The world inside the Dreamgate was not built for comfort.

Beatrice stumbled forward into a realm where the sky was a cold sheet of cracked glass, and the ground pulsed like bruised flesh. The colors bled wrong—pink shadows and blue light. Her breath caught in her throat as the door slammed behind her with a sound like a thousand whispered apologies. She was alone—or rather, she was the only real person here. The moment she moved, the world reacted, groaning awake with a sentient ache.

The air stank of rust and perfume.

Mirrors floated, disjointed, like puzzle pieces that didn't want to belong. Each reflected something slightly different: one showed her as a child, another as a corpse, another as a god. Beatrice turned her face away. The reflections followed anyway, warping and whispering.

"Liar."

"Martyr."

"Whore."

"Monster."

"Shut up," she muttered, clenching her fists.

Something shifted ahead—a figure draped in funeral lace, seated on a throne made of cracked hand mirrors. Her face was veiled, her posture perfect. She sat still, unmoving, but the aura she radiated was unmistakable. It was Evelyn.

Or it looked like her. But the air around her bent with too much intent, too much curated fragility.

"Evelyn?" Beatrice stepped forward, cautiously.

The figure tilted its head. "Is that what you still call me?"

That voice—it wasn't Evelyn's. It was smoother, crueler, tired in the way only someone deeply aware of her own performance could be. A shadow stepped forward from behind her. Another Evelyn. This one had bloodied hands and a wide, twitching grin.

Then another.

And another.

The Evelyns came in all forms—timid, furious, confident, dead. Each one stepped from a different shard of reality, circling Beatrice like wolves.

She didn't flinch. She couldn't. She reached into her coat and withdrew her mirror again, holding it out like a compass.

"I'm here to take the real one back," she said.

The veiled Evelyn didn't laugh. She didn't blink. She simply pointed to the center of the realm, where a monolith rose—glass wrapped in chains of ivy, thorns laced with runes, pulsating with memory.

"She wanted to leave," the veiled Evelyn said. "She begged to be forgotten."

Beatrice's voice was cold. "She's not allowed to beg for that. Not when we're still fighting."

Silence fell. And then the realm cracked.

With a shriek, the Evelyns rushed her.

Beatrice didn't hesitate. The mirror in her hand flared with moonlight, and with a single sweep, she shattered the first Evelyn into smoke. But they kept coming—versions of her friend made from regret and idealism, self-hatred and fantasy. Each one whispered a truth that might've been real.

"I didn't want to be saved."

"I wanted you, but you were always too late."

"You pitied me. That's all it ever was."

"You needed a weak friend to feel strong."

The words cut deeper than the claws. Beatrice gritted her teeth, swung again. One Evelyn had Verena's voice. Another had Sera's swagger. Each was a warped dream Evelyn had of herself, and now Beatrice had to kill them all.

"None of you are her!" Beatrice shouted, slamming her mirror into another phantom's chest. "She's not this fragile little echo!"

Another Evelyn tackled her to the ground. She bore Beatrice's face this time.

"You made her worse," she hissed. "You kept holding her hand when she needed to run."

Beatrice growled and headbutted her. "And you're just the guilt talking."

She shoved herself to her feet, bleeding now, panting hard. But she didn't stop. She turned toward the monolith and began to walk.

The Evelyns didn't follow this time. They watched. They whispered. They waited.

At the base of the monolith, she found her.

The real Evelyn.

Curled up, barefoot, wearing the same balance-marked robes, her eyes closed like she was simply dreaming. But her aura—quiet, trembling, restrained—was unmistakable.

Beatrice knelt. "Hey."

No response.

She touched Evelyn's hand. Warm. Real. But it was like touching water—Evelyn's form rippled, struggling to stay solid.

A choice appeared before her.

[Break the monolith.]

[Replace Evelyn.]

She froze.

The realm demanded a trade. It always did. Evelyn had locked herself inside her own dream to escape the weight of the real world. And the only way out was if someone else took her place.

Beatrice stared at the mirror in her hand. Then back at Evelyn.

"No," she whispered. "I'm not leaving her behind again."

She raised her mirror like a blade.

And she struck the monolith.

The monolith didn't shatter easily.

The first strike sent a ripple through the dreamworld—like a scream underwater, like glass refusing to break because it remembered how to hurt. The second strike splintered the surface. Fractures spiderwebbed across its body, and from within came a howl. Not of pain, but of resistance.

