The capital's riders did not wait to be invited inside.
Six of them dismounted with grim efficiency, clad in black and silver — the official colors of the Royal Inquisition. Their captain, a woman whose face was half-covered by a veil of silver lace, stepped forward without preamble and extended a scroll bearing the royal seal.
"Lady Evelyne Astrella Vervain," the woman said, her voice thin and sharp, "by decree of the Inquisition and under authority granted by the Curators, you are summoned to partake in the Rite of Evaluation."
The parchment practically hissed in Evelyne's hands. It bore no destination, no time — only a wax sigil she'd never seen before: a circle of jagged thorns around a black sun.
"What if I decline?" Evelyne asked flatly.
"You vanish," the captain said without inflection. "And all memory of you goes with you."
The words hit harder than they should've. Evelyne's throat tightened.
"Give us an hour to prepare," Alaira said, stepping in with all the poise of a knight used to commanding attention.
"You have until the sun strikes the western spire," the captain replied. "Not a breath more."
As the riders retreated to their horses, Evelyne turned to Alaira, voice low. "What's the Rite of Evaluation?"
"It's the first trial," Alaira said grimly. "The one you're not supposed to survive."
—
They packed quickly.
Alaira dressed Evelyne in the armor of her family — a silver-lined coat with the Vervain crest removed. She wore no jewelry, no crown, only a dagger at her thigh and the sealed map beneath her cloak.
Evelyne touched Alaira's arm before they exited the manor. "Will you stay with me through it?"
Alaira's hand found hers. "Until the threads unravel."
They rode behind the Inquisition with no conversation, only the sound of hooves and the wind's low whistle through the trees. The landscape changed with unnatural speed — the hills grew sharper, the sky dimmed even before dusk.
And then, they arrived.
At the edge of the world.
A massive gate stood in the middle of a stone clearing — a monolith of black glass veined with gold, carved with unreadable runes. It was not attached to any wall. It stood alone, opening into nothingness.
"This is the entrance?" Evelyne asked, dismounting.
"The trial chooses its own door," the captain said. "You will enter alone."
"No," Alaira said at once. "That wasn't the deal."
The captain turned. "Only the judged may enter."
Alaira drew her sword in one fluid motion. "Then judge me too."
There was a tense pause. The other riders reached for weapons, but Evelyne lifted a hand. "Stand down."
She turned to Alaira. "If this is truly mine to face, I'll face it. But I want you waiting for me."
Alaira hesitated — just long enough for Evelyne to see the fear flicker in her eyes.
"I will," Alaira said at last, lowering the blade. "I'll be right here. Thread willing, you'll walk back through that door."
Evelyne stepped toward the gate.
The moment her hand brushed the surface, it bloomed with light — a spiral of burning ink, wrapping around her arm and pulling her forward.
And then—
Darkness.
—
When Evelyne opened her eyes, she stood in a grand ballroom.
But it wasn't hers.
It was eerily familiar — a perfect replica of the palace ballroom from Chapter 7 of the novel. The scene where the heroine, Lady Mirena, was supposed to stumble and be rescued by the Crown Prince, cementing their fated love.
Only now, it was Evelyne standing at the top of the grand stairs. And everyone below was watching her.
No — judging her.
The Curators had taken fiction and wrapped it around her throat.
She stepped down slowly, heart hammering, as whispers began to rise from the crowd. Each face was blank, eyeless, mouthless — like mannequins wrapped in memory.
"You don't belong here," a voice echoed.
"She ruins the balance."
"She cannot rewrite love."
Evelyne ignored them.
Across the ballroom, the Crown Prince stood alone. His face was twisted into a cruel smirk — not the charming hero from the novel, but a caricature of it. As Evelyne approached, the ballroom began to splinter. The walls flickered, revealing glimpses of other timelines — herself falling from a cliff, being poisoned at dinner, exiled in disgrace.
Every failure she had avoided now bled through the cracks.
"You think you've changed anything?" the prince sneered. "You're just delaying the inevitable."
Evelyne stared him down.
"I've rewritten everything."
The illusion around him shattered.
He vanished — and in his place stood a mirror.
Her own face stared back.
But it wasn't her.
It was the old Evelyne — the villainess from the original novel. Cold. Vain. Empty.
"Why pretend?" the reflection asked. "You're still me. The girl who clawed at love because she was terrified of being alone."
"I'm not afraid anymore," Evelyne whispered.
The mirror cracked.
The ballroom went silent.
And then the gate reappeared before her.
She stepped through.
—
Light returned.
Evelyne stumbled out of the trial gate, breathless, cold sweat clinging to her skin.
Alaira caught her before she could fall. "Evelyne?"
"I passed," she gasped. "I saw it — I saw who I was, who I could have been."
Alaira steadied her. "You're not her. You're you."
The Inquisition captain approached and placed a strange, rune-etched coin into Evelyne's palm. "This is proof of passage. One of three."
Evelyne looked down at it.
The symbol was no longer a black sun, but a blooming flower.
Alaira leaned close. "You changed it."
"I think I changed me."
They didn't speak again until the manor's gates came into view.
But Evelyne knew.
This was only the beginning.