The palace garden was nothing like Elara remembered.
Where once wild silver lilies and moonvine sprawled under a canopy of starlight, now stood rows of hedges carved into her likeness smiling statues, flawless, with jeweled crowns and polished thrones. Sculpted phoenixes with ruby eyes blinked from ornate fountains, their stone wings outstretched as if guarding a throne she no longer claimed.
Everything was too pristine.
Too perfect.
Even the birdsong was rehearsed, looping on a haunting melody that seemed plucked from a lullaby she'd long forgotten.
She moved slowly through the hedged paths, each turn revealing some distorted memory. There her first court speech, immortalized in living topiary. Next a marble relief of her standing triumphantly over a burning battlefield she never won. Moments rewritten. Glorified.
Lies.
"Elara."
The voice curled from behind a trellis, calm and resonant.
She turned sharply.
From the shadows stepped a cloaked figure. Not the Queen. Not a reflection. Not even the twisted illusions from before. This one moved differently like they didn't belong here at all.
A silver mask hid the figure's face, etched with sharp runes that glimmered like frost under sunlight. Their cloak rippled unnaturally, like smoke frozen in time.
The figure bowed.
"You made it past her. Impressive."
Her instincts screamed. "Who are you?"
"A memory," the figure said. "One she tried to erase."
"'She' being the Queen?" Elara asked, jaw tight.
The figure nodded once. "This world is her dominion born from the fracture in your soul. But every lie grows brittle with time. Even perfect illusions crack."
"And what are you?" Elara pressed.
"I am the door," they answered. "If you are brave enough to open it."
Elara eyed the surrounding hedges. The statues seemed closer than before, their stony eyes tracking her.
"Why should I trust you?"
"You shouldn't," the figure said, voice calm. "But ask yourself this do you really want to become her?"
The ground beneath her trembled faintly, like the dream itself took offense.
Elara gritted her teeth. "No."
"Then follow me."
They turned and disappeared deeper into the maze. Elara hesitated for only a breath, then followed.
The deeper they went, the more wrong the garden became. The roses bled dark ink down their stems. Ivy writhed silently along the ground. A child's laughter echoed from nowhere, followed by a wet snap. The trees no longer grew toward the sun but curled downward, as if trying to root into the sky.
The smell of rot now clung thick in the air.
"You're walking through her subconscious," the figure said. "The deeper you go, the closer you come to what she buried."
Elara didn't ask how they knew so much.
She could feel it now like a heartbeat underfoot, thrumming with every step.
Finally, they reached the center of the maze: a clearing ringed by obsidian stones, scorched black and steaming. At the heart of it stood a stone well, ancient and veined with silver.
No vines grew here. No birds sang. The air was still reverent.
"The Queen cannot follow you here," the masked figure said. "This is the last place her power cannot reach."
Elara stepped closer. The well pulsed faintly.
"What is it?" she whispered.
"The Well of Origin," they replied. "A relic of the true timeline before she twisted it. Before you became fragmented."
She leaned over the edge. The water shimmered far below, glowing faintly. No reflection. Just motion shapes shifting just out of view.
"If you wish to leave this world," the figure said, "you must remember what she has forgotten."
A breeze stirred the clearing, and a whisper rose from the well. Not a word a name.
"Lari…"
Elara's heart seized.
That name.
A name only one person ever used.
Her sister.
A memory bloomed unbidden she and Liora racing through the orchard behind their childhood home, laughter bright, voices high. Her sister had called her Lari when no one else dared. A name not of crowns or court just love.
"Say it," the masked figure urged. "Reclaim it."
Elara swallowed hard. "Lari."
The well flared silver.
The illusion cracked.
The hedges withered in an instant, leaves curling to ash. The statues shrieked yes, shrieked as their stone mouths split in agony. The entire dreamscape began to tremble.
"You've weakened her hold," the figure said. "But she will come now. Her fury will follow."
Elara turned to them. "Who are you really?"
The figure hesitated.
Then, slowly, they raised their hands and removed the mask.
A gasp tore from her lips.
"Liora?"
Her sister's face younger, alive, eyes filled with calm defiance.
"Elara," Liora whispered. "I tried to reach you before. But you weren't ready."
Tears blurred her vision.
"How are you?" she choked. "You're dead."
"Not here," Liora said, her voice like wind through glass. "Not in the cracks between what was and what is."
A scream tore through the sky. The Queen was coming.
Elara reached for her sister but the garden erupted in light.
And everything shattered.