By morning, the fragile peace that bloomed between them had withered under the weight of reality.
Evelyne hadn't spoken a word about the confession since it left her lips.
And Alaira hadn't pressed her.
They had returned to the manor just before the staff awoke, their steps silent on the stone floor, the space between them dense with everything unsaid. Evelyne's mind burned with questions. Not just about Alaira — but about the choice she had no memory of agreeing to, the reset that loomed like a guillotine, and the truths that shimmered just beyond comprehension.
She slipped into her study, locking the door behind her.
It was one of the only rooms untouched by the Crown's surveillance charms. If they were watching her — and she was beginning to believe they always were — she needed a moment of clarity.
On her desk sat the Threadweaver's Map. It pulsed faintly in the shadows, as though aware of her gaze.
She unrolled it again.
The red slashes were still there. Some had started to bleed ink, stretching and smudging into each other like ruptured veins. And beneath them, something new had appeared.
A fourth path.
It had no name, only a thread of silver ink etched along the edges. Unlike the rest, this thread curved unnaturally, like it was being pulled by something unseen.
Evelyne traced it with a trembling finger.
The moment she did, the study went cold.
Time held its breath.
And then— a whisper.
"You were not meant to choose her."
Evelyne's breath caught. The whisper wasn't her own thought.
It echoed.
"Love was never yours to claim."
A ripple of darkness bloomed in the corner of the room, devouring light. A figure stepped forward — indistinct, cloaked in mist, face masked in gold.
Evelyne backed away instinctively, hand flying to the dagger beneath her sleeve. "Who are you?"
The figure tilted its head. "We are the Balance. The Thread. The End."
"I didn't ask for riddles."
"You were given a role," the figure said, voice neither male nor female. "You were the villainess. A fixed point in the tale. Catalyst. Collapse. Endnote."
"And I refused it."
"That refusal costs the world its spine."
The room trembled. Evelyne narrowed her eyes. "Then let it bend."
The figure stepped closer. "Do you think this is bravery, mortal? To steal love from a story that was not written for you?"
"It's not theft if it's mine."
Silence. Then — a shiver in the air, as though something old had smiled.
"Then let us test your claim."
The shadows retracted, leaving behind a single mark burned into the map's corner:
Trial Initiated.
A symbol she didn't recognize pulsed next to it — a blooming eye ringed in fire.
Then the door to the study flew open.
Alaira rushed in, blade drawn, eyes wide. "I felt a breach— Are you—?"
She stopped when she saw the mark on the map.
Her expression darkened. "No. Not already."
"What is it?" Evelyne asked. "What did I trigger?"
Alaira slowly sheathed her blade. "You've drawn the attention of the Curators."
"The ones who control the resets?"
"They don't control — they guard. They don't want you choosing love, Evelyne. Because it leads off-script."
"Then we stay off-script."
Alaira stared at her. "This trial... It won't test your sword. It will test your will. Your memory. Your heart."
Evelyne met her eyes. "Then you'll help me. Won't you?"
A pause.
Then Alaira reached out, placing her palm gently over Evelyne's chest. "Always."
Their hands lingered longer than necessary. Long enough to speak what neither had the courage to say aloud.
But there wasn't time.
A knock thundered at the manor's front gate.
The steward's voice echoed faintly from below. "Lady Evelyne! Riders from the Capital!"
Alaira stiffened. "It's starting."
Evelyne straightened her shoulders, rolling the map back into its case. "Then let them in."