Well, I’m the fucking chosen one. Why the hell does “Eliana” look exactly like me? My eyes flick to Martin. “Describe me,” I sputter out. Maybe I’m just seeing myself because I’m me. Maybe that’s why . . .


    Martin gives me a bewildered look then says, “Well, you have dark brown hair. Almost black. Your eyes are brown, a bit angular, like Peter’s. And—”


    “That’s good enough,” I say. Peter’s obviously half-fucking-Asian and so am I. Martin sees me too.


    I glance at Miri, then the burning castle. “Why don’t you help them collect water?” I tell her. It’s an order. One that she quickly obeys. Once she’s gone, I turn back to Martin, who’s watching me quietly.


    “Something happened,” he says. “What is it?”


    “A lot of somethings actually.” I take a breath. “I feel dizzy. Can we sit?”


    Maybe it’s selfish not to run in to help the people of the castle. But I’m still weak. And I can’t help but prioritize those I care about—which is a short list.


    Martin helps me down into the grass, and I notice his hands are shaking slightly. He probably knows there’s more he can do to help the remaining people inside, but after twenty minutes of burning, I don’t have much hope for them. And Martin is special to me. He’s my only true ally. The only person I can trust. I look up into his eyes. “I think Miri was one of the women from that conversation.”


    His eyebrows shoot up. “She didn’t seem to know what you were talking about.”


    “I know. But if she’s working for someone else, she’s already good at lying.” I take a breath. “Peter caught her spying, and the voices I heard . . . I thought one of them sounded familiar. I don’t know any women in Alvione but her. Unless someone from my actual, real life is in Alvione now, it had to have been her. I’m not sure but . . . she’s the best guess I’ve got.”


    “Then we’ll keep an eye on her too,” he says softly. “What else? There’s more, is there not?”


    “I was supposed to die in the fire. That’s what happened in the book.”


    His shaking hands still for a moment. I’ve been gripping his wrist all this time, but now he grips mine back.


    “You were supposed to die too,” I continue. “And the book . . . it just ended. The rest of the pages were just an error.”


    “An error? In what way?”


    Fuck, how do I explain technology? “In my world, we don’t have magic, but we do have computers. I’m not totally sure how to explain them, but they’re essentially metal and electricity, and they use numbers to work. Ones and zeroes. Point is, it was like a computer error. It was technological, not magical. I don’t think magic is going to answer our questions. But it mentioned Alistria Okuta, so I think you’re right about that—I think she’s the key to this. I’m not sure in what way, but it seemed like Eliana’s life is connected to hers—or maybe my life is connected to hers.”


    He doesn’t say anything at first. Then he says, “So nothing changes. We find her.”


    “One more thing.” I motion to my face vaguely. “This is what I look like. In real life. I didn’t know until I saw myself in your mirror. This whole time, I guess I thought Eliana was her own person—someone who was completely different from me in everything but age. I thought I was just inhabiting her body, but . . . she looks exactly like me. I look exactly like her. I don’t understand how that could be possible.” I feel the tears on my cheeks before I realize they’re falling. Martin’s brow furrows and he cups my face gently with one hand.


    “We will figure this out. I promise. You don’t have to worry.”


    I try to speak but choke on my sobs. Then I manage to get out, “I woke up in my world right as the fire started, and I . . . I tried to end the dreams. I didn’t even say goodbye. I was going to let you die, let Eliana die, let Peter die. I’m so sorry. I gave up. I wanted out.”


    He huffs and shakes his head, a pitying look painting his face with sorrow. “You did not want to feel yourself die. That is nothing to apologize for—it is human nature. I am glad that you wanted to live, but I am also glad that you did survive and that you’re here now.”


    He forgives me. He thinks there’s nothing to forgive. I wrap my arms around him and hug him tightly as I cry. He rubs my back in a weak attempt at reassuring me, which I appreciate nonetheless.


    “Well, I am glad to know that this is what you truly look like,” he murmurs. I think he’s trying to lighten the mood, but his heart isn’t fully in it. “At least there is that one consistency across our worlds.”


    I laugh through my tears. “Yeah, I guess. But it doesn’t make any fucking sense.” I rest my head on his shoulder. At least I have him. “What do we do now?”


    He sighs, and I feel his fingers in my hair, each slight touch a comfort. “We wait for the fire to stop.”


    It does stop. Eventually. Only because there’s nothing left to burn. The injured are moved into the homes of nearby volunteers, and healers are stuck working near-endless shifts. The inhabitants of the castle are moved into the local inn or return to their family homes for the time being, and a portion of the army—the soldiers not stationed on the border—are to arrive in the evening or at some point tomorrow to help with cleaning up the rubble.


