Evelyn's declaration didn't echo like a grand speech. It was soft, but it cut through the air like tempered steel. Everyone fell silent. Even Sera, who always had something to say—especially something reckless—just stared at her, searching for hesitation and finding none.

"I won't let them rewrite me," Evelyn repeated, more to herself this time, as if confirming something deeply personal. "I was made to balance things. That includes this damn story."

Verena's lips curved slightly—approval, pride, maybe something more complicated. She stepped forward and offered Evelyn her hand.

"Then stand, Conduitor of Balance."

Evelyn took it, steady and sure. The moment her fingers closed around Verena's palm, the dreamlike haze that clung to the edges of the Old Wing trembled. The air shimmered faintly, and something shifted—like a tide pulling away to reveal bones beneath.

"They're watching us now," Clarina murmured, eyes narrowing. "The ones behind this. The authors."

"Not gods. Not even devils," Beatrice muttered. "They're script-holders. Editors of fate."

"They think they can overwrite me?" Evelyn stepped forward, barefoot against the cold stone. "I've been overwritten all my life. In my family, in school, in love. Everyone else's narrative always came first. I let them. But this?" She lifted her hand, and Balance magic hummed around her like a tuning fork aligning the world. "This is mine."

Verena's smile widened.

"Well said."

Clarina stepped beside Evelyn, drawing her sword with a calm grace. "Then let's retrieve the others. And close their pens before they finish the next chapter."

The group moved deeper into the fractured corridor. Each step bent space, warped walls, reassembled old realities. The Old Wing was no longer just a physical place—it had become a mindscape stitched from failed drafts and retconned moments. Portraits whispered. Hallways flickered between wood and marble. They passed a floating staircase made of old rejection letters and spilled ink.

"They've turned the academy into a narrative forge," Verena said grimly. "Each Dreamgate tied to a heroine isn't just a door—it's a draft. A rewrite attempt."

"So what happens if they finish writing?" Sera asked.

"They overwrite the entire world," Evelyn replied. "No one remembers the original version. Not even us."

"And the original was flawed," Beatrice muttered, her voice almost too soft. "But it was real."

They reached the next gate.

This one pulsed red—a furious thing, shaped like a cracked mirror, veins of ink trailing down like tears. At its base: a sword stabbed into the ground. Sera's.

Without waiting for approval, Sera marched toward it.

"Sera—" Clarina called out, but too late.

Sera placed her hand on the sword. In a flash, the red gate consumed her.

Evelyn stepped forward to follow, but Clarina stopped her.

"She has to face her rewrite first."

"What do you mean?"

"This is Sera's trial. Her author thinks she's just another hotheaded heroine. They'll test her by throwing her in a loop until she becomes one. Or breaks."

Verena frowned. "If she breaks, she anchors the rewrite."

"Exactly."

Inside the gate, Sera awoke in a burning village.

It was familiar—too familiar.

A child screamed. A man begged. She stood in the middle of it all, sword in hand, flames licking the sky. And behind her, a man—tall, handsome, brooding—called her name.

"You don't have to do this, Sera. Come with me. I'll protect you."

It was a script.

The same one every time.

Sera grit her teeth. "You again."

She'd killed him before. Run from him. Let him save her. Nothing worked. The script always reset.

But this time…

She dropped her sword.

The world stilled.

"No," she said. "I don't want to be saved."

The flames paused, mid-flicker.

"I'm tired of being rewritten into a heroine who never changes. Always angry. Always rescued. That's not me. That's never been me."

The world trembled.

She turned her back to the man and walked into the fire.

It didn't burn.

Instead, the world peeled back like paper. The false narrative dissolved—and Sera stood on the other side of the gate, panting but alive.

Evelyn rushed to her.

Sera just looked at her, smiled, and said, "Burned their script."

Verena's hand hovered over the remaining gates. "One down."

Beatrice stepped toward her own.

"I'm next," she said quietly. "I need to know which version of me they're keeping alive."

"You're not alone," Evelyn told her.

Beatrice hesitated. "I was written to be. Every version of me dies alone. Let's see if I can change that."

She stepped through.

Beatrice landed in silence.

No screams, no flames. Just snow. Thick, quiet, endless snow, blanketing a dead forest of spindly trees. Her boots sank slightly as she stepped forward. Cold bit into her cheeks and fingers, but she barely noticed.

It was familiar.

Too familiar.

