The first thing Evelyn noticed was the ceiling.
It was too high.
That was the first thought that crossed her mind when she opened her eyes.
The second was that there was absolutely no reason for a ceiling to be that high.
She stared at the intricate molding above her, still half convinced that she was dreaming.
Pale morning light filtered through enormous curtains, illuminating golden patterns carved into the white plaster.
The ceiling extended several meters above the bed, crowned by a chandelier that looked as though it belonged in a museum rather than a bedroom.
Evelyn blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then she closed her eyes again.
Maybe she had fallen asleep while reading.
That was possible.
She had been exhausted the previous night.
She remembered lying in bed with her tablet beside her, complaining silently about the latest chapter of The Crown of Ashes.
She had been reading until far too late, promising herself after every chapter that she would stop after the next one.
She never did.
The novel had become one of those stories that was simultaneously impossible to abandon and impossible to enjoy peacefully.
The world-building was excellent.
The characters were compelling.
The political conflicts were genuinely interesting.
And the author had a particular talent for killing characters at exactly the moment readers became emotionally attached to them.
Evelyn had complained about that several times.
She remembered the last chapter she had read.
There had been another battle.
Another death.
Another cliffhanger.
She had placed the tablet on the nightstand, pulled the blanket over herself and muttered that she would finish the novel the next day.
Then she had fallen asleep.
That was all she remembered.
There had been rain outside.
The sound of water against the window.
The faint glow of her tablet.
And then…
Nothing.
Evelyn opened her eyes.
The chandelier was still there.
She slowly turned her head.
The room was enormous.
There were two tall windows covered by heavy curtains.
A fireplace stood against one wall, cold and unused despite the morning chill.
A large wardrobe occupied the opposite side of the room.
Beside it was a dressing table covered with small bottles, brushes and pieces of jewelry.
Everything looked old-fashioned.
Not old.
Expensive.
There was a difference.
The furniture was made of dark polished wood.
The bed frame had elaborate carvings.
Even the curtains looked more expensive than every piece of furniture in her apartment combined.
Evelyn frowned.
She pushed herself upright.
The blanket slipped from her shoulders.
She looked down.
A white nightgown.
Her brow furrowed.
She lifted one hand.
Her fingers looked wrong.
Not dramatically wrong.
Just…
different.
They were slimmer.
The skin was smoother.
Her nails were longer.
She turned her hand over.
No small scar near her thumb.
No faint burn mark from the time she had accidentally touched a hot baking tray.
Her breathing changed.
Slowly, she moved her other hand.
Same thing.
She looked at her arms.
They were thinner than she remembered.
Her heart began to beat faster.
“Okay.”
Her voice sounded strange.
It was still her voice.
At least, she thought it was.
But there was something different about it.
She swallowed.
Maybe she was dreaming.
That explanation was still available.
She placed her feet on the floor.
The carpet was soft beneath her toes.
She stood.
Her knees almost buckled.
Evelyn grabbed the bedpost and waited until the dizziness passed.
“Okay,” she whispered again.
She took one step.
Then another.
There was a mirror across the room.
She walked toward it.
The closer she came, the less she liked what she saw.
A young woman stood in the reflection.
Long dark-brown hair fell over her shoulders.
Her skin was pale.
Her eyes were gray.
Not dark gray.
Almost silver.
The woman looked exhausted.
Confused.
Frightened.
Evelyn raised her hand.
The reflection did the same.
She touched her cheek.
The woman touched hers.
“No.”
The word came out barely audible.
Evelyn stepped closer.
She examined the face as though doing so might reveal some hidden explanation.
She knew this face.
Not from real life.
From illustrations.
From character portraits.
From fan art.
From the pages of a novel.
Her stomach dropped.
“No.”
She stepped backward.
The mirror seemed impossibly large.
She knew that face.
She knew that woman.
She knew exactly how her story ended.
The door opened.
Evelyn turned sharply.
A young maid entered carrying a silver tray.
The woman stopped the moment she saw Evelyn standing beside the mirror.
“My lady?”
Evelyn stared at her.
The maid stared back.
“My lady, are you feeling unwell?”
Evelyn couldn’t answer.
The maid hurried toward her.
“I will call the physician.”
“No.”
The response came too quickly.
The maid stopped.
Evelyn forced herself to breathe.
“Don’t.”
“My lady?”
“Just…”
She looked around.
At the furniture.
The clothes.
The silver tray.
The maid.
Everything fit.
Everything was wrong.
“What day is it?”
The maid blinked.
“My lady?”
“The date.”
The maid hesitated.
“Today is the seventeenth day of the Month of Roses.”
Evelyn’s heartbeat became louder.
“What year?”
The maid looked genuinely alarmed.
“Year 742 of the Imperial Calendar.”
The room seemed to become colder.
Evelyn knew that year.
She knew it better than she knew some parts of her own life.
Year 742 was the beginning of The Crown of Ashes.
