(Elara's POV)
The first time Elara noticed it, she thought it was coincidence.
The laundry corridor was empty, save for the steady drip of water from the ceiling. She had taken the shortcut to deliver a letter to Guard 3 when the ceiling beam groaned.
It was only instinct—an inexplicable tug in her chest—that made her step back. A heartbeat later, the beam crashed down, splintering against the stones where she'd been standing.
The servants arrived running, pale and flustered. "It's the old wood," someone muttered. "Could have been anyone."
But it wasn't anyone. It was her.
She felt it again two days later, in the east wing, when she'd been asked to carry a tray of wine to a minor court gathering. The tray's handle broke mid-step, sending the goblets tumbling—right toward a nobleman who had been discussing sensitive trade matters.
The wine never touched him.
She had somehow moved in time, twisting her body so the spill caught only her skirts.
The nobleman laughed it off, but the look in his eyes said she'd narrowly avoided more than a stain.
It was on the third time—during the afternoon market errand—that the truth began to crystalize. She'd been crossing the courtyard when a runaway horse tore through, hooves pounding, eyes wild. The crowd parted in chaos, and the beast's trajectory locked on her.
Elara froze for a split second, and in that moment, a single thought cut through the haze:
The story doesn't want me here.
She moved just in time, slipping behind a vendor's cart as the horse thundered past.
Heart hammering, she leaned against the wall, her hands trembling—not from fear of death, but from recognition. This wasn't bad luck. It wasn't carelessness.
It was the plot.
She remembered the original novel's rules, the way background characters like "Maid D" were never supposed to step forward. The story tolerated them only so long as they stayed in their shadowy lanes.
But she wasn't in the shadows anymore. She'd been speaking to nobles. Walking in spaces she shouldn't. Drawing glances she'd never have drawn before.
The book was trying to fix itself.
And fixing itself meant… removing her.
Elara straightened, her breath evening out. If the plot wanted her gone, it would have to try harder.
She thought of the word "artery"—a lifeline that could be severed to kill a body. The palace had its own arteries, not of blood, but of influence, wealth, and secrets. She'd already begun to trace them.
If she could hold onto one—just one—long enough, the story's grip might weaken.
The bells rang for evening prayer, their sound deep and resonant. Somewhere, she imagined the invisible web of fate tugging at her threads, trying to tighten around her.
She smiled faintly.
"Let's see which of us snaps first."