Lena's pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the heavy silence around her.
Her breath came fast—too fast—as she took a step back from the broken mirror, the reflection of Selene Ravencourt still staring at her from the fractured glass.
This isn't real.
It couldn't be.
Her nails dug into her arms, gripping herself as if that would somehow stop the shaking, as if she could force herself back into her own skin by sheer will alone.
But no matter how many times she blinked, no matter how hard she tried to force the image away, the woman in the mirror remained the same.
Lena tried to inhale sharply, But she nearly choked on the scent of blood.
Her body jolted as she scrambled back, her foot skidding on something slick. She barely caught herself before she could fall, hands clutching the fabric of her dress—a dress she definitely hadn't been wearing five minutes ago.
Her eyes settled on the mirror again, and Lena stomach twisted.
She had created this woman. Crafted her down to the last, cruel detail. She had written her as ruthless, feared, untouchable.
And now she was inside her.
A harsh, bitter laugh slipped past Lena's lips, sharp and breathless.
This is insane.
Maybe she was hallucinating.
Maybe she'd finally snapped from all the stress of writing.
Maybe she had passed out at her desk, and any second now she'd wake up with her laptop overheating in her lap and an empty coffee cup balanced on a stack of rejected plot outlines.
Any second now.
…Right?
The silence stretched.
Thick. Unyielding.
No ringing phone. No buzzing notifications. No Margot yelling at her about deadlines.
Just the scent of blood.
The cold stone beneath her bare feet.
The weight of a body that wasn't hers.
Lena swallowed hard.
Okay. Okay.
She needed to breathe. To think. To figure out what the hell was happening before she completely lost it.
Her gaze flickered across the ruined chamber, to the bodies strewn across the marble floor. Golden-armored knights, limbs twisted unnaturally, blood seeping from beneath their still forms.
Her breath hitched.
God.
She knew this scene.
She had written this scene.
She turned sharply, scanning the chamber—her stomach flipping as realization crashed down.
Where is she?
The heroine.
She should be here.
Lying dead beside Selene, their bodies mirroring each other, the tragic end of a war neither of them won.
But she wasn't.
Lena's fingers curled into fists.
That wasn't right. That wasn't how the book ended. The protagonist should have—
A distant roar of voices shattered her thoughts.
She stiffened.
It was faint at first, an echo beyond the heavy iron doors. But it was growing, rolling through the palace halls like a storm.
Shouts. Cheering.
Lena pushed herself toward the nearby window, her pulse hammering as the roaring voices outside grew louder. Her legs felt unsteady beneath her, like she was learning how to walk again, but she forced herself forward.
The window was shattered, jagged edges of glass still clinging to the frame. The cool night air hit her as she peered out into the courtyard below.
And what she saw sent a chill down her spine.
They were celebrating.
Torches lit the darkness like a sea of fire, held aloft by hundreds—no, thousands—of people. The city beyond the palace walls was alive with noise, a tide of voices chanting, shouting, laughing.
She strained to hear past the chaos, to make out what they were saying, but the words blurred together—until one phrase reached her, clear and sharp as a dagger.
"The Witch-Queen is dead!"
Lena's breath hitched.
They were celebrating her death.
Which—okay, yeah, obviously. That's exactly what was supposed to happen. She wrote this ending. She knew the people had suffered under Selene's rule, had prayed for her downfall. It made sense.
But now that she was in it—now that they were— cheering for her demise, her stomach twisted into knots.
Because they weren't celebrating a character's death.
They were celebrating her death.
Or, at least, what they thought was her death.
And if they found out she wasn't actually dead—
Her fingers clenched around the windowsill. They'd come for her.
A sharp knock sounded against the heavy iron doors.
Lena whirled.
The sound was too close. Too real.
Her breath caught in her throat.
A pause. Then another knock—louder this time.
"Lena…" she whispered to herself, forcing her mind to work, forcing her body to move.
No. Not Lena. Selene.
Think, think, think.
She had no magic. No weapons. No plan.
And she had no idea what kind of person was standing on the other side of that door.
A loyal knight? A palace servant checking for survivors?
Or worse—someone coming to make sure the Queen was truly dead?
