The next morning felt too bright.
Not sunny—just sharp. The kind of light that had no warmth, only edges. Ivy sat at the edge of her bed, not dressed yet, one sock half-on, staring at the text Eli had sent her at 3:12 a.m.
You remembered snow. I remember your voice before you had it.
She hadn't replied. She hadn't slept.
The key was still under her pillow, still pulsing faintly. Sometimes it was cold. Sometimes warm. Sometimes it beat in sync with her heart—and sometimes not.
---
She arrived at school late.
Again.
No one seemed to notice. Not the teachers, not the admin, not even the girl who usually side-eyed her for showing up mid-period. That was the first sign.
The second came when she passed the trophy case near the South Wing stairwell and caught her reflection moving out of sync.
Not by much.
Just enough to smile first.
Ivy stopped.
So did the reflection. Eventually.
In its hand was the key.
In Ivy's hand—nothing.
She blinked.
The reflection blinked back. And mouthed something:
Choose.
The hallway light overhead buzzed sharply. Morse code sharp.
She didn't speak Morse, but somehow she understood it:
You have until sundown.
---
Calla found her before second period. Dragged her into the girls' bathroom with a dead lightbulb and a window painted shut.
"He's here," Calla said.
"Eli?"
"No. Not the boy you pulled. The thing wearing him."
Ivy's spine locked.
"I saw him in the courtyard. Talking to a sophomore. She didn't see him."
"Maybe he's fading."
"No. He's stabilizing. But only we can see him. The ripple made him subjective. That means only Crownwoken can perceive his existence."
"But I'm not—"
"You are."
Calla leaned close.
"Something's coming for you. The Veil doesn't let versions overlap forever. You summoned Eli's version of you back into this world—and now you have to choose which one stays."
"I don't even remember being that girl."
"You don't have to," Calla whispered. "But she remembers being you."
---
By lunch, everything had changed.
The mirrors in the hallway fogged without condensation.
The digital clocks in classrooms all blinked 4:44, no matter the hour.
When Ivy opened her locker, she found a folded note pinned to the inside:
You're breaking her heart. Choose before she breaks yours.
It wasn't signed.
But the ink was written in her own handwriting.
And the paper smelled faintly of the orchard that didn't exist yet.
---
At sunset, Ivy stood in the middle of the quad.
The sky was bleeding gold.
The wind carried whispers only she could hear.
And there—on the edge of the shadow near the east fence—stood Eli.
He wasn't smiling.
"You have to let one of us go," he said.
Then he opened his arms.
Behind him stood two versions of Ivy.
One in a crown of mirrors.
One with blood on her hands.
Both watching.
Both waiting.
Both whispering:
"Choose."
---
END OF CHAPTER TEN