The year when Prince Adrian Ardent returned to the imperial capital.
The year when Celestia Ardent first entered imperial society.
The year when the political tensions between the northern territories and the imperial court began to escalate.
The year before the war.
Evelyn’s lips parted.
“What’s my name?”
The maid went still.
“My lady?”
“My name.”
The woman lowered her head.
“Lady Evelyn Valemont.”
There it was.
The confirmation she had been desperately trying to avoid.
Evelyn Valemont.
The woman who married the Duke of Valemont at the beginning of the novel.
The woman who barely appeared in the story.
The woman whose death was mentioned almost casually several dozen chapters later.
Evelyn remembered the passage.
She remembered being annoyed by it.
The author had introduced Evelyn as Lucien Valemont’s young wife.
She had been described as beautiful, quiet and obedient.
Then, during the northern war, her carriage had been attacked while fleeing the territory.
She had died.
Lucien had continued fighting.
There had been no emotional scene.
No funeral.
No meaningful farewell.
Her death had been used as one more reason for Lucien to become increasingly ruthless.
Evelyn had complained about it in the comments.
Now she wanted to scream.
“Who am I married to?”
The maid’s expression became confused.
“His Grace the Duke of Valemont.”
Evelyn closed her eyes.
Lucien.
Of all the characters.
Of all the possible bodies.
Of all the possible points in the story.
She had become the wife of the villain.
The man who would eventually be remembered as the Butcher of the North.
The man who would raise an army against the empire.
The man who would burn three cities.
The man who would kill thousands.
The man who would be defeated by the Crown Prince.
The man who would be executed in the capital.
And apparently…
The man she was supposed to marry today.
Evelyn opened her eyes.
“When is the ceremony?”
“In three hours.”
She stared at the maid.
“Three hours?”
“Yes, my lady.”
She turned toward the mirror again.
Three hours.
That was all.
Three hours until she married the man who would eventually become the most hated person in the empire.
Her first instinct was simple.
Run.
Her second was more practical.
Where?
She knew almost nothing about this world beyond what the novel had shown her.
She had no money.
No identification.
No family she could trust.
No idea how far the nearest city was.
And, most importantly, she was currently standing inside the residence of the man she was trying to escape.
Running immediately would be suspicious.
Suspicion was dangerous.
Evelyn took a slow breath.
She needed information.
“What is his Grace doing now?”
“His Grace?”
“The duke.”
“He is in the west study.”
“Alone?”
“I believe so.”
Evelyn nodded.
Then she remembered something.
In the novel, Lucien’s marriage had never been romantic.
It had been political.
His family needed an alliance.
Her family wanted access to northern trade routes.
Neither side particularly cared about the feelings of the people involved.
Which meant there was a possibility.
If she acted carefully, perhaps the marriage could be avoided.
Or delayed.
Or broken.
She turned toward the maid.
“Do you know the terms of the marriage agreement?”
The maid looked surprised.
“Of course, my lady.”
“Can it be dissolved?”
The maid hesitated.
“I believe…”
She stopped.
Evelyn waited.
“His Grace can answer that better than I can.”
That was not encouraging.
Before Evelyn could ask anything else, footsteps sounded in the corridor.
Another servant appeared at the door.
He bowed.
“Lady Valemont.”
Evelyn turned.
“Yes?”
“His Grace has requested your presence.”
Her heart sank.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
Of course.
Naturally.
Three hours before the wedding, the man she desperately wanted to avoid had decided to summon her.
Evelyn looked at herself in the mirror one last time.
The unfamiliar woman stared back.
She could do this.
She had survived exams.
She had survived job interviews.
She had survived living alone.
She could survive one conversation with a fictional villain.
Probably.
She hoped.
The maid helped adjust her dress.
It was dark green, embroidered with delicate silver patterns.
The fabric was heavier than anything Evelyn had worn in her previous life.
A thin necklace rested against her collarbone.
She barely recognized herself.
The servant led her through the mansion.
Evelyn tried to memorize the route.
Left corridor.
Grand staircase.
Gallery.
West wing.
She noticed several portraits along the way.
Men and women wearing the Valemont crest.
Generations of the same family.
Most looked severe.
One portrait caught her attention.
A young man with black hair.
Perhaps sixteen.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
Lucien.
Evelyn slowed.
The boy in the portrait did not look cruel.
He looked tired.
She kept walking.
The west garden was quiet.
Morning sunlight fell across the stone paths.
White roses climbed the walls.
A fountain stood at the center, its water flowing gently into a marble basin.
And there he was.
Lucien Valemont.
He stood beneath an old tree.
Tall.
Elegant.
Dressed in black.
One hand rested behind his back while the other held a folded letter.
Evelyn stopped.
She had seen illustrations of him before.
None had prepared her for reality.
Lucien was handsome in a way that felt almost inconvenient.
Sharp jaw.
Dark hair.
Pale skin.
Blue-gray eyes.
