At dusk, the east wing of the Academy library lay silent. Most students avoided it—partially out of superstition, partially because the magical locks on the annex were too tedious to undo. But Verena's key slid into the seal without resistance, as if the space had been waiting for her.

The door hissed open, revealing rows of ancient tomes and crystalline lamps that flickered to life at her presence. Dust danced like ghosts in the stale air. She stepped in without ceremony, boots tapping softly against marble.

Sera was already there, lounging on one of the long tables like a delinquent forced into detention, arms crossed, leg bouncing.

"Took you long enough," she grunted.

"I gave you six hours," Verena replied. "You barely arrived ten minutes ago."

Sera scoffed but didn't argue. The truth was written all over her—bloodied knuckles wrapped in gauze, a new rip on her coat's sleeve, and a frustrated flush that hadn't yet cooled.

Evelyn sat farther back, posture tight. She didn't speak, but her presence was steadier than before. The tremble in her hands was gone. Her Balance magic no longer flickered uncontrolled—it simmered quietly at her core, steady as breath.

Clarina stood beside a table, arms behind her back, her posture perfectly aligned like a blade at rest. She gave Verena a single nod, as if reporting for duty.

Beatrice was the last to arrive. She walked in without fanfare, her expression unreadable, hair slightly damp from a recent bath. She carried nothing but a slip of folded paper.

When they were all seated, Verena didn't waste time. She placed a piece of chalk in her hand, turned to the black wall behind her, and drew a rough circle.

"Three days ago," she said, "we stepped into a Dreamgate tied to Evelyn's fate. We encountered an unstable world that tried to reshape her narrative and overwrite our reality in the process."

A line. A jagged one, cutting across the circle.

"Whoever controls the Dreamgates is manipulating the structure of our story using archetypal roles—roles you were all originally cast in. Heroine. Savior. Rebel. Anchor. These are not simply labels—they are structural pillars."

Beatrice tilted her head. "So we're keystones in the foundation of the world."

"Exactly," Verena said, tapping the center of the circle. "And one of those keystones doesn't belong."

The room fell silent.

Sera leaned forward. "Are you saying one of us is the reason everything's breaking?"

"I'm saying someone believes so," Verena replied. "I received a warning today. Anonymous. Arcane. It claimed one of you is a false anchor—a presence inserted into this world that was never meant to exist."

Evelyn's fingers tightened against her robe. "Inserted… by what? The Dreamgates?"

"Possibly. Or something worse." Verena turned back to the group. "Right now, I don't know who. I don't know why. But I do know that if one of you is removed—wiped from the narrative—it will not reset the damage. It will shatter it."

Sera stood abruptly. "So what? We turn on each other? Look for signs of being fake? What if it's me? I've always said I don't belong in this prissy Academy."

"No," Verena said sharply. "We are not turning on each other. That's exactly what they want. Division. Distrust. If this world is being rewritten, then the only way we protect ourselves is by writing back."

Beatrice placed the folded paper on the table. "I spoke to a Mirror-Keeper in the Astral Archives," she said. "He mentioned a term I hadn't heard before—'Narrative Deviants.' Individuals who behave unpredictably in structured stories. They're not born of the script, but they still act within it."

Verena's eyes narrowed. "And?"

"He said we're being watched. Not by gods. Not by Zodiacs. By something else. Something that feeds on deviance."

Clarina finally spoke, voice low. "Like parasites on narrative structure."

Evelyn looked down. "Then… what do we do?"

Verena didn't answer immediately. She walked to the window, where the dying sun bled orange light across the towers of Irasios.

"We investigate," she said. "Not the Dreamgates. Not the villains. Ourselves. Who we were. Who we became. And where the cracks started."

She turned around, gaze sharp.

"If someone here is a false anchor… we'll find the truth."

"And when we do?" Beatrice asked softly.

Verena's answer was cold and sure.

"We protect them."

Even if the story demands a sacrifice.

Silence lingered after Verena's words, heavy as iron. The idea of protecting a false anchor—someone who might have never been meant to exist—pressed against something raw in each of them.

