Silence fell after Beatrice's declaration. Not the stunned, horrified kind—but the heavy silence that follows truth. A mutual understanding passed through the group like a current: they were no longer bystanders to a story. They were prisoners inside it. And Beatrice had just voiced the one thought they all feared.

Verena's arms were crossed, her jaw set. She studied Beatrice, then the others. Evelyn stood straighter, her balance magic flickering faintly at her fingertips like a tremor of resolve. Sera, ever the reckless flame, had stopped fidgeting and now stared at the ground, quiet in rare introspection.

"Fine," Verena said. "Let's assume this story's being written around us. A pre-determined path, heroines with roles to fulfill, side characters meant to die, and someone—some thing—rewriting the narrative behind the scenes. If that's the case, what's our move?"

"We find the quill," Beatrice said. "Or the hand holding it."

"The Dreamgates," Evelyn muttered. "Each of us had one."

"The mirrors too," added Sera. "They didn't reflect reality—they showed... alternate events. Like memories we never made, or choices we never took. Some of them showed me as a villain. Others, as a martyr."

Verena's eyes narrowed. "A branching narrative. The Dreamgates are access points, then—nodes that anchor the multiple routes. If someone wanted to rewrite the world, they'd start by corrupting the storylines of its central figures."

"The heroines," Beatrice said grimly. "Us."

A beat passed. Then Sera said, "Okay, so let's say we're being rewritten. Maybe Evelyn becomes a tragic martyr. Beatrice turns into an insane mirror witch. I burn the world down in a fit of misguided rage. They're not just trying to change the story—they're trying to make us play our worst versions."

Verena's expression sharpened. "And if we refuse the role?"

Beatrice nodded slowly. "Then the narrative collapses. Or they'll kill us and replace us with someone who won't."

Verena paced. "We need to find your Dreamgates. The real ones. If we're scattered echoes of our own potential, then those gates are convergence points. Control them, and maybe we take the narrative back."

"I think mine's tied to the old observatory," Evelyn said, surprising herself with how certain she sounded. "I've been... feeling something. Every night, like it's calling me."

Beatrice spoke next. "Mine's under the library. Or beneath it. I saw it in a dream—one where I walked endlessly between bookshelves until I reached a mirror that was breathing."

Sera looked at them both, then scoffed. "I guess I'm the only one without prophetic visions."

"You dreamt of a burning cathedral," Verena reminded her. "That's not exactly subtle."

Sera grunted. "Fine. So we split up?"

Verena shook her head. "No. That's exactly what they want. Divide us, isolate our arcs, manipulate the outcomes. We go together. We start with Evelyn's gate, then Beatrice's, then Sera's."

"And yours?" Beatrice asked, watching Verena carefully.

Verena was quiet for a moment. Her gaze drifted toward the cracked ceiling where moonlight seeped through like bleeding thread.

"Mine's not a gate," she said. "It's a lock. And it's already broken."

A cold chill swept the room. Sera looked at her sideways. "The hell does that mean?"

"It means someone already rewrote my part," Verena said, eyes hard. "I just don't know what it used to be."

Evelyn stepped forward then, her voice steady. "Then we find out together. We help you remember, the way you've helped us."

Verena gave a faint smile at that. "Touching. Alright then. Get your gear. We leave at first light. We're going to the observatory."

"Even if it's trapped?" Beatrice asked.

"Especially if it's trapped," Verena said. "If someone wants us dead, it means we're getting close."

Sera grinned. "Now that's the Verena I know. Let's go piss off a god, shall we?"

They each began to prepare—Beatrice gathering spell tomes, Sera testing her blades, Evelyn quietly harmonizing with her balance magic, and Verena sharpening her staff into a spear.

Outside, the stars shifted unnaturally. As if watching.

As if waiting.

The observatory stood like a monument to forgotten knowledge—half-collapsed, its upper dome shattered, the brass telescope long rusted and warped toward the sky like a finger forever pointing to a star that had already died. Mist gathered at the base, cloaking the cracked marble steps in a quiet, dreaming fog. It was far from Irasios, nestled at the edge of the world, where even the map began to blur, and the moonlight thinned into something pale and foreign.

