The corridors were nearly silent when Sereena made her way back to her chambers. Most lanterns had been dimmed to a low, bluish glow—the hour when the world seemed to whisper instead of speak.
She closed the door softly behind her.
Her room was modest, but tidy—bed neatly made, desk cleared except for a lamp and a stack of notes from the day's training. She sat on the edge of the bed first, just breathing, letting the stillness settle around her.
For a few minutes, she allowed herself to feel the leftover fear—the weight of Kassian's blood on her hands, the sound of his voice when he warned her not to go alone. The image of the hallway, the smear of red against stone, the darkness she couldn't quite see into.
Then she exhaled and straightened.
Feeling was one thing. Thinking was another.
And thinking—she'd always been good at that.
She crossed to the small desk and lit the lamp properly. The flame flickered, casting its glow across parchment and ink. She pulled a blank page closer.
Not to write—but to sort through her mind.
She replayed the night step by step.
She'd heard something—a thud, or maybe something dragging, she couldn't be sure now. Then the sight of the blood trail, Kassian slumped, the insignia on his cloak. His words: attack… from the west wing. Too fast.
Who would target a senior trainee inside the grounds? He trained alone, kept to himself, rarely spoke. He had no personal enemies she knew of. That didn't make sense.
Unless the attack wasn't about him.
She folded her hands in her lap and stared at the wood of the desk.
This world—this path—wasn't entirely unfamiliar. Pieces of it were written already, in a story she remembered. A story she had fallen into.
In the original novel, events like tonight's shouldn't have happened yet. The first major breach wasn't supposed to occur until much later—after the trials, after tensions between factions began to break. Kassian wasn't even injured in that version. He was—she paused—important for something else. Something political.
Her brows knitted slightly.
So why now? Why earlier?
And why here, in the timeline where she existed?
She leaned back in the chair, eyes drifting toward the door.
If the plot was shifting around her, then someone else was moving pieces early. That meant she couldn't rely on memory alone—only on the patterns she still recognized.
The west wing. A fast attacker. Knowledge of guard rotations. No ward disturbances.
This wasn't random. Someone either had inside access… or help.
Her thoughts moved to Lucas, then to the Council. They would investigate. They would question. She would answer. Calmly, fully, truthfully.
But she wouldn't just wait for their judgment.
She needed to prepare.
She listed in her head: where she'd been, what she'd heard, how she'd found Kassian. She noted what details might be twisted, misunderstood, or used against her. And then she imagined their questions—and crafted her answers with clarity and precision.
Not defensive. Just honest.
Because she had nothing to hide—but plenty to lose if they refused to see it.
A soft breeze stirred the curtain by her window. She hadn't even noticed it was slightly open.
She stood and closed it gently.
Her reflection in the dark glass stared back—calm, but alert. She looked less like someone accused and more like someone preparing for a match she couldn't afford to lose.
She returned to the bed, lying down only when she was certain she'd gone over everything she could, twice.
Her final thought before sleep edged in was simple, resolute:
If the story was changing…
…then she would change with it.
But she wouldn't let it write her out.
Not this time.