Morning crept into the room with reluctant grace.
Golden light filtered through the half-open drapes, illuminating motes of dust that swirled gently in the air. A hush hung in the space between two souls—not of absence, but of something unspoken.
Evelyne sat at the edge of the bed, already dressed, her hair loosely tied, though a few strands had escaped to frame her face. She hadn't slept well.
Or perhaps, not at all.
Her gaze lingered on her hand—the one that bore the ring. It was no longer warm, yet still felt… alive. The soft glint of its ancient metal shifted with the light, faint patterns etched into it now visible. She traced them slowly, thoughtfully, as if the motion itself might unlock the memory that had evaded her the moment she woke.
She couldn't recall the dream clearly. Just fragments: ash falling like snow, the scent of scorched air, and a woman who looked like her—but wasn't. A voice. A vow. And that word… echo.
That word haunted her.
But what haunted her more was the unfamiliar weight inside her chest.
She didn't know what to call it. Not fear. Not yet. But it was close. Like the feeling before a blade was drawn or just after one's mask cracked. A strange disquiet.
She glanced at Arin, still fast asleep, one arm flung lazily across the bed. The other rested near his head, fingers slightly curled. He looked peaceful—more so than she had ever seen him. It softened the lines of his face, made him look younger.
But she knew better.
He wasn't the kind of person who slept peacefully. Not really.
Not after all he had done. Not after the way he had stood before the ruin, silently placing himself between her and whatever unknown force had lingered there. Not after he had chased her fate with such determined desperation—as if it mattered more than his own.
Evelyne lowered her gaze, curling her fingers into her palm.
It scared her—how easily he made her feel safe.
Even now, in the quiet of this rented room, after a night of missing time and shattered visions, she wasn't panicking. She wasn't unraveling.
She was… waiting.
For him to wake up.
For him to say something first.
And that realization hit her harder than any sword swing ever had.
When had she started doing that?
When had she started depending on him?
"No," she told herself. "I'm not weak."
She never had been.
But it was different now. Something had shifted. In her. Around her. Within the very fabric of the world.
And Arin—he stood at the center of that shift.
She remembered how he'd looked at the ring, how he hadn't hesitated to put it on even after realizing what it might be. His recklessness irritated her. But his courage… inspired her.
For most of her life, people had looked at her with calculation or pity.
Arin looked at her like she mattered.
Not as a pawn. Not as a villainess.
But as Evelyne.
Just Evelyne.
She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, chin resting lightly on the cloth.
It was terrifying, how much she wanted to believe in him.
To believe that maybe… just maybe… she wasn't doomed to repeat the ending written for her.
The vowbound ruin had disappeared, but the feeling hadn't. The moment she touched that ring, it was as if the world had whispered, "You still have a role to play."
But what was that role?
What did the vision mean?
Was she the woman in the dream—or merely her shadow?
And why did it feel like Arin was the only one who could help her find the answer?
She heard movement behind her. The bed shifted.
"Morning," came his voice, soft and groggy.
She didn't look back. "You snore."
There was a beat of silence. Then a faint chuckle. "Do I?"
"A little."
The sheets rustled as he sat up. "You alright?"
She was quiet for a long moment before answering.
"I don't know," she said truthfully.
Then she turned to face him, her expression calm but unreadable.
"But I think I want to be."
Arin blinked, caught off guard.
"Evelyne… did you dream anything?"
She hesitated.
"I… I saw something. But I can't remember what. Just a field of ash. And someone who looked like me."
She met his gaze.
"You?"
His expression clouded. "Something similar. But we'll need to talk about it later. I think… I think these rings aren't just artifacts. They're remnants. Of something old. Something tied to us."
She looked at him for a long time. Then nodded once.
"Alright."
Just that. No more.
But in that one word, in the way she said it—there was trust. Maybe not fully-formed, maybe still fragile, but it was real. And for someone like Evelyne Valmont, that was everything.
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