The library smelled of old parchment and lavender oil.
I walked in alone. I didn't tell Serina.
Maren sat exactly where she always did—behind the third desk near the northern window. A candle flickered beside her, though it was broad daylight.
She didn't look up when I approached. Not until I placed the note in front of her.
"I didn't write that," she said calmly.
"But you knew it was coming."
Maren's eyes met mine.
"You were always going to find out."
There was no guilt in her voice. Only a kind of... inevitability.
"Why?"
She hesitated.
"Because the ones who win aren't always the loudest. They're the ones who are still standing when everyone else forgets who started the fire."
"And Reina?"
"She hasn't forgotten what she started. And she's not done."
I exhaled slowly.
"So do I."
I remember the tribunal, the fire, the silence of those who turned their backs. I remember how they forgot me—how they buried me without a name.
I didn't survive for vengeance. I survived so no one would forget again.