Elara didn't sleep that night.
Even after she escaped the Royal Archives, her heart pounded like war drums in her chest. She lay still in the cot of a maid who no longer existed, staring at the wooden beams above her and replaying every word Corven Elandric had spoken.
"You were never meant to wake up."
That line kept echoing through her head, louder than the scream of fire that had once eaten through her bones.
Who was he? And how did he know what she had become?
At sunrise, Elara folded the stolen journal pages into her apron and slipped out before the other maids stirred. She needed to think. She needed silence. But most of all, she needed answers.
She didn't head to the kitchens or the washing courtyard. Instead, she took the servants' stairs two levels up into the empty north wing, a part of the palace long abandoned after the last war. Dust coated the marble like frost, and the air smelled like stone and secrets.
She found a forgotten window seat at the end of the corridor and sat. Her hands were still trembling.
The journal. The prophecy. The red runes. All of it pointed to something much bigger than just a failed love story and a rigged trial.
Someone or something had altered the timeline. Not just her.
Was Corven one of them?
Or worse… was he the one who sent her back?
Elara drew the stolen parchment from her apron. The words glared up at her:
"You were never meant to wake up."
"Not all versions of you are the same."
She didn't understand. But she could feel the weight of it in her blood. Like something ancient had been disturbed. And it was watching her now.
Then she felt it a breeze.
Soft. Cold. Impossible. The windows in this wing were sealed shut.
She stood slowly. The wind brushed her neck again. It was coming from behind the wall.
A false wall.
Her eyes narrowed.
She pressed her palm against the far side of the corridor. It was faint, but she felt it — a breath of magic. Old, decaying, barely there. Someone had cast concealment here long ago.
Elara focused, whispering a detection spell under her breath. The air shimmered slightly. A thin seam appeared in the stone.
There was a door here.
And someone didn't want it found.
She pushed.
It groaned open.
Inside was a narrow chamber with no windows. Dust clung to the air. The only light came from a weak enchantment rune pulsing in the ceiling like a dying heartbeat.
On the far wall, scrawled in what looked like soot and dried blood, was a sigil she hadn't seen since her childhood:
The Eye of Ember.
The mark of the Order of the Eternal Flame.
Elara's pulse jumped.
She hadn't seen that mark since the night the High Priestess was murdered. And she hadn't remembered it until just now.
A memory crashed through her like icewater.
Her fifteen-year-old self, sneaking through the corridors with a stolen candle and a book on prophecy tucked under her arm. She had followed a shadow to this wing. Had come to this very room.
There had been a voice in the darkness. A man she never saw.
"You will die in fire," he had said.
"And still, you will burn brighter than any star."
She'd thought it was a dream.
But now… standing here again, in the wrong body, in the wrong time, it felt like everything was colliding.
The sigil began to glow softly.
Her hands curled into fists. Whoever had sent that death order the one meant to reach the Crown Prince had ties to this place. To the Order. And possibly… to her.
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked behind her.
She spun.
Nothing.
Then
A whisper.
"Elara…"
Her blood ran cold.
It wasn't a voice from the corridor. It was inside the room. Inside the walls.
"Elara…"
She stepped backward. Her hand went to her waist, but she had no weapon. Just a silver clasp in her apron.
"Elara…"
The voice was hers.
She froze.
It wasn't someone calling her.
It was her own voice echoing back from the sigil. Like a message trapped in time.
The rune flared.
And for a split second, she saw it not with her eyes, but with memory.
Another Elara.
Bound. Gagged. Eyes wide with terror, screaming behind a wall of light. A reflection. A mirror version of her.
Trapped.
Then it was gone.
The light died.
And so did the silence.
Footsteps thundered up the corridor.
Elara ducked out of the chamber, slammed the hidden door shut, and sprinted down the passage. She didn't know who was coming, but if they found her here, it was over.
She reached the servant stairwell just as two guards rounded the main hall.
"…they said there was movement in the north wing."
Elara pressed herself flat against the wall.
One of the guards grunted. "Probably rats."
"No," the other said. "Corven wants it cleared. Personally."
She didn't breathe until their footsteps faded.
Back in the laundry cellars, Elara collapsed onto a basket of linen and stared at the flickering wall torch.
There were too many pieces now.
Corven. The Order. The prophecy. And now… another version of herself, screaming from behind a magical wall.
How many versions of her existed in this timeline?
And were they all trying to survive… or trying to win?
A slip of parchment slid under the door.
She jumped.
No knock. No footsteps. Just the quiet scratch of paper.
She snatched it up.
It read:
"Meet me in the courtyard at midnight. Come alone.
You are not the only one they tried to burn."
Her throat went dry.
Someone else had survived.
Or worse… someone else had never died.