Verena led the way, boots crunching over fallen stone and old constellations carved into the path. Evelyn followed behind her, steady, her balance magic pulsing faintly with each step. Beatrice moved like a shadow, her mirror tome clutched tightly to her chest. Sera brought up the rear, blades drawn, expression half-bored, half-alert.

"Feels like we're walking into a memory," Evelyn murmured.

Beatrice glanced at her. "Or a dream that hasn't finished ending."

The observatory's doors were surprisingly intact—towering things made of star-forged wood, covered in carvings of celestial beasts, all with missing eyes. Verena placed her palm against the surface.

It opened.

No creak. No sound. Just an inhale, like the building itself remembered them.

Inside, everything smelled of ozone and stardust. The air shimmered faintly, and dust floated in beams of impossible light. Dozens of star charts lined the walls, most of them charred, others rewritten in a language that flickered between alphabets with every blink. The central platform held the remains of the telescope, now broken, its base riddled with sigils Evelyn instinctively recognized as anchors—symbols meant to stabilize magic tied to perception and time.

"This place wasn't just for watching stars," Evelyn said. "It was for watching futures."

Verena nodded. "And rewriting them."

They began exploring, careful not to disturb anything more than necessary. Beatrice trailed her fingers across a shattered mural showing a girl cloaked in midnight, holding scales in one hand and a blade of glass in the other.

"That's not me," Evelyn said, but her voice was hollow.

"It's who you could have been," Beatrice replied.

"I don't want to become that."

"You might not have a choice," Verena said evenly, "but that doesn't mean you give up the fight."

The air grew heavier as they reached the inner sanctum. It was a circular chamber, lined with black glass. In its center stood a pedestal. On it: a shard of mirror, floating.

It pulsed.

Evelyn took a step forward. "That's it. That's my Dreamgate."

Sera frowned. "Doesn't look very... gate-like."

"It's not about the look," Evelyn said, eyes fixed on the shard. "It's about resonance. This is where my story forks."

"Then let's find out what the options are," Verena said. "Beatrice, cover her."

Evelyn approached the shard. As she did, the mirror flared—showing a dozen Evelyns all at once. One draped in royal robes, another cloaked in blood. One standing on a burning battlefield, and another seated on a throne of balance and chaos. But one version struck her hardest: a version of herself broken and kneeling at someone's feet, blindfolded, bound in silver chains, smiling as if she wanted it.

She recoiled.

Verena caught her. "What did you see?"

Evelyn's voice trembled. "All the ways I could fall. All the roles they want me to play."

"And the one you won't," Verena said.

Evelyn nodded. "That one."

Beatrice stepped closer. "You can lock it out. Choose your route. But if you do, the others will try to overwrite it again. We'll have to keep protecting your story."

"I'm not afraid," Evelyn said.

"Good," Verena said. "Then touch it. Anchor your truth."

Evelyn placed her hand on the shard.

Light burst.

A wave of force rippled through the room, throwing them all back. Beatrice caught herself mid-fall with a whisper of mirror magic. Sera slammed against the wall with a grunt. Verena twisted midair and landed hard, coughing.

When the light faded, Evelyn stood in the center. Her eyes were glowing with silver light, and behind her, a single constellation hovered, drawn in radiant thread: a scale, cracked but balanced.

"It's done," she said softly.

Beatrice stepped forward. "Then your Gate is sealed. Your arc is yours again."

But Verena was staring at the wall.

A new carving had appeared—freshly etched into the stone, glowing with celestial ink. It showed a girl with silver eyes being pierced through the chest by a spear made of ink.

And beneath it, a name: Evelyn.

Sera cursed. "It's a warning. They're already rewriting the next chapter."

Verena's face hardened. "Then we move faster. Beatrice, you're next."

Beatrice stepped toward the shard, her expression unreadable. The mirror in her hands trembled as if sensing its sibling. She extended it toward the floating Dreamgate, and instantly the room dimmed—reflections warped across the walls, showing hundreds of Beatrices, each a contradiction. One wept blood; another danced with fire; one burned entire cities while smiling. Beatrice's jaw clenched.

"This is the price of knowing too much," she murmured.

She pressed her mirror against the shard.

A scream echoed—not from her mouth, but from the mirrors themselves.

And then silence, as her Dreamgate cracked open with a sound like shattering trust.

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