Alaira of Rilthorne had always known she didn't belong in the palace.
Not truly.
She walked its marbled halls with grace now, learned the etiquette, wore silk gowns stitched with family crests she still struggled to recognize—but the sense of foreignness never left her. Not in the way people stared. Not in the way silence followed her name.
Still, none of it unnerved her quite like Evelyne Valeblanc.
Not anymore.
A week ago, she would have said the Duke's daughter was predictable. Cruel, yes—but in a way Alaira had learned to sidestep. The same haughty insults, the same cold glares. The same trap waiting at every public event.
But something had changed.
At the last council gathering, Evelyne had glanced at her only once—and looked away like she was thinking. Thinking. Not seething. Not judging. Just… calculating. It chilled Alaira more than any insult.
And last night… the dream came again.
A room burning.
A clock ticking.
A woman with Evelyne's face standing in the flames—not weeping, but smiling sadly. Holding a book she tossed into the fire.
Alaira had woken with the words echoing:
"This isn't your story anymore."
She gripped the edges of her vanity, heart racing. She couldn't tell anyone. No one would believe her.
But something was wrong with this world.
And it was getting worse.