Chapter 4: Dreams Not Written

Nyra's (pov)

The dreams began the night after the letter arrived.

Nyra fell asleep wrapped in the heavy drapes of her new life, the scent of foreign perfumes clinging to her pillow. The fire in the hearth burned low, casting flickering shadows across the walls. She hadn’t meant to sleep. She’d meant to stay awake, to think, to prepare.

But something pulled her under.

And she dreamed.

Not the disjointed blur of fear and fantasy—but something else. Vivid. Real. Like memory bleeding through cracks in the wall of her mind.

She stood in a marble hall lined with silver pillars. Her footsteps echoed as she moved across the floor, dressed not in velvet but deep midnight robes that shimmered with starfire. Her hair was longer. Her eyes sharper.

Around her, robed figures stood in a circle, faces shadowed beneath golden hoods. And at the center of the circle burned a symbol she did not recognize—but felt like she should. A rune, ancient and trembling with power, hovered above a pedestal of black stone.

“Serenya,” one of the figures said. “It is your will that binds the veil.”

She—no, the woman she was—lifted her hand. Pale skin, elegant fingers. Silver markings ran up her forearm like living ink.

“Yes,” she said calmly. “The veil must hold.”

A surge of power hummed through the air. Her hand glowed with silver flame. Her voice rang with finality.

“And if I must vanish to preserve it… so be it.”

The dream shattered.

Nyra woke with a gasp, tangled in her sheets, heart pounding like a war drum. Sweat slicked her skin despite the cold morning air.

“Serenya,” she whispered into the silence. The name felt… carved into her. Familiar, yet unreachable.

She climbed out of bed and paced the room, trying to make sense of the fragments. The power, the robed figures, the ritual—it had felt so real. More real than her old life in the city, more real than this gilded cage of noble blood.

And the name. Serenya Vaelorin.

Was that who she had been? Before?

She had no answers. Only a growing sense that she wasn’t just an accidental insert into the story. She was the echo of something older. Forgotten. Buried.

The knock at her door jolted her back.

“My lady,” said Alis softly. “You’re expected for breakfast with Lord Elwynn.”

Nyra froze. “Lord…?”

“Cian Rathmore Elwynn,” the maid clarified, as though it were obvious. “He arrived last night. The Academy asked him to escort you personally.”

Nyra’s blood ran cold.

The hero.

The man who, in the original story, loved the heroine, fought the villain, and never once noticed a girl named Nyra.

And now he was coming for her.

The story was changing. And she wasn’t sure if she was ready to meet the man the world called a hero.

Absolutely! Here's an additional part for Chapter Four — a deeper moment right after Nyra learns Cian Elwynn has arrived. This section intensifies her emotional response and sets the tone for their first encounter, while also hinting at the cracks in the "heroic" image the world believes in.

Nyra stood still as the name echoed through her.

Cian Rathmore Elwynn.

The perfect knight. The blade of the Empire. The golden boy whose smile lit battlefields and whose justice left no room for mercy.

But that wasn’t what twisted her stomach into knots.

It was the memory—not from her life, not even from the book, but from something else. Something older, buried so deep it made her dizzy to touch it.

A flash:

Silver flames. A sword splintering into pieces. His voice shouting her name—not Nyra, but Serenya—with something like desperation.

She pressed her fingers to her temple. No. That wasn’t real. Was it?

She barely heard Alis waiting at the door.

“I’ll be down shortly,” she said, her voice strained.

As the footsteps retreated, Nyra walked to the mirror. Her reflection stared back, pale and tense.

“Cian…” she whispered. “Why do I feel like I’ve met you before?”

She adjusted the lace cuffs at her wrists and turned toward the wardrobe. If she was going to face the hero, she wouldn’t do it looking fragile. She picked a gown of deep violet—a shade that spoke of dignity, not passivity. Her fingers paused at a silver pin shaped like a phoenix.

She didn’t remember owning it.

And yet… she fastened it to her collar without thinking.

Outside, the sound of hooves clattered through the courtyard. She moved to the window just in time to see him dismount—tall, golden-haired, dressed in imperial blues and silver armor, his smile warm as he greeted the waiting staff.

He looked like a savior. Like a prince from a tale.

But when his eyes flicked up toward her window—just for a second—she saw something else.

Cold calculation. The glint of a man measuring a puzzle piece he hadn’t expected.

And in that moment, she realized:

Cian Elwynn already knew her.

And he wasn’t here to protect her.

He was here to decide whether she was friend—or threat.

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