The third gate shimmered. Beatrice Alvaré.

This one was cold.

Not physically—though the temperature did drop—but emotionally, fundamentally cold. The stone walls glistened with frost, but what truly chilled Verena was the silence. It wasn't like Evelyn's dream of stillness or Sera's battlefield of noise—it was a cathedral of judgment. A place where every breath felt like a sin, every word echoed as though it didn't belong.

They stepped through—Verena, Sera, Evelyn, Clarina, and Vivienne.

Inside, the dreamspace resembled a courtroom.

Marble pillars towered over them, obsidian and bone-white. Rows of faceless figures sat in balconies above, dressed in black robes, unmoving. They watched. Judged. Condemned.

At the center stood Beatrice.

She wore a scholar's robes, yet her eyes were lifeless. Her hair was tied in a perfect braid, not a single strand out of place. Her hands were bound in silver chains, holding a tome that trembled as though alive.

A voice echoed from nowhere—and everywhere.

"Beatrice Alvaré. You are guilty of intellectual pride. Of refusing vulnerability. Of turning knowledge into a wall instead of a bridge. How do you plead?"

Beatrice didn't answer. She only stared ahead, unmoved.

"Do you deny your guilt?"

"No," she said at last. Her voice was hollow. "I was always the clever one. The one with answers. I became what they needed. A mind. Nothing more."

Sera tensed. "This is wrong."

"It's a punishment disguised as truth," Vivienne muttered. "This is the Author's work again. Twisting introspection into self-hatred."

Verena stepped forward. "Beatrice."

Her name barely stirred the girl. She didn't look over.

"You're not guilty for being brilliant," Verena said. "But you're not only that."

The chains around Beatrice's wrists tightened.

The court boomed, "You seek to rescue her? On what grounds?"

"I don't need to justify her worth," Verena said. "She's not a tool. Or a solution. Or a walking encyclopedia. She's Beatrice. The girl who once stayed up all night explaining starlight to a child who was afraid of the dark. The girl who snapped at me because she cared, even when she wouldn't admit it."

Beatrice winced. Her hands trembled slightly.

Sera stepped up beside Verena. "You're not alone. We're not your projects. We're your friends. Even if you suck at saying it."

A flicker passed through Beatrice's eyes.

Clarina added, "It's not weakness to ask for help. Or to feel. No amount of logic protects you from loneliness."

Vivienne said nothing. But she walked over and took Beatrice's hand. Just held it.

The chains cracked.

The court above them stirred, murmuring like waves against a cliff.

"Emotion disrupts reason. Clarity demands detachment."

"No," Beatrice finally said.

The murmurs stilled.

She raised her head. Her eyes were still tired—but alive now. Angry.

"No," she repeated. "That's not clarity. That's cowardice. I'm not afraid to feel anymore. I'm not afraid to fail."

The tome in her hands burst into flame, unraveling into threads of golden light. The chains shattered into smoke.

The faceless judges dissolved, one by one, until only silence remained.

Then warmth.

A soft breeze rustled through the empty courtroom. The frost melted. The pillars crumbled, not in destruction, but in liberation. Beatrice exhaled as though she'd been holding her breath for years.

"I thought if I kept knowing things… if I kept being useful… I wouldn't be left behind."

"You never were," Verena said quietly. "You just forgot that being loved isn't something you earn by being clever. It just is."

Beatrice nodded. Slowly. Then she reached out, awkwardly, and pulled all of them into a stiff group hug.

Sera snorted. "Okay, now I know we're in a dream."

"Shut up," Beatrice muttered. "Or I'll start quoting metaphysics."

The dream faded. This time, not in collapse—but in peace.

They returned to the Old Wing together.

And for the first time since the mirror shattered, all six stood side by side.

Evelyn. Sera. Beatrice. Clarina. Vivienne. Verena.

The fractured Dreamgates were gone.

But the floor beneath them shifted.

The wall at the far end peeled away, revealing a final gate—black as the void, rimmed in silver flame. It was not tied to any one heroine.

It was tied to Verena.

At its center, a single line shimmered in arcane script.

"The Villainess Who Chose Herself."

Everyone looked at her.

Verena stepped forward, expression unreadable.