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She needed to hide.
A third knock—no, a violent crash—shook the iron doors.
Before Lena could react, they burst open, the impact sending a rush of air through the chamber. Knights. Their golden armor gleamed in the dim torchlight, swords drawn, their gazes sharp and searching.
They were looking for bodies.
Looking for her.
One of them stepped forward, scanning the room—until his eyes landed right on her.
Lena's pulse jerked.
She didn't think. She just acted.
Her lips moved on instinct, ancient words spilling forth—a spell.
Dark energy wrapped around her like a shroud.
The air warped. Her stomach twisted, a sudden pull wrenching her off her feet—
And then—
She was somewhere else.
Lena stumbled, knees nearly buckling as her feet hit solid ground. Cold air filled her lungs, damp and earthy, the scent of moss thick around her.
Not the palace. Not the chamber.
The distant roar of celebration was now just a faint hum behind her.
Lena turned, breath unsteady.
She was on the outskirts of the palace, near the treeline where the royal grounds met the wild forest beyond. The cold night air bit at her skin, the damp scent of moss and earth grounding her in a reality she still wasn't ready to accept.
A shaky exhale left her lips.
She was alive.
For now.
But for how long?
Someone had seen her.
That knight in the chamber—he saw her. And he wouldn't keep that knowledge to himself.
Even now, he was probably sounding the alarm, running through the palace halls, telling everyone what he had witnessed.
The Witch-Queen lives.
The celebration would turn to chaos. The joyous cries of victory would become battle cries, a rallying call to hunt her down and finish what the heroine had started.
A creeping fear engulfed her, sinking its claws deep into her chest.
She had written this world, but she had never lived in it. The people she had created for entertainment—heroes, villains, monsters, kings—they were all real now. And they would kill her without hesitation.
This wasn't fun anymore. This wasn't a thrilling plot twist or a dramatic next chapter.
This was her life.
And if she wasn't careful, it was going to be her death.
Her breath came faster, her chest tightening. She needed to get out of here. But how? Where could she even go? She had no allies, no idea how to use magic properly, no plan—
Her mind suddenly flickered to them.
The thought came unbidden, creeping through the fog of panic.
Her mates.
Just the mere idea of them sent a shiver through her body. A sharp, electric sensation curling in her gut, running down her spine.
Lena's toes curled in her boots.
What the hell?
She had created them. Crafted every inch of their personalities, their struggles, their desires.
They were her characters. Fictional. Imaginary.
So why was her body reacting to them like this?
She swallowed hard, shaking off the unsettling warmth pooling in her stomach. Now was not the time.
But… as insane as it was, they were her best bet.
She knew where they were. Locked away. If she could just reach them, she could buy herself time. Stay with them long enough to figure out how to fix this—how to get back home.
They were dangerous. Unpredictable. And they had every reason to want her dead.
But right now? They were all she had.
"But those people are not any better than the ones who want me dead," she muttered.
Lena rubbed her arms, trying to chase away the chill—and the dread gnawing at her ribs.
"Still… maybe I could talk to them."
Her voice sounded ridiculous even to her own ears, barely more than a whisper. But it didn't stop the thoughts from spiraling.
"They're still bound to Selene, right? I mean, back in my story, I had her use their curses, their desires, their hatred—hell, even their guilt—to her advantage. She twisted everything to keep them under her thumb."
She hesitated, biting down on her lip as the wind carried faint echoes of the celebration behind her. Or what used to be a celebration. It wouldn't take long before they realized the Witch-Queen hadn't stayed dead.
"If I can tap into that power—use it to control them, or… convince them—I might be able to survive this long enough to figure out how to escape."
It wasn't much of a plan. But it was something.
With trembling fingers, she straightened her posture, brushed dust off the strange, ornate gown clinging to her body like a second skin, and squared her shoulders.
If she was going to do this, she had to pretend she knew what the hell she was doing. Selene wouldn't stumble. Selene wouldn't panic.
Selene wouldn't beg.
So Lena wouldn't either.
She turned her back to the palace—the crumbling remnants of her "final chapter"—and began walking toward the one place she knew no one would dare follow.
The tower.
Where four monsters waited in chains.