He didn’t look like a monster.
He looked like a man who hadn’t slept enough.
Lucien turned.
Their eyes met.
Evelyn’s entire body became tense.
He studied her.
Not rudely.
Carefully.
His gaze moved briefly over her dress before returning to her face.
“Lady Valemont.”
His voice was low.
Calm.
Evelyn forced herself to curtsy.
“Your Grace.”
“You’re late.”
She blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
“You were supposed to come ten minutes ago.”
Evelyn glanced toward the servant.
The servant immediately lowered his head.
Lucien’s expression didn’t change.
“I assume something happened.”
“Nothing important.”
“That’s rarely true.”
Evelyn didn’t know how to respond.
So she said nothing.
Lucien studied her again.
There was something uncomfortable about being observed by someone who looked as though he could read every thought on her face.
“You’ve been asking questions this morning.”
Her stomach tightened.
“What kind of questions?”
“The date.”
He paused.
“The marriage.”
Another pause.
“And me.”
Evelyn forced a small smile.
“I was curious.”
“You’ve been married to me for almost a year.”
She froze.
A year?
That wasn’t right.
She had completely forgotten that detail.
In the novel, the marriage had happened before the main plot began.
The reader had met Evelyn after the wedding.
Which meant she hadn’t just woken up before marrying Lucien.
She had woken up one year into the marriage.
Her thoughts raced.
If that was true, why had she been dressed for a ceremony?
Lucien watched her expression change.
“What is it?”
Evelyn realized her mistake.
She needed to recover.
“Nothing.”
“You look confused.”
“I’m tired.”
“That’s understandable.”
His answer was unexpectedly gentle.
Evelyn looked at him.
Lucien glanced toward the garden.
“The journey from your family’s estate was long.”
“My family’s estate?”
“Yes.”
She realized he was testing her.
He knew something was wrong.
She had to be careful.
“Perhaps I simply haven’t adjusted yet.”
Lucien’s gaze remained on her.
Then he looked away.
“I see.”
Evelyn exhaled quietly.
She had no idea what was happening.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Before she could ask, Lucien held out the folded letter.
“Do you recognize this?”
She stared at it.
“No.”
“It was found in the eastern archives.”
He offered it to her.
Evelyn hesitated before taking it.
The paper was old.
Yellowed around the edges.
She unfolded it.
The handwriting meant nothing to her.
“Who wrote it?”
“I don’t know.”
That surprised her.
“You don’t?”
“I know the name.”
He paused.
“Not the person.”
Evelyn looked at him.
Lucien’s expression remained unreadable.
She handed the letter back.
“Why are you showing this to me?”
“I wanted to see your reaction.”
Her heart skipped.
“Why?”
“Because you have been behaving strangely.”
Evelyn forced herself not to look away.
Lucien stepped closer.
He wasn’t threatening her.
If anything, his posture was remarkably relaxed.
But there was something dangerous about his calmness.
“You’ve avoided looking at me since you entered the garden.”
Evelyn said nothing.
“You’ve asked questions about my activities.”
Silence.
“You’ve asked whether our marriage can be dissolved.”
Her fingers tightened around the fabric of her dress.
“And now you’re looking at me as if you’re trying to determine whether I am the man you expected.”
Evelyn’s heart stopped.
For one terrifying second, she wondered whether he could read minds.
Then Lucien said quietly:
“Who did you expect to find?”
She had no answer.
Because the truth was impossible.
She had expected a villain.
She had found a man.
A man who didn’t resemble the monster she remembered.
A man who was looking at her as though he had already realized she was hiding something.
Evelyn lowered her gaze.
“I don’t know.”
It was the closest thing to the truth she could offer.
Lucien remained silent.
The wind moved through the roses.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang.
Evelyn looked up.
Lucien was still watching her.
Then, unexpectedly, he stepped back.
“You don’t need to be afraid.”
She stared at him.
His voice was quieter now.
“I have no intention of harming you.”
Something inside Evelyn tightened.
Because she believed him.
And that was terrifying.
She had spent years reading about Lucien Valemont.
She knew what he would become.
She knew the cities he would burn.
She knew the people he would kill.
She knew how his story ended.
But the man standing in front of her had not done any of those things yet.
Not one.
Lucien extended his hand.
Evelyn stared at it.
His fingers were steady.
There was no threat in the gesture.
Slowly, she placed her hand in his.
His palm was warm.
For a brief moment, neither of them moved.
Then Lucien looked down at their joined hands.
Something unreadable passed through his eyes.
Evelyn withdrew her hand.
She took a small step back.
Three years.
That was all she had.
Three years before the story reached its ending.
Three years before Lucien Valemont became the villain.
Three years before both of them died.
Unless she changed something.
Evelyn lowered her gaze.
Three years.
I only need to survive three years.
She didn’t know that Lucien was watching her with a completely different thought.
She is lying.
And neither of them knew that the story had already begun to change.