The sun never truly set in this version of the world. Even in dusk, the skies shimmered with remnants of stardust, threads of the rewritten Rift curling faintly in the air like echoes. It was beautiful—too beautiful, almost. As if reality had overcorrected itself in fear of falling apart again.
Evelyne stood at the balcony of the reconstructed citadel. Once the throne room had loomed over her like a cage; now, this place felt lighter. But the burden she carried had only grown heavier.
Below, the city pulsed with renewed life. Scholars debated under lamplight, children ran through streets that had once been war-torn, and guards no longer wore armor like skin—but rather as choice. It was a world rebuilt with intention. A world of decisions, not defaults.
Alaira stepped beside her silently. Evelyne didn't need to look—she knew that presence, that steady warmth.
"You haven't slept," Alaira said softly.
"No." Evelyne clasped her hands behind her back. "I dreamed while awake. That has to count for something."
A pause. Then: "They're here, aren't they?"
Evelyne turned her gaze to the sky. "Three anomalies appeared near the Veiled Coast at dawn. One at the Hollow Grove. Another breached near Chron's resting chamber. They come wrapped in familiar shapes, but they're not...whole."
"Timewrought?" Alaira's voice barely trembled.
"Yes," Evelyne said. "Fragments of futures that were never chosen. People who might've been. Or who once were."
They stood in silence, as the sky flickered faintly with aurora veils—subtle warnings of reality distorting.
"They know your name," Alaira whispered. "The Timewrought. They call it out in the dark. Not as a curse. As a plea."
Evelyne flinched. She hadn't told Alaira everything—but some things bled through the soulbond. "Because I held the Rift. Because I changed too much."
"No. Because you became the story they never got to finish." Alaira's hand brushed hers, briefly. "They see you as the author. Or the villain. Maybe both."
A beat. Then Evelyne asked, "Would you hate me if they were right?"
Alaira looked at her fully now, eyes fierce with the fire of a hundred unsaid truths. "If you were the villain... then you were the one who burned the ending down to give us a better beginning. And I would follow you anyway."
The words struck harder than any blade. Evelyne reached for her—grasped her hand fully this time.
"Then we face them together," Evelyne said. "But this time, not just as warriors. As archivists of truth. I need to know who they were. What they lost. Otherwise, we're no better than the gods who silenced them."
Alaira nodded. "The High Scribes await in the chamber. The Echo Conduits are stable. If we listen, we might understand."
They began to walk—through marble halls etched with threads of rewritten time, through chambers that hummed with preserved memory. Behind them, the balcony remained, a testament to what they had won.
Ahead, the Timewrought waited—not as enemies, but as questions given shape.
And Evelyne, no longer a villainess nor savior alone, prepared to answer.