The Midnight Meeting

The note hadn't said much. Just a time, a place, and a threat disguised as an invitation.

If you’re truly off-script, meet me at the west courtyard. Midnight. No guards. No lies. I’ll know if you fake it.

Unsigned. No crest. No seal.

Whoever sent it didn’t want power—they wanted truth.

Seraphine stood at the edge of the marble terrace overlooking the moonlit garden, cloaked in a thin black shawl. Crimson wouldn’t do tonight. Not for what this was.

Midnight had struck minutes ago. The bells echoed across the palace roofs and vanished into the cold night air.

No guards. No footsteps.

Just stillness.

She could feel the palace watching her. Not the people. The story. The invisible weight of fate pressing down on her like fog, waiting for her to act… or fail.

The Narrative didn’t like deviation. And she had deviated hard.

The kiss with Cael. The confrontation with Celestine. That slip of cold defiance when she pulled her hand away. It all rippled. The world felt different now, like a stage crew scrambling behind the curtain.

Good. Let it panic.

She reached for the small knife strapped to her thigh—hidden under her dress, not enchanted, just sharp—and waited.

The courtyard ahead stretched wide and symmetrical, lined with trimmed hedges and white marble statues of long-dead kings. A fountain gurgled softly at the center.

Then—movement.

A figure emerged from the opposite path, slow and deliberate. Cloaked, tall, hooded.

Not Cael.

Too fluid in their stride.

Not Adrien.

Too careful.

Seraphine’s grip on the knife didn’t loosen.

The figure stepped into the moonlight—and pulled back the hood.

Celestine.

Of course.

“I knew it,” Seraphine said flatly. “I smelled the sweetness all over that letter.”

Celestine smiled—not the soft, innocent smile the court adored, but something tighter. Measured. A chessmaster smile.

“You came alone.”

“You asked me to.”

“That’s not something you usually do,” Celestine said, stepping closer. “Follow instructions.”

“People change.”

Celestine stopped at the edge of the fountain and turned to face her directly. Her voice dropped.

“You’re off-script.”

Seraphine didn’t answer.

“You’ve been... different,” Celestine continued, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “Less obedient. Less useful. And now you’re kissing foreign princes in secret? That’s not how your story goes.”

There it was. The real Celestine. The one behind the lace and lullabies.

“You’ve been watching,” Seraphine said.

“Of course I have. You’re not the only one who remembers things.”

That froze her. For just a breath.

Celestine smiled wider. “You thought you were alone, didn’t you?”

“You’re awakened?”

“Not in the way you are. I never died, after all.” Her voice dripped with feigned pity. “But I’ve kept... awareness. Enough to recognize when someone breaks pattern. And you, dear Seraphine, are shattering.”

“Good,” Seraphine said. “Then you know I’m not playing your game anymore.”

Celestine’s smile didn’t fade. “It’s not my game. It’s the world’s.”

“No. It’s the script’s. And the script is broken.”

A pause. The fountain bubbled between them like a heartbeat.

Celestine finally let the mask drop—just a little.

“You’re dangerous now,” she said softly. “You used to be predictable. Controlled. I knew when you’d defend me. When you’d lie for me. When you’d die for me.”

Seraphine stepped closer.

“You think I won’t kill you now?”

Celestine tilted her head. “I think you can’t. Not yet.”

“Try me.”

“You don’t understand,” Celestine said. “This world isn’t real the way you want it to be. It's a loop. An engine. A cage. We’re in the story, Seraphine. We don’t write it.”

“Not yet,” Seraphine said.

A beat passed.

Then Celestine said quietly, “You’re going to get us both erased.”

“Only if I fail.”

“You will.”

That was the old Celestine again. Sweet voice. Sharp blade.

Seraphine turned.

“I came here to confirm what I already knew,” she said over her shoulder. “You’re scared. And you should be.”

“Because of you?”

“Because I’m no longer the villain.” She paused, then added, “Now I’m the author.”

Back in her room, Seraphine didn’t sleep.

She stared at the ceiling, heart quiet but her mind loud with pieces.

Celestine knew. Not everything—but enough. Enough to feel the shift in the narrative. Enough to see her role unraveling.

And most importantly, she wasn’t the only one remembering pieces of the past.

Which meant: others might be waking up too.

She needed to find them. Before the Plotkeepers did. Before the world locked them back into roles.

The note wasn’t a trap. Not exactly. It was a warning.

This wasn’t just Seraphine vs Celestine anymore.

The script was cracking.

And the war for authorship had already begun.

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