be a storm when she wanted to.
"ALICIA!"
She arrived running down the path, Renoir panting behind her. Without hesitation, Clea grabbed Antoine by the shirt and slammed him against the wall. Her eyes burned with rage.
"Tell me the truth, damn you! What did you write? What did you do to our family?!"
"You don't understand!" Antoine cried. "It was Dante! My father! I… I came to explain everything. To help you. So that we—the three of us—take responsibility."
Alicia, trembling, grabbed Clea's arm and scribbled furiously:
"Clea, listen to him."
Antoine, still gasping, lifted a trembling arm holding the manuscripts.
"These… take them, Alicia. They're yours. Here's what my father is really plotting. Here are the names of the disappeared. And…" —he turned his elbow, revealing the back of the massive draft— "...and here is the world they've created. And he's in it."
Clea heard that last part like a slap to the face. Did this idiot really think putting Verso in a book fixed everything? Another prison for Alicia. Another way to trap her in a cycle of pain and denial.
"You piece of shit!" she screamed.
Still gripping him, she shoved his arm. The papers flew. The strings broke. Pages spun in the air like leaves in autumn. They whirled like the blades of some hidden mechanism.
There was a hum. Then a soft explosion. And the air grew thick.
The sheer power of that moment was chilling. Just pages hitting the ground—yet they caused a quake. Renoir shivered.
But that tremble was nothing compared to what came next.
They were gone.
Alicia. Clea. Antoine.
No need to guess, no matter how fantastic it seemed.
"They're…" Renoir said, stunned. "They're inside the manuscripts. A blend of memory, chaos, form."
Aline called out as she approached with two housemaids. Renoir turned to her, worry twisting his smile into something hollow.
"They're there. They went into the books."
Aline could only cover her mouth with a trembling hand. The maids began gathering the scattered pages. All of them helped.
And then, everything changed.
**
When Alicia opened her eyes, they were no longer on the path. The scent of sea and blood hit first. Then a roar—a scream, but not human.
They were in the archipelago.
Clea gasped beside her. Antoine was on his knees, holding his forehead. Pages floated around them, turning into ash and light.
Before them, on crimson-stained sand, a group of young men lay dead. In their midst, a man stood, trembling, soaked in blood, surrounded by monstrous creatures.
It had been a massacre. He was the only one left standing. Fighting with a face covered in blood—some of it his, some not. Some from the horrors he fought, some from fallen comrades.
He moved with determination. Sword in one hand, dagger in the other. Facing a familiar presence—a Duelist. No doubt.
The encounter made sense. That being had emerged from Clea and Antoine's contact. Their memories, creativity, and fears had fused into one world.
Clea looked around but said nothing. Seeing one of her own creations filled her with dread. She stretched out her arm to dissolve the Nevron, the way her painting powers once allowed—but nothing happened. That thing was no longer her creation. It had become something else. She could feel it—something dreadful inhabited the Duelist.
Alicia touched her face. Her other eye ached. Her wounds were gone. She had her voice again.
Without hesitation, she ran to the man, summoned her foil, and stood beside him.
"Let me fight with you, Verso," she said, breathless.
Clément didn't recognize the name she used. Nor did he recognize the girl. But something left his lips. No idea why—but she had a name, and he knew it.
"Thank you… Alicia," Clément said, resolute. "Let's fight together."
The phrase he had whispered the night before had finally made sense.
To Clément, it was now clear: Tomorrow comes.