Silence fell.
Not the suffocating hush of water, not the crushing quiet that pressed against her ears and stole her breath — but a gentler stillness, vast and endless, like the pause between heartbeats.
Serenya gasped.
Air rushed into her lungs in a violent, desperate pull, sharp enough to make her chest ache. She staggered forward, hands flying to her throat as she coughed, breath tearing in and out of her as though her body feared it might be stolen again.
She was standing.
Her feet were planted firmly on solid ground. No water clung to her skin. No cold bit into her bones. Her hair fell dry against her back, her clothes untouched by damp or dirt.
Yet her body trembled all the same.
The memory of drowning still burned inside her — the panic, the helplessness, the terror of the surface slipping farther and farther away. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart hammer wildly beneath her ribs.
"I—" Her voice came out hoarse. Fragile.
She stopped.
Slowly, Serenya lifted her head.
She was no longer in the lakeside garden.
Before her stretched a place not born of earth.
The ground beneath her feet shimmered like emerald silk, blades of grass catching the light as though dusted with frost. Flowers bloomed in impossible colors, their petals glowing faintly from within, shedding soft light instead of dew. They swayed gently, though there was no wind, their movements graceful and deliberate, as if guided by unseen hands.
Trees arched high above her, their trunks smooth and pale, their branches rising like cathedral spires. Blossoms clung to them in shades of silver and blue, luminous against the sky. The air itself felt different — lighter, purer, yet heavy with an unspoken weight that made her spine prickle.
It was beautiful.
And it was wrong.
The perfection unsettled her. There were no flaws here, no decay, no disorder. Everything felt measured. Designed. Like a painting too pristine to touch.
"This… isn't real," Serenya whispered.
Her voice echoed faintly, not bouncing, but dissolving into the air as though absorbed by the place itself.
She took a cautious step forward. The ground did not shift. It felt firm, real beneath her feet. Too real.
A chill crept down her spine.
If this was not the world she knew, then there was only one explanation left.
"I died," she murmured.
The word felt strange on her tongue.
A hallucination, then. A dream born from her drowning mind. That had to be it.
And yet—
"You are not dreaming."
The voice came from ahead of her.
Serenya froze.
Her heart slammed against her ribs as she looked up.
At the center of the garden, seated upon a low rise of stone, was a figure.
He sat as though he had been waiting.
His garments were pale, woven from something that looked like light itself, fabric that shimmered softly without reflecting the surroundings. His skin glowed faintly, as though moonlight flowed beneath it instead of blood. His hair — every strand, every lash, every brow — was white.
Not the brittle white of age.
But the luminous white of untouched snow beneath starlight.
Even his eyes were white.
No pupils. No shadows.
Just twin pearls lit from within.
For a single, stolen moment, Serenya thought him the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
So divine it was cruel.
So flawless it was frightening.
Her breath caught painfully in her throat. Something about him made her feel small — not physically, but fundamentally, as though she were standing before something vast and ancient that could unmake her with a thought.
His gaze lifted.
Those pale eyes fixed on her.
Serenya felt it instantly.
As if her skin had been peeled away. As if her thoughts, her fears, her secrets were laid bare beneath that inhuman stare. She could not look away. Could not breathe.
She felt measured.
Judged.
Found wanting.
He did not speak again. He did not need to.
Instead, he extended one pale hand toward her.
The earth at her feet trembled.
From the soil, something began to rise.
Serenya staggered back instinctively, heart racing as a book emerged from the ground as though the world itself offered it up. Dirt slid away from its cover, leaving behind a plain volume bound in worn brown leather. The surface was cracked, aged by centuries, its cover utterly nameless.
It hovered for a moment between them.
Then it dropped.
It landed at Serenya's feet with a dull, heavy thud.
She stared down at it, pulse roaring in her ears.
"I don't—" Her voice shook. "I don't want this."
The figure said nothing.
Her hands trembled as she bent slowly and picked the book up. It was heavier than it looked, weight settling into her arms like a burden she had never asked to carry. Cold seeped into her palms, biting through her skin.
Before she could stop herself, the book opened.
The pages fluttered, blank at first.
Then ink bled across the parchment.
Not written — spreading. Like veins filling with blood, words weaving themselves into existence. Serenya's breath hitched as her eyes followed the forming script.
Her name stared back at her.
Serenya D'Arvelle.
Her heart stuttered.
Below it, another name appeared.
Celestine Marveil.
"No," she whispered.
The words continued.
The story unfolded in merciless detail. Celestine's life shone brightly across the pages — her kindness, her trials, her quiet suffering, each hardship overcome with grace. She was adored by nobles and servants alike, beloved by fate itself.
And there, always at the edges of her light—
Serenya.
She watched herself become a caricature. The jealous rival. The schemer. The petty villainess. Every failure etched clearly, every attempt to fight her role twisted into proof of her cruelty.
She read of betrayals she had not yet committed.
She read of rumors whispered behind silk fans.
She read of poison and false accusations, of schemes that always unraveled at the last moment.
She read of the lake.
Her hands shook violently.
She read of her arrest.
Of her trial.
Of the flames.
Her vision blurred as tears burned her eyes.
She read the ending.
Her body bound to a stake, fire consuming her flesh while the crowd watched. And beyond the smoke and screams, Celestine Marveil stood radiant in white, hand in hand with the Crown Prince, ascending to her happily ever after.
The book slipped slightly in Serenya's grip.
Her breath came in ragged gasps.
"No," she whispered again, but the word felt small. Powerless.
The pages did not change.
They did not care.