The air rippled as the violet Dreamgate sealed shut behind Sera with a shudder, leaving only the scorched scent of fire in her wake. The others stood still for a beat too long, the silence stretching between them like a snapped string refusing to fall.

"She didn't even wait for us to say goodbye," Evelyn murmured, her voice strained.

Verena stepped up to the gate, now inert and sealed. "That's Sera," she said flatly. "Running headfirst into danger with nothing but rage and instinct. But if anyone can tear through a dream built to rewrite her, it's her."

Evelyn turned toward Verena, trembling. "But what if it changes her? What if she doesn't come back the same?"

"She won't," Verena said, locking eyes with her. "That's the point."

Evelyn flinched at the answer, but Beatrice stepped closer and gently laid a hand on her shoulder. "She's not alone. The Dream tried to consume me too, and I'm still here. Wiser. Sharper. Maybe sadder—but still me."

"Barely," Evelyn said, voice tight. "It left you hurt."

"It left me free," Beatrice corrected, her gaze calm but tired. "That's what it does. It shows you the lie of who you were supposed to be—and dares you to reject it."

Verena turned, her fingers glowing faintly with celestial light as she examined the unstable cracks in the walls around them. "The Dreamgates are foci," she muttered. "Each one's tied to a heroine. The enemy's trying to overwrite the core of the story using them as anchors."

"But how?" Evelyn asked, looking around. "This whole wing—it feels like it's breathing. Like it's… remembering."

"It's not just the Old Wing," Beatrice said. "This place was sealed because the narrative here is unstable. The Academy scrubbed it from the archives. It's a scar—raw, forgotten memory, too unstable to be rewritten by the usual narrative forces. That's why the Dreamgates could take root here."

"Then we burn them out," Verena said. "One by one."

"And if the heroines resist us?" Beatrice asked quietly.

"Then we make them remember who they really are," Verena answered. "Even if it hurts."

A low rumble echoed through the fractured hallway. The walls shimmered, shifting briefly into a grand ballroom before flickering back into crumbling stone. Time meant nothing here. Logic frayed at the edges.

Beatrice narrowed her eyes. "It's bleeding now. Sera's Dreamgate is weakening the space."

"Or strengthening it," Evelyn added. "Depending on whether she wins or loses in there."

"Then we prepare for backlash," Verena said. "If the narrative begins reshaping the world outside based on her dream, we need to be ready to intervene."

Suddenly, Saphira, Verena's serpent familiar, slithered up her arm from the shadows, her tongue flicking anxiously. "The threads are moving," the snake hissed. "The dream-tether to the second gate trembles. Another is stirring."

Beatrice's expression tightened. "That must be Clarina's."

Verena nodded grimly. "Two at once. They're accelerating their rewrite."

"I don't understand," Evelyn said, clenching her fists. "What are they rewriting? What's the end goal?"

"They're not just rewriting events," Verena replied. "They're trying to rewrite identity. Turn the heroines into new symbols—docile lovers, tragic martyrs, obedient pawns. Or worse: reshape the world so they were always right."

Beatrice's voice turned icy. "A perfect lie."

The air pulsed again. A new Dreamgate flickered to life at the far end of the hall—this one made of polished steel and gleaming ice, humming with restrained tension. The name etched into its arch read: Clarina Velentis.

Verena turned. "Then that's where we go next."

Evelyn hesitated. "She won't let us in. Not without a fight."

"Then we win," Verena said simply.

Before stepping forward, Beatrice placed something into Evelyn's hand. It was a cracked shard of a mirror—one of the tools used to breach the narrative veil. "You'll need this. Clarina's world is one of discipline, order, and silence. You'll have to listen to her dreams before you can break them."

Verena raised her hand. "Weapons ready. Emotions steady. We go now."

Together, the trio advanced toward the second gate. The walls trembled, rewriting again as memories from Clarina's heart leaked into the corridor—fields of white poppies, the clang of swordplay, the distant cry of a child being told to stand straighter.

Another story was beginning. And this time, it wouldn't end cleanly.

The instant they stepped through Clarina's Dreamgate, the world around them transformed into perfect symmetry.

They stood on white marble, polished to a mirror sheen, flanked by endless rows of towering columns. The sky above was a sterile blue—too flawless to be real—and a cold wind carried the scent of iron and lavender. At the far end of the colonnade stood a fortress of glass and steel, its doors sealed shut, guards fashioned from obsidian standing sentinel, unmoving.

