59.

Alina didn’t remember falling asleep.

The last thing she recalled was her pen scratching across the page of her journal and the chill of the night brushing against her skin. She had meant to write everything down—every word Caelan said, every glance, every ache—but somewhere between memory and ink, she drifted.

And then she dreamed.

It wasn’t like her usual dreams. This one was too vivid. Too real.

She stood in the middle of a vast library, the air thick with the smell of parchment, wax, and smoke. The shelves stretched beyond sight in every direction, and the ceilings shimmered with constellations that moved when she blinked. Candles floated without flame, their light soft and golden. Everything was drenched in silence—heavy, reverent, like a chapel buried beneath the earth.

Her feet moved without command. She walked slowly, her fingertips grazing the spines of ancient books. Some were etched in runes she didn’t recognize. Others whispered when she touched them.

At the far end of the aisle, a woman stood with her back to her. Robes of ink-black silk flowed around her like liquid shadow. Her hair was bound in braids that sparkled with stars.

Alina’s heart pounded.

She tried to speak, but no sound came.

The woman turned.

And Alina saw herself.

Not quite.

The features were hers—her eyes, her lips, her jaw—but different. Sharper. Older. Ageless. And the eyes… they glowed with the weight of centuries.

“You came back,” the figure said, her voice like wind rustling through trees. “But you do not remember.”

Alina tried to step closer, but her legs were locked in place.

“Do you remember the vows we made?” the woman asked. “The promise you whispered into the fire?”

“I don’t understand,” Alina managed to say, though her voice echoed like it came from somewhere far away.

The woman’s gaze softened.

“You are not broken. Only sleeping.”

The dream twisted. The candles blinked out. The stars in the ceiling turned to smoke. A low hum began to rise around her.

Flames. Everywhere.

The shelves burst into fire. The books screamed. Pages flew like birds trying to escape. And Alina stood at the center of it all, frozen.

She heard a voice then. Not the woman’s.

Caelan’s.

“Run!”

She tried. Her feet finally obeyed. She ran, flames licking at her heels, the fire chasing her down corridors that had no end. Her lungs burned. Her vision blurred.

And just before the fire consumed her—

She woke up.

\---

Alina shot upright, drenched in sweat, her breath ragged.

The room was bathed in early light. Pale and soft. The storm had passed, but her heartbeat thundered like a drum in her ears.

She looked down at her hands. They trembled. Her blanket had been tossed aside, and the journal lay open on the floor beside her.

It had burned.

No.

Not all of it. Just a corner. The edges were charred like they had been brushed with a match. The ink on the page had smeared, warped by heat. She stared at it, her chest heaving.

Was it a dream? Or had something crossed over?

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She reached for it, hands unsteady. A message from an unknown number.

I felt it too. – C

Alina swallowed. Her throat felt raw. She didn’t know whether to cry or scream.

Instead, she got up.

\---

She moved like someone underwater—each step a decision, each breath too loud. She showered, letting the hot water scorch the dream from her skin. She dressed in soft cotton and jeans and tried not to think too much. But her mind didn’t obey.

That woman in her dream—the version of her cloaked in stars and shadow—hadn’t been a stranger. She had felt like home. Like looking into a mirror and remembering who you used to be.

She poured herself coffee with shaking hands. But the mug remained untouched as she sat at the counter, staring at the journal.

And then, without a word, she grabbed her bag.

\---

The walk to Caelan’s estate felt different today. The morning was quiet. Birds sang from branches heavy with rain. The world felt too real, too vivid. Like someone had peeled back the dull filter she never knew she lived under.

She paused at the gates.

They opened before she could ring.

Will stood on the other side, arms crossed.

“You look like hell,” he said.

“I didn’t sleep,” she replied.

He studied her face. “You remember something.”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly.

He stepped aside. “He’s in the library.”

Hope peeked out from the kitchen doorway as Alina passed. She said nothing—just offered the girl a soft, knowing smile.

Alina reached the tall wooden doors. Her hand hovered for a second.

Then she pushed them open.

Caelan stood by the window, his back to her. He didn’t turn.

“I was wondering if you’d come.”

“I dreamed,” Alina said.

That made him turn. Slowly. His eyes were shadowed, but sharp.

“Of her.”

Alina nodded.

“She was me,” she whispered. “But not me. She knew things. She spoke like I was just asleep.”

Caelan walked toward her, but stopped a few feet away. “What did you see?”

“Books. Fire. Screams. And her. She said I made a promise. One I don’t remember.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, something like pain flashed through his gaze.

“She always spoke of promises,” he murmured. “Said words held weight. That fantasy was just truth in prettier clothing.”

Alina lowered herself into a chair.

“Am I her?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I only know what I feel. And what I saw when you touched that dragon.”

Alina looked at her hands. They still trembled.

“What was she to you?”

He sat across from her, slowly.

“My light. My balance. The reason I chose this world again and again instead of turning to dust. We were created together. Spirit and ink. Story and soul. We were bound to the book. We were the book.”

Alina’s breath caught. “And when she died—”

“She didn’t vanish. She scattered.”

A silence fell between them.

Alina leaned forward. “You said the book was rewritten. That you print it again and again. Why?”

“So I don’t forget,” Caelan said softly. “So she doesn’t disappear.”

Alina thought of the dream. The shelves screaming. The pages fleeing like birds. The woman with her face and someone else’s eyes.

“I think she wants to come back,” Alina said, voice barely above a whisper.

Caelan watched her. “You’re not afraid?”

She gave a half-smile. “I’m terrified.”

He reached for something behind him, a small velvet pouch. He set it on the table between them and carefully pulled out a delicate silver chain, and resting at the end was a small snow frost pendant shaped. Its surface shimmered faintly like ice under moonlight.

“She wore this,” he said. “I gave it to her long ago. When I returned from the ancient printing press in the Kingdom of Books Palace. Before it burned.”

Alina’s breath caught.

“It didn’t burn with her?”

He shook his head. “It was protected. I’ve kept it with me ever since.”