The next morning, I woke up sweating.
Not from heat, but from the kind of dream that doesn't let go.
Cassian's voice echoed in my mind:
"You will. Everyone does eventually."
Even in sleep, that line had coiled around my brain like a curse.
I sat up, sheets tangled around my legs, and stared at the ornate ceiling above me. Tiny stars had been carved into the wood, arranged in constellations I didn't recognize. Maybe they meant something here. Everything in this place felt intentional, like even the shadows were watching me.
I pushed the covers off and padded toward the wardrobe. A maid, not Rina this time had laid out another robe, deep green, with gold embroidery along the sleeves. Tutor colors, apparently. Elegant but sharp. Meant to command respect, even from the brat with a superiority complex and murder in his future.
Cassian.
I still didn't know how to feel about yesterday's conversation. He was brilliant. Cold. Way too self-aware for ten. But he'd answered me. Truthfully. And part of me wondered if anyone had ever really listened to him before.
I was still wondering when Rina burst into my room, pale, breathless, and wide-eyed.
"Miss Vale!" she gasped. "You need to come. Now."
I blinked. "What? What happened?"
"It's the west wing. There was something. The Young Master's quarters, someone broke in."
My heart dropped.
"What?! Is he?"
"He's alive. He wasn't there when it happened. He was in the library already, thank the stars."
But my blood had gone ice cold.
This wasn't in the book.
This never happened.
Cassian's childhood, as awful as it was, had been secure in one specific way: the palace was locked down tight. He didn't face assassination attempts until much later, after he gained power, and he made enemies.
This was too early. Way too early.
Rina led me through the halls, her footsteps fast and nervous. When we reached the west wing, two palace guards stood in front of the scorched double doors, wood blackened like someone had used fire magic. Smoke still curled at the edges. One of the guards had a bloody gash across his cheek.
And beyond them
Cassian.
He stood calm, silent, his hands folded behind his back like a tiny general. His hair was perfect. His posture was untouched. But his eyes…
They were sharp. Calculating.
Cold in a way I hadn't seen before.
A tall man in deep navy robes, probably the Lord Chancellor, was speaking to him in a low, frantic voice, but Cassian didn't look at him.
He was looking at me.
His eyes locked onto mine the moment I entered the hall. He said nothing, but I could feel the question in them, like a blade sliding under my skin.
Did you know?
Did you cause this?
I stepped forward slowly, ignoring the guards and the officials. My throat felt dry, but I kept my voice steady.
"Cassian. Are you hurt?"
His gaze didn't soften.
"No."
Silence.
The Chancellor cleared his throat. "Miss Vale, if you'll excuse us..."
But Cassian raised a hand.
"She stays."
The Chancellor blinked, clearly unused to being overruled by a ten-year-old. But he didn't argue. No one did when Cassian spoke like that.
I took a breath and stepped beside him, careful not to get too close.
His voice, when it came, was low. "This wasn't in your book, was it?"
I stiffened.
"You knew, didn't you?" he asked. "You recognized that riddle. You know things."
I looked at him carefully. "I know stories," I said. "And sometimes… stories change."
He didn't blink.
"They changed because of you."
It wasn't a question.
It was a verdict.
And for the first time since I'd arrived in this gilded, dangerous world, I realized how thin the line was between saving the villain… and becoming the spark that burns it all down.
The room smelled like burnt wood and iron.
The guards let me pass without protest; Cassian's word had become law overnight, and I stepped into what remained of the west wing study.
It wasn't Cassian's bedroom. Thank God.But it was his personal study space. The one he only used when he wanted to be alone, according to the lore I'd absorbed over years of obsessing over Crimson Scars.
Now, the place looked like someone had deliberately set it ablaze.
The thick velvet curtains were half-melted, the edge of the carpet blackened and curling in. The tall bookshelf had collapsed in on itself. Books were charred, still smoking. One wall bore what looked like a blast mark, a wide, ragged streak scorched straight across the wood.
Someone had used magic here.
I crouched low and looked around carefully, trying not to breathe too deep.
Cassian remained at the doorway, silent and still. Watching me. Always watching.
"Whoever did this didn't come for gold or documents," I murmured. "They were looking for something or trying to destroy it."
Cassian didn't answer, but I heard him step closer behind me. Quietly. Like a shadow in boots.
"Or," I added, "they wanted to send a message."
He stopped a few paces away. "That I'm not safe."
I stood slowly. "That someone's afraid of what you'll become."
That earned me a glance, his gray eyes sharp and glittering with something unreadable. I was speaking dangerously close to his thoughts. Thoughts, he probably didn't know how to name yet.
But the thing that bothered me most wasn't the fire or the boldness of the attack.
It was the sigil.
A faint mark, barely visible, burned into the wall just above where the blast had hit. I only noticed it because the light hit it a certain way, like shadows bent slightly around it.
Three vertical lines crossed by a spiral. I'd never seen it in the comic.
Not once.
This wasn't part of the original story.
"Do you recognize this?" I asked, pointing.
Cassian stepped beside me and stared at the mark.
His voice was lower this time. "No."
Neither did I. Which meant one thing: the game board had changed.
I felt a dull throb behind my eyes, like the weight of two timelines trying to fight each other. I wasn't just here watching the story anymore. I was living it, and it was evolving with me in it.
I turned to Cassian. "You need to stay out of your rooms until we know more. Someone may try again."
He raised an eyebrow. "You think they'll succeed?"
"No. But I think they'll try harder."
He stared at me for a long moment. Not dismissive. Not cold.Calculating. Curious.
Then, softly: "Are you scared?"
I wanted to lie.
But I didn't.
"Yes," I said. "Because I don't know who I can trust. Or what this world is anymore."
He nodded once, then did something I wasn't expecting.
He placed a hand lightly against the scorched wall, eyes narrowed.
"Then we find out," he said. "Together."