Silence fell after Beatrice's declaration. Not the stunned, horrified kind—but the heavy silence that follows truth. A mutual understanding passed through the group like a current: they were no longer bystanders to a story. They were prisoners inside it. And Beatrice had just voiced the one thought they all feared.
Verena's arms were crossed, her jaw set. She studied Beatrice, then the others. Evelyn stood straighter, her balance magic flickering faintly at her fingertips like a tremor of resolve. Sera, ever the reckless flame, had stopped fidgeting and now stared at the ground, quiet in rare introspection.
"Fine," Verena said. "Let's assume this story's being written around us. A pre-determined path, heroines with roles to fulfill, side characters meant to die, and someone—some thing—rewriting the narrative behind the scenes. If that's the case, what's our move?"
"We find the quill," Beatrice said. "Or the hand holding it."