This was the clearing. The one from her original ending. The one where she died.

In the distance, a figure appeared—a silhouette in white, holding a violin. The sound drifted through the frost. A mournful melody, the same song she'd played as a child, when her brother died. The same one she played when she killed the assassin sent after her family. The same one she played when she was told she was never the heroine, only the one meant to die to make the real heroine shine.

The figure wore her face.

"Beatrice?" it said, voice fragile.

"No," she replied. "You're not me. You're who they kept trying to make me."

The copy stepped forward, bare feet against the snow, hair fluttering gently in a nonexistent wind. "You sacrificed yourself for the good of the story. That's your role. The noble shadow. The quiet one who dies with grace. It was beautiful."

"No," Beatrice repeated, eyes hardening. "It was palatable. Tragic in a digestible way. You made it tidy."

She drew a knife from her sleeve—an old habit she'd never written out of herself.

"I die in every draft. Not because it's right. Because it's convenient. I'm the cost of someone else's growth. Her grief. Their awakening. I'm the footnote. The catalyst. The tool."

The copy tilted its head. "Isn't that noble?"

"It's lazy."

Beatrice advanced. The snow crunched beneath her. "You gave me beauty, tragedy, poetry—but no future. You stripped my messiness. My selfishness. My right to be angry. You made me a ghost."

The violin stopped.

Her copy stepped back. "If you kill me… there's no one left to carry your memory."

Beatrice's smile was cold.

"Then I'll make a new one."

With one clean motion, she slit the copy's throat. It bled ink, not blood, and collapsed into the snow like a puppet cut from its strings. The ground beneath her cracked, lines of silver light rupturing the illusion. The trees split open, revealing their wooden insides hollow and carved with paragraphs. The sky tore like parchment.

And just like that—she was back.

Evelyn caught her as she stumbled out of the gate. Beatrice was shivering. Not from the cold, but from the effort of not crying.

"I killed myself," she whispered.

"You killed a lie," Evelyn corrected. "The truth of you is still here."

Sera slung an arm around Beatrice. "You owe it to yourself to be alive. Even if they didn't write that part."

Beatrice nodded, slowly. "Then let's finish this."

Only one gate remained.

The Dreamgate pulsed violet, humming with distorted music and fractured mirrors. The reflection didn't show just one person. It showed all of them—Verena, Clarina, Evelyn, Sera, Beatrice—fractured versions, rewritten expressions. Romantic. Submissive. Angry. Deranged. Doomed. Edited over and over.

"This one's mine," Verena said, stepping forward.

The others looked at her.

"You sure?" Clarina asked, frowning. "You're already resisting the rewrite more than any of us."

Verena smiled with a sharpness that had no warmth. "Exactly. That's why they saved me for last."

She walked into the violet gate without flinching.

The world inside was… wrong.

It wasn't a memory. It was a construction. She stood in a grand ballroom, filled with faceless dancers twirling under chandeliers. Every wall was a mirror, reflecting endless versions of herself—crying, laughing, kneeling, kissing someone, stabbing someone, bowing. Over and over. Red lips. Golden eyes. Masks upon masks.

Then, footsteps.

From the other side of the ballroom came another Verena. Dressed in white. Smiling gently.

"I'm you. The perfect version."

"No," Verena said softly. "You're the version they tried to force out of me."

"You're beloved in this one," the mirror-Verena said, circling. "Admired. Worshipped. You never lose. You never cry. You win the heart of every heroine and remain in control."

Verena tilted her head. "And?"

"You never hurt. You never bleed. You never fail."

Verena closed her eyes for a moment.

Then punched the mirror behind her.

The ballroom shattered.

"I should bleed. I should cry. I should lose sometimes. That's what makes this real."

The false Verena stared at her, stunned.

"I'm not afraid of being rewritten because I already know who I am," Verena said. "The real danger is forgetting."

She held out her hand—and from the shards of broken mirrors, a sword formed. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't ornate. But it was solid. Honest. Hers.

She pointed it at the false version. "I don't need to kill you. I just need to be louder."

And the moment she said it, the mirrors responded—every version of herself raised their voice. Not screaming. Speaking. Declaring.

"I am Verena Aurelian."

The false version faded. The ballroom dissolved.

And she returned to her allies—calm, collected, but eyes blazing.

"All gates cleared," Clarina said.

"No more rewrites," Evelyn whispered.

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