Evelyn's eyes glistened, though she blinked the tears back before they could fall. For the first time in what felt like years, someone had chosen to protect her before she could prove her worth. It was a quiet, disarming kind of warmth. She wasn't sure what to do with it.

Sera leaned back again, arms folded, but her foot had stopped bouncing. "…Fine. No accusing. But we'd better have a damn good way of finding out what's fake and what's not."

"I have a theory," Beatrice said, sliding the note she had brought into the center of the table. "Dreamgates rewrite events by reframing memories. Which means if we examine our pasts, there might be inconsistencies—false patterns, tampered origins, events that no longer line up."

Clarina nodded. "If one of us was rewritten in, the past would show strain. Echoes that don't match the present. I've studied temporal fractures before. They leave a trace, even when the story tries to hide it."

Verena gestured toward the chalkboard. "Then that's our next step. We each reconstruct our origin. Our story. Not the Academy's version. Not the script they handed us. The truth as we remember it." She turned to Evelyn. "You first."

Evelyn froze.

Sera raised an eyebrow. "You sure that's a good idea? She barely started handling her Balance magic. Pushing her into this now might shatter what's left of her confidence."

"She can handle it," Verena said, with no room for doubt.

Evelyn nodded slowly. "No… it's okay. I want to."

She stood, timid at first, then steadier as she stepped toward the center of the room. Her fingers tugged at the edges of her sleeves—a nervous tick, but one she didn't try to hide.

"I was born in a small fishing village," she began, "in the southern province of Meredria. My family wasn't magical. Not in the slightest. They ran a tea shop. My mother had the gentlest voice in the world. My father used to carve tiny sea animals out of driftwood…"

Her voice faltered for a moment.

"But when I turned ten, I started… seeing things. Lines. Threads. Balance threads, running between objects, people, everything. At first I thought I was sick. I didn't tell anyone. Not even when I started adjusting them. Just slightly. Fixing broken chairs. Shifting luck. Making storms skip our village."

Beatrice leaned forward. "That early?"

Evelyn nodded. "It got worse when I turned twelve. I unbalanced someone by mistake. A boy who tried to hurt me. I reversed his luck. He fell from a cliff the next week. I ran away."

Clarina's hands clenched faintly at her sides.

"Irasios found me two years later," Evelyn continued. "Said I was a rare case of wild Balance Affinity. That I was lucky they found me before someone else did. But… I always felt like something was off. Like I was never supposed to be there."

Sera frowned. "That doesn't mean anything. I feel that way every damn day."

"No, it's more than that," Evelyn said. "In the dorm registry, my room assignment changed three times in the first month. The original documents had my name spelled differently. No one remembered who approved my scholarship—not even the headmistress."

Beatrice's brows lifted. "That's the strain."

"There's more," Evelyn whispered. "A mirror in the West Wing once showed me a different version of myself. Not older. Not future. Different. Blonde hair instead of black. Green eyes. She was smiling."

The room fell quiet.

Verena stepped forward and placed a hand on Evelyn's shoulder. "You remembered this now. Not because it's new, but because the Dreamgate's grip is weakening. Memory suppression breaks when you confront your core."

Evelyn took a shuddering breath. "So I'm the false anchor?"

"No," Verena said. "You're the revealed one. And that's not the same."

Sera let out a long breath. "Alright. Who's next?"

Clarina stepped forward without a word. She stood straight as ever, but her voice, when it came, was softer.

"I was born to the House of Laeventhrall. A military bloodline. Tradition. Honor. Discipline. I held a blade before I could speak properly."

She closed her eyes.

"My childhood was steel. My mother died giving birth to me. My father never smiled. Every emotion was weakness. I wasn't allowed to cry when I broke a bone during training. I wasn't allowed to speak unless spoken to. I was a tool to be forged."

Her fingers flexed.

"Irasios didn't recruit me. They claimed me. I was twelve. Already proficient in three weapons. They called me a prodigy. But I was never taught how to feel. Only how to perform."

Verena watched her carefully. "Have you ever felt like your memories didn't belong to you?"

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