Evelyn's breath hitched. "This doesn't feel like a dream."

"It's not," Beatrice said, eyes narrowed. "It's a prison pretending to be a legacy."

Verena scanned the architecture with quiet precision. "Discipline. Duty. Image. This isn't Clarina's dream. This is what was forced onto her."

Then came the voice. Distant, clipped, sharp as a blade.

"Hold your form."

They turned. At the top of a staircase stood Clarina, but not the Clarina they knew. This one wore silver armor trimmed with blue, her golden hair braided tightly back, her face expressionless. Her sword rested against her shoulder—not out of aggression, but obligation.

"Step out of line again," she continued, speaking to a small figure before her, "and you will be removed from training. No exceptions."

The figure before her—a girl of no more than ten, bruised, trembling, tears barely held back—stood at attention.

"Now," Clarina said. "Begin again."

The child raised her wooden sword, hands trembling.

Evelyn took a step forward, but Verena grabbed her wrist. "Watch first. Understand the narrative."

The child attacked. Sloppy. Her arm buckled under the weight. Clarina deflected the strike without effort and let the child fall.

"Failure," she said. Not cruel, but final. "Again."

"No," Evelyn whispered, voice cracking. "That's—"

"That's her," Beatrice murmured. "That's Clarina."

The scene froze. The dream flickered. And then Clarina—older now, the real one, or something closer—turned toward them. Her eyes glowed with faint silver light, and a phantom version of the academy crest hovered behind her head like a halo.

"So," she said. "They've sent you."

Her voice lacked surprise. Only weariness.

"We're not here to fight you," Verena began.

"You should be," Clarina interrupted. "Because I am fighting you."

The world shifted again. The colonnade transformed into a courtyard soaked in rain. Rows of students stood at attention, soaked to the bone, while a younger Clarina—barely a teen—stood before them with her arm in a sling and her head held high.

"I am not weak," she said to the faceless instructors. "I will continue."

The memory looped again and again—Clarina proving herself, breaking herself, repeating the mantra of strength as though repetition could sanctify it.

"She's trapped," Evelyn said, stepping forward. "Not by someone else. By herself."

Clarina's dream-self appeared once more, watching the loop with detachment. "Every failure made me stronger. Every scar was a lesson. I rose. I survived. I earned every rank they denied me."

"But who were you trying to prove it to?" Verena asked softly. "Your family? Your instructors? Or yourself?"

Clarina didn't answer. Instead, the sky darkened. The guards of obsidian came to life, drawing blades of shimmering crystal.

"You want me to unravel," Clarina said. "You want me to question. I can't."

"Why?" Beatrice asked, calm, stepping beside Evelyn. "Why is holding on to this dream worth more than reality?"

"Because if I let go," Clarina said slowly, "then everything I endured was for nothing. And I won't let that happen."

"You're not letting go of strength," Verena said. "You're letting go of shame."

One of the obsidian guards charged.

Verena intercepted it instantly, parrying with a blade of light conjured mid-air. "She's bleeding into her own defense mechanisms," she muttered. "This dream doesn't want her to break."

Evelyn rushed forward. "Clarina!"

The woman turned, sword raised—but Evelyn didn't stop. She closed the distance, grabbed her by the armor, and shouted, "You're allowed to be more than what they made you!"

The obsidian guard struck Evelyn in the back. She gasped, stumbling forward—into Clarina's arms.

The dream shattered.

Not all at once. But enough.

The false sky cracked. The marble turned to sand. The fortress melted away like wax.

Clarina caught Evelyn before she fell. Her expression fractured. The silver glow in her eyes dimmed.

"You came," she whispered.

Evelyn grinned through pain. "Told you I would."

Behind them, the Dreamgate pulsed. Reality called. Clarina looked toward the breaking world she had built around herself—and for the first time, turned away from it.

She stepped through the gate beside them.

Not conquered. Not redeemed.

Changed.

As the Dreamgate sealed behind them, Clarina exhaled like she hadn't breathed in years. The silver in her eyes faded completely, replaced by quiet exhaustion. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. Evelyn clutched her arm tighter, grounding her in the present. Verena looked ahead, eyes calculating—two heroines down, one to go. Beatrice remained silent, but her expression had softened, just slightly. The corridor ahead pulsed with residual dreamlight, flickering like nerves exposed to air. And still, the deeper hum remained—that constant warning beneath the world's skin. Sera was next. And Sera would not go down quietly.

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