    From eavesdropping on some gossiping women, I learn that Leon is staying at a different volunteer’s house, and it’s a relief to know that everyone I know here has somehow survived this madness. Miri is in the inn, and Peter and Martin are staying in the same house as I am, “due to being my advisors.” (Though my other advisors are staying elsewhere, so I imagine Peter and Martin likely pushed for this on their own accord.)


    I spend much of my time with said advisors, Peter and Martin included, crowded into the private dining room of my new temporary home. The older advisors bristle at Peter’s presence, though his efforts to pull people from the burning building has earned him some favor. Several planned trials for criminals have been postponed in the wake of this disaster, so the test of the new legal system will be delayed. One of my advisors, a man with a curled white mustache, has taken this on as his main project. It’s a relief, really, to know it’s off my plate.


    It’s decided that I should go to Viridia and ask for disaster relief. Leon could be an asset, so I’m meant to discuss this with him tomorrow and get a plan in place. Peter makes an insistent plea that I stop by Ward with him on the way over, since we’ll likely need to cross through Ward anyway if we want to take the fastest route to Castle Viridia. It could be a sign of good faith to greet the king and queen rather than passing through their lands quietly. My advisors all despise this idea—Alvione is weak; I will be a sitting duck. But Martin says he will go too, and then I have the final word, and I want to do it. Maybe I have too much faith in myself, but I think fostering good relations with Ward right now is worth a shot. And I think I can do it.


    We spend so long talking and discussing next steps that I’m practically dizzy with exhaustion when the meeting ends. Martin and Peter both follow me to my room, acting as if they are my bodyguards or something, likely because I’ve sent all the uninjured castle guards to help clear rubble so the builders can start fixing the missing floors of the castle sooner rather than later.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    When we arrive at my room, I collapse onto the bed. It’s much smaller than the one I’d had in the castle, which is frankly more my speed. The volunteers whose house we’re staying in gave me the best room, of course. Their room. Being the queen is fucking weird.


    Peter and Martin hover in the door, looking at each other, while I lay there, staring up at the ceiling.


    “What?” I say. The silence is getting weird.


    “It’s been hours,” Martin says slowly.


    I look over at them and catch Peter’s eyes traveling across my body. I’m no longer wearing the burnt slip from before; some generous women donated their clothes, so I’m wearing a plain, clean dress that I imagine makes me look like any other medieval girl—hardly a queen. “You haven’t fainted,” Peter adds.


    Oh shit. They’re right. I sit up suddenly. I . . . I should have woken up by now. My frightened eyes flick between them and “oh no” is all I can think to say.


    Martin appears to be deep in thought, but Peter just says, “Perhaps you died in your world.” At that, Martin is shaken from his reverie and glares at Peter.


    “Do not say that to her. There are many reasons why this could have happened.”


    Peter rolls his eyes. “The two of you love complicated things. Sometimes the answer is simple.” He walks over to the bed and sits on it, which seems to irritate Martin even more. I don’t think too much about it, though, as my focus remains on what Peter said. Did I really die? But . . . I was at home. What could have killed me? Trix? There’s no way I’m dead. There’s no possible way.


    Then why am I still here?


    My mouth feels dry when I speak. “Could it . . . could it be because of those women? Maybe they didn’t just heal me. Maybe they did something to make my stays here longer? One of them did say I needed to meet her, and the other said I was already on the path.”


    Could one of those women have been Alistria Okuta? The thought comes suddenly and feels obvious as I have it. She’s the only woman I’m on any path to meet.


    “That could be it,” Martin says quietly. “There is no way to be sure without talking to either of them.”


    “What women?” Peter’s voice comes out rough and a little too loud, and he’s clearly frustrated from feeling left out of the conversation. Right. He wasn’t there.


    I recount the story to him, and Martin helps fill in some of the details I’d said before that I forgot this time around. When we’re finished, Peter looks at me, his expression flat.


    “They must have been Alistria Okuta and Miriam,” he says. “Two women who possess magic? One of whom has a dragon that seemingly follows her with the intent to destroy anything in its path? Who else could that be but Alistria? I have never heard of a dragon leaving its cave to chase after any one person, so I doubt it would do so for someone unimportant.”


    Martin shakes his head. “We can’t be sure.”


    A mild scowl crosses Peter’s face. “Once again, you seek to complicate what appears an obvious answer.”