Chains coiled tighter around the structure, ivy flared red-hot like veins pumping blood. Symbols etched into the surface flared with counterspells, whispering: You do not understand. She chose this. She was safer here.

Beatrice bared her teeth.

"Safe isn't the same as alive."

She struck again, her mirror sparking like lightning on contact. A blast of force threw her back, skidding across the distorted floor. Her coat tore. Her palms burned.

Behind her, the Evelyns hissed and began to stir.

The veiled one stepped forward. "You're making a mistake."

"No," Beatrice spat, staggering to her feet. "I made mistakes. This—this is the correction."

She lifted the mirror. Her reflection was almost gone—half her face missing, as if the dream itself was trying to erase her from existence. But she still had enough of herself to finish this.

She sprinted at the monolith again.

This time, the Evelyns lunged—not to stop her, but to break her resolve. They clung to her legs, her arms, whispered desperate truths in her ears:

"She'll hate you for this."

"She was happy here."

"You're just doing this for yourself."

"Let her rot. At least she's at peace."

"Peace is not freedom!" Beatrice roared, slamming the mirror down with everything she had.

The monolith cracked open with a thunderous snap, and the dreamworld warped like a pulled thread. The ground fractured. Mirrors exploded into dust. And from the shattered center of the monolith, Evelyn's form unraveled—her dream-self peeling away to reveal the real girl trembling underneath.

Beatrice caught her just in time.

Evelyn gasped like she had surfaced from drowning. Her eyes snapped open—wide, wet, terrified—and for a moment she didn't speak. Didn't breathe. Her hand reached up to clutch Beatrice's shoulder.

"I—I was—" she choked, looking around. "I was asleep. I couldn't—move—"

"You were buried in yourself." Beatrice held her tight. "They were feeding on you. On your fears. Your need to disappear."

"I thought it would be easier," Evelyn whispered. "If I just stopped trying. If I stopped disappointing everyone."

Beatrice shook her head, voice rough. "You don't get to disappear. Not without permission. Not from me."

The Evelyns began to disintegrate, one by one, turning into smoke and ash as the true Evelyn's presence returned. The veiled one lingered the longest. She stared at them both with something almost akin to mercy, before she too crumbled—leaving only silence and ruin.

A door appeared.

Not a grand exit. Not a portal of salvation. Just a wooden frame hovering in the void.

Beatrice helped Evelyn up. She was weak—like someone who'd slept too long and forgotten how to stand.

Their fingers locked.

Evelyn's voice cracked. "What if I can't be better out there?"

"You don't have to be better," Beatrice murmured. "You just have to be. I'll cover the rest."

The words weren't pretty. They weren't the stuff of epics. But Evelyn nodded.

They walked together to the door. As they stepped through, the dream peeled away like wet paper. The fractured Old Wing of Irasios returned in a gasp of stale air and muted candlelight. Dust and reality settled on their shoulders.

Beatrice blinked hard. They were back.

And Evelyn…

She was still holding her hand.

Verena was the first to reach them, skidding across the marble tiles, her coat a storm behind her. She stopped when she saw Evelyn standing on her own, her expression unreadable.

Beatrice just gave her a nod. "One down."

Sera leaned against a cracked column, trying not to look worried. She failed. "She okay?"

"She will be," Beatrice answered.

Evelyn looked around, disoriented, but alive. Whole. Herself.

"I remember everything," she whispered. "Even the parts that weren't mine. The dream twisted things. Made me think I wanted to vanish."

"You didn't," Verena said, stepping closer, her voice firm but gentle. "You just didn't know how to keep going."

Evelyn's mouth trembled. "I still don't."

Beatrice touched her shoulder. "That's what we're here for."

And then, without a cue, the ground beneath them rumbled again.

Another Dreamgate opened—deep violet this time, threaded with flame and feathers.

Sera stepped forward, her fists clenching.

"My turn," she muttered.

Verena cracked her knuckles. "Time to drag another idiot out of their own drama."

Beatrice glanced at Evelyn. "Can you rest?"

"I can fight," she said, softly. "Just… not alone."

Verena grinned. "Then let's wake up the next one."

The violet Dreamgate pulsed, alive with jagged energy. Sera stepped forward, jaw set, her eyes locked onto the chaos swirling within. Her fire magic flared instinctively, casting wild shadows across the crumbling stone. Verena motioned for the others to hold back. "Let her lead this one," she said. Beatrice nodded. Evelyn, still trembling, gave Sera a faint smile.

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