The Tyrant I Refused to Lose

Night pressed against the Ashbourne town house like a wet cloth. Evelyn lay on her side on sheets that smelled faintly of lavender, and the moment she tried to pull in a full breath, the room shifted. Not the air. Her. The weight on her chest was wrong, the height of her limbs was wrong, and the mirror across the room showed a face she had never worn.

Her heart stuttered, then ran. She grabbed the edge of the blanket with fingers that looked too delicate for her usual hands, then swung her legs over the bed. The floorboards were cool. Her slippers were already there. The room felt arranged for a woman who had been living here for months.

On the nightstand sat a stack of paper and a small candle already burned low, as if someone had been watching time. Evelyn stared at the pages, then at her own reflection again, and the fear finally found a target. This was not a dream. This was the opening scene.