The third gate shimmered. Beatrice Alvaré.
This one was cold.
Not physically—though the temperature did drop—but emotionally, fundamentally cold. The stone walls glistened with frost, but what truly chilled Verena was the silence. It wasn't like Evelyn's dream of stillness or Sera's battlefield of noise—it was a cathedral of judgment. A place where every breath felt like a sin, every word echoed as though it didn't belong.
They stepped through—Verena, Sera, Evelyn, Clarina, and Vivienne.
Inside, the dreamspace resembled a courtroom.
Marble pillars towered over them, obsidian and bone-white. Rows of faceless figures sat in balconies above, dressed in black robes, unmoving. They watched. Judged. Condemned.
At the center stood Beatrice.
She wore a scholar's robes, yet her eyes were lifeless. Her hair was tied in a perfect braid, not a single strand out of place. Her hands were bound in silver chains, holding a tome that trembled as though alive.
