I looked at Orrian again. The light floating light in the shape of a human form watched me silently as if enjoying the way I unraveled.
"If what you've told me is true…" I began slowly, "and I was written, driven, toward my own downfall… then what happens if I return with that knowledge?"
Orrian clasped it's hands behind it's back again. "That," it said brightly, "is entirely up to you."
I studied it.
"What happens if I disobey again? Refuse the plot entirely?"
"Then the world may bend. Crack. Maybe even collapse. Or maybe it will adapt. It's hard to say," it mused, almost gleeful. "You'd be… unprecedented."
I tilted my chin. "And if I go back, is it a second chance? Or just another performance?"
It's eyes gleamed. "Perhaps it is both. Perhaps it is neither. Perhaps you are being given the chance to walk into a play knowing it Is one, and choosing how to act."
My thoughts turned sharp.
If I could remember the rules, bend them, then I could exploit them.
If I truly had been made to burn… then maybe, just maybe, I could rewrite what came after.
I did not trust this.
But I trusted myself.
Always had.
I fell silent again.
Not the heavy kind. Just… quiet.
I considered everything once more, as I always did. Calculated the risk of stepping into a story I didn't author. Considered the weight of knowledge. Of awareness.
But I had always been surrounded by lies, hadn't I? Masks. Scripts. So what difference did it make if the entire world was just another one?
Maybe it was a dream.
A slow, elegant hallucination. A dying mind's indulgence before oblivion.
But if it was… I would rather make my choices in it than rot like a sheep.
I looked up.
"If I agree to this," I said, voice cool, "you won't interfere?"
"I never said that," Orrian replied, smiling like mischief itself. "But I won't control you. I can't. I only open the gate. What you do on the other side... that's entirely yours."
My eyes narrowed. "And what's the catch?"
"No catch," it said, twirling midair. "Only consequences."
I almost smiled.
Almost.
"I've made worse deals."
Orrian gave a graceful bow in midair. "Then say the word, Eris Igniva, and the gate will open."
I hesitated.
Not because I doubted my decision, I had made it already, buried beneath layers of analysis and instinct. But because… something still didn't sit right. That small, nagging doubt.
That I wasn't real.
That I was just a clever patchwork of tragedy and pride.
That none of it ever belonged to me.
I clenched my jaw.
"This is a dream," I said under my breath. "It has to be."
"You keep saying that," Orrian sang softly, "and yet here we are. You and I, both dreaming the same thing."
I stiffened. "You heard me?"
"I hear all of you," it said, shrugging. "Even the quiet parts."
"Do you always listen to dead women argue with themselves?"
"Only the interesting ones."
I turned my face away, folding my arms. "It's still just a dream."
"Then treat it like one," Orrian said gently. "Say yes. Or say no. It makes no difference to the stars."
I took one last breath of this strange, formless space.
And said, "Open the gate."
Orrian smiled, wide and bright.
"As you wish."
The space around me shimmered.
And then,
As I began to fade, Orrian's voice curled in the space around me like perfume in still air.
"Stories do not remember the ash," it said. "Only what rose from it."
The light swallowed it's form.
"Be careful where you plant your steps, Eris Igniva," It whispered. "Even when you write your own fate, the ink still bleeds."
Then everything blurred.
Light, blinding, golden, poured through the seams of my vision. My body jolted with sensation. Breath flooded my chest like water into a dry well.
And then,
"Your Majesty!, Please, please, someone fetch the apothecary!"
The world snapped into focus.
It was not the battlefield. Not the palace steps slick with blood.
It was a garden.
My garden.
The rosewood colonnades arched above me. The familiar scent of night jasmine clung to the evening air. Light pooled in golden arcs across the marble paths, and peacocks cooed somewhere in the distance.
And I was lying in the center of it. Covered not in ash and flame but in ivory and a crimson overdress, belted in gold. Embroidered sleeves. Layered underskirts. Heavy, formal, and sewn to royalty.
My royal daydress.
My queen's garb.
I was back in Solmire.
Alive.
Whole.
And… breathing.
"My Queen, stay with me," a frantic voice said close to my ear. "Please, don't close your eyes again, someone bring water, "
There was warmth around my hand. A maid. I turned my head.
Her face was pale, sweating, eyes wide and tear-bright. She was young, fifteen, maybe. New. Loyal. Too loyal.
Behind her, I could hear the others. Whispering just loud enough to be heard.
"She deserves to rot."
"May the gods keep her asleep forever."
"Monster…"
"Do not let her wake."
"She'll kill us all again…"
I stared past the girl at the women gathering around us, my attendants, my handmaidens, the same vipers who'd once painted my skin and dressed my hair while praying for my downfall under their breath. I knew each of their names.
Now, their eyes flickered between disdain and feigned concern. One of them, Talia, the elder, let out a dramatic gasp.
"She's awake, praise the stars!"
"Get a physician," another added hastily. "We must tend to Her highness at once!"
Now they cared.
I sat up slowly, brushing the trembling maid's hands from my sleeves. My bones ached as if I'd been dead for years. My mouth was dry. My pulse calm.
Too calm.
My fingers ran over the embroidery of my gown, the silk was real. The sun… warm. The garden, alive. Birds sang in the distance. The sky blushed pink in the fading hour.
Everything was real.
And yet… it wasn't.
Because I remembered.
Orrian.
The Threshold.
The truth.
I was back.
I turned to the girl still kneeling beside me, her hand reaching to steady my back. Her name was Mira. Quiet. Plain. Unimportant in the eyes of the court. But she had not moved once.
She'd stayed.
The rest were circling, eyes bright like scavengers.
I took a breath and glanced around. Slowly. Measuring every corner of this world.
The petals on the lilies. The chipped corner of the marble bench I had cursed a mason for not polishing. The frayed thread on one of the maid's aprons. My hands, unburnt. My skin, whole.
It was all the same.
And yet everything was different.
I closed my eyes.
And I laughed.
"Hah!"