And she smiled.

"Let's end this."

They passed through the final gate together.

Unlike the other dreamscapes, this one did not bend to theme or metaphor. It didn't mimic a battlefield, a courtroom, or a memory. There were no illusions. No faceless judges. No echoing voices.

It was just a hallway.

A long, simple hallway of pale, unfinished stone. Silent. Bare. Endless. And ahead, at the farthest end, stood a mirror.

No frame. No shimmer of magic. Just a mirror embedded in the wall like a scar. A perfect reflection—except it didn't reflect them.

It reflected only Verena.

Not how she was now. But how she used to be.

The mirror showed a version of her in pristine uniform, hair tied back with military precision, lips curled in a cold, confident smile. The HR Director. The one who always had a plan. Who never flinched. Who solved problems like puzzles and hearts like spreadsheets.

The others looked at Verena, waiting.

She stared at her past self for a long time.

"This isn't a dream," she said at last. "This is memory."

"Yours?" Evelyn asked.

Verena nodded. "The part of me that never stopped playing the villain."

Sera crossed her arms. "You're not a villain."

Verena's gaze didn't waver. "Aren't I?"

The reflection moved.

It stepped out of the mirror.

Everyone tensed.

It wasn't a copy. It wasn't a doppelgänger. It was her. Exactly as she'd once been. Every line of her jaw, every flicker in her eyes. The poise. The calculation. The woman who never got attached. Who always stayed five steps ahead. Who tore people down before they could get close.

"You're softer now," the reflection said.

Verena didn't deny it.

"You let them in. You hesitated. You fell in love with broken things."

Verena smiled faintly. "And I don't regret it."

The reflection tilted her head. "Even if it makes you weaker?"

"No," she said. "It made me dangerous in a different way."

They circled each other slowly, like two wolves with the same scent. The others stood back—not afraid, but aware. This was not their fight.

"You broke the rules," the reflection said. "You were meant to be the antagonist. The last trial. The final boss. The one who loses everything and becomes cruel because of it."

"I know."

"You were supposed to fall in love with a male lead. Get rejected. Spiral. Become obsessed. Be tragic. Be useful."

Verena's expression hardened. "That's the point, isn't it? That's what the Author wanted. Another puppet with just enough angst to keep the plot moving."

The reflection narrowed her eyes. "So you made your own story?"

"No," Verena said. "I took it back."

For the first time, the reflection faltered.

"You aren't me anymore," Verena said softly. "You're the version of me that existed in someone else's script. The one who never got to ask why. Who thought love was a weakness. Who believed control was the only way to survive."

The reflection trembled. "But control is safe."

"So is loneliness," Verena said. "But it's not living."

The reflection cracked.

It was subtle. A faint fissure down her cheek, like glass under pressure.

Verena stepped closer. She didn't raise her hand. Didn't strike. Just whispered:

"I forgive you."

The reflection shattered.

The hallway folded in on itself. The mirror disintegrated into silver dust. And Verena was left standing alone in the center of what remained: a white void.

Then, slowly, color bled in.

Not from magic. Not from dreams. But from reality.

The gate had ended. The trial was over.

And before them stood a new space—no longer the Old Wing, no longer fragmented illusions.

It was the Author's sanctum.

A library without order. Books hovered midair, pages flipping themselves. Scripts wrote and unwrote. Arcs stitched into timelines. Characters collapsed and rebuilt.

And on a throne made of pens and ash sat the Author.

No face. No body. Just a silhouette made of static, cloaked in unraveling text.

"You were never meant to reach this far," it hissed.

Verena stepped forward. The others flanked her.

"You used our lives like tropes," she said. "Stripped us of agency. Turned pain into performance."

"You wanted freedom," the Author sneered. "But freedom is chaos. I gave you purpose."

"You gave us cages," Beatrice said, voice cold.

"You wrote tragedies and called them character growth," Vivienne said.

"You made us heroines," Sera spat, "and then blamed us when we broke."

"You told us love was the prize," Evelyn whispered, "but never taught us how to survive it."

Clarina drew her blade. "This ends here."

Verena looked the Author dead in its fragmented face.

"No more scripts. No more roles. We're taking the pen now."

And then they moved.

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