    It was the thought I’d just had as well, so I admit, “I think Peter’s right.” Martin’s surprised look makes me feel a bit embarrassed—it feels weird to take Peter’s side over his—but I can’t think of anything else that would make sense. “But let’s just pay attention to Miri for now. See what she does. If we can get more information out of her, that could help us moving forward. For now, I think we should all pretend to believe her, because if she trusts us, she may be more likely to tell us things that could lead us to Alistria on our own terms. After all, it didn’t seem like these women were working against me. The one in charge wanted me to meet her.”


    Martin lets out a short sigh. “Very well. But there is no telling what she wants from you, whoever she is. And there are fates worse than death.”


    He has a point. I didn’t think about that. What if she just wants to torture me? Then what? Every time I fall asleep I dream of torture? Surely I could read to the end of The Tales of Alvione and get out, though. Clearly The Final Tale wasn’t involved with whatever’s going on with me, and that makes me doubt The Tales of Ward will be either.


    But first I have to wake up in my world. A worse thought follows: What if I can’t get back at all?


    As if he can sense the stress in me building, Martin says, “Do not panic. Let us take things one at a time. For now, rest. I know I need some sleep. It is possible that going to sleep here could return you to your home.”


    Like a forced reset? Maybe.


    “Right,” I say softly, trying to give him a reassuring smile that I’m sure comes out as a grimace.


    Martin looks at Peter expectantly, but Peter doesn''t budge from where he’s sitting on my bed. “Come on,” Martin says to him finally, motioning to the door.


    “I’m going to stay a bit longer,” Peter says. “Watch over her.”


    Martin’s expression darkens. “She is safer alone than anywhere with you.”


    Peter stiffens and seems to be about to say something, so I interrupt. “He can stay. I’ll be fine.” Martin’s mouth drops open for a second, then thins into a frown, which is met with a triumphant grin from Peter.


    “Fine,” Martin says. “Scream if he tries to kill you.”


    “I’m not going to—” Martin walks away before Peter can finish. He scowls and turns to me. “Do you despise me too?” He reaches out and runs his fingers through my hair without a lick of hesitation, but I surprise both of us by not drawing away from his hand.


    “No. I don’t.”


    “Why not?”


    “Because I know your past is complicated.” He stiffens, but I just continue. “And I suppose I can’t help but pity you.”


    Harsh words, but he can take it. In fact, his lips curl into a half-smile at my bold words. “You like playing dangerous games. Though I do too, so I cannot fault you for such things.” He pauses, his hand still tracing the strands of hair by my temple. “To think that you know so much about me, and I know so little about you . . . It hardly seems fair. Do you agree?”


    I look up into his dark eyes and find them pensive. “I prefer having an advantage, actually.”


    At that, he laughs, and it’s a surprisingly soft sound for someone so rough around the edges. Then his hand stills as he considers his next question. “Would you tell me more about yourself? Your . . . real self.”


    “My real self,” I say thoughtfully. “Well, alright. Where to begin . . .”


    We talk for hours. At some point he procures a flask, and we both drink from it—finish it, in fact. I blabber on, red-faced from alcohol, while he gives me a silly little drunk smile. Peter is a surprisingly good listener, who never cuts in unless he has something wry to add, and having this much uninterrupted time in Alvione is almost refreshing—if it wasn’t so concerning. Over the course of my ramblings about my childhood, my failed relationships, my recently budding relationship, my job, Snowy, all of it, he eventually joins me in the bed, laying beside me with his head propped up by his hand as he listens with rapt attention. When I finally catch up to where we’re at now, I realize he’s been playing with my hand, tracing the lines on my palm quietly, absentmindedly. “Your world sounds complex,” he says finally. “Do you prefer it over this one?”


    I close my hand around his, squeezing gently as his fingers intertwine with mine, and think about my answer. My head feels cloudy, my body hot and heavy with liquor. He has a faraway look in his eye, and his palms are red from his own drunkenness. “I don’t know if I have a preference. Sometimes it feels nice to escape the monotony of my life over there. Other times, this feels like the greatest challenge I’ve ever faced—but even saying that feels silly. I can abandon this world. I truly believe I have the power to, even if I haven’t done it successfully quite yet. But I keep finding myself back here anyway. I keep finding myself wanting to come back here. Maybe I’m just stupid.”


    “You are not stupid.” I must look sad, because he reaches out with his free hand to stroke my cheek and repeats it: “You are not stupid.” And then . . . he’s kissing me, and I—I’m kissing him back. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but my hands are sliding behind his neck, pulling him closer, and his hands are sliding down my sides to my waist, and my fingers are playing with his hair, my tongue tangling with his, and then I’m tugging at his clothes.


    I’m afraid I’m making a mess of everything for no good reason at all.