Jovine slammed the door to her bedchamber, her heart beats thudding against the book clutched tightly to her chest. Leaning against the wall, she slid down to the ground. 

She was practiced in the art of masking her feelings. She had always been quite good at bottling every unwanted emotion, and after months of facing Richard’s betrayal and disguising her misery, it was almost like a bad habit. 

So when she saw him sitting there, drunk and slurring insincere words meant to shaken her resolve, the rage she had buried in her pursuit for answers surged back with a vengeance. But, as always, she couldn’t quite unleash it. Because no matter how much she wanted to make him suffer, she didn’t have the means to do it yet. 

Impulsively, she flung the heavy tome across the room, watching in twisted fulfillment as it knocked over a vase. Jovine envied the way it shamelessly shattered against the floor, the chaos and uninhibited nature of its demise so freely expressed in the broken shards. If only she could explode like that. 

Standing in a daze, she walked to where the book lay open against the fragmented glass. As she kneeled, she felt the pain of the smaller pieces digging into her skin, but it didn’t faze her. Instead, she grasped a larger, jagged edge, observing the way its sharpness promised affliction. Her chest throbbed with the phantom pain of a dagger, the memory of her death echoing through her. 

How can I make you suffer? she thought bitterly. How can I bring you to misery.. to kneel before me, asking for mercy in the face of my wrath?

Jovine clenched her fist, gripping the broken piece of glass that could so easily be exploited as a weapon. Murderous intent suddenly flashed through her, so acutely she saw an image of the bloodied bodies of her husband and his mistress tossed before her feet. 

No, Jovine. 

She gasped, recoiling away from her own thoughts as she flung the shard away from her. 

This wasn't her. What was she thinking? 

With shaking hands, Jovine wiped her wounded palm against her nightgown. But as she did, a distinctly familiar scene flashed through her mind as she remembered the way Emilia had wiped her own bloodied hand against her before leaving her to die. 

“No!” Jovine shrieked aloud, scrambling away from the mirage before her. 

Clutching her knees to her chest, she rocked back and forth. She was lost in a sea of emotions, her memories fractured and the trauma of her death still too fresh for her to claim sanity. She wanted revenge, yet she had no direction on how to obtain it. She wanted them to suffer as much as she had, but she couldn’t bear to lower herself to their despicable nature. If she did, she would only be a captive to the cycle of tragedy. 

So, what could she do? 

Jovine was tired of crying, yet the tears came anyway. Her frustration, repressed anger, and the injustice that was still left unavenged was enough to make her want to fade away into the darkness just to find peace, but the thought of someone like Emilia walking away unscathed made her blood boil. 

If she did nothing, she would find herself on the path to death. With her memories gone, she had no way to navigate this foreign terrain, and all she was left with was the war within her mind fighting for vengeance and freedom. 

When will my agony end? 

Unaware of how much time was passing, Jovine simply remained huddled on the floor, waiting until she was able to quell her torment.

It never truly came, so all she could do was pull herself together.

Mindlessly, Jovine found herself clearing away the broken mess, picking up every piece of glass until the disorder was erased. She found a clean cloth to wrap her bleeding hand and tended to the cuts on her knees. She took off her blood-stained nightgown and even went to the lengths to wash it away in her bathing chambers so her ladies wouldn’t be alarmed in the morning. After hanging it to dry, she found a spare nightgown to don. 

Jovine collected herself until she felt a sense of control, and all that was left to do was walk over to the open book still lying on the ground. 

Give me the smallest answer, at least, she prayed as she bent down to lift it. The least she could start with was finding the reason for her reincarnation. 

Seating herself on a divan in the drawing room, Jovine studied the displayed pages. It was an old entry on the Cult Wars that had ravaged the land 500 years ago — a part of the Empire’s history all the citizens were familiar with. 

Erin had mentioned the presence of magic in theories and history, but the Cult Wars sprung from warring religions and underground cults bringing twisted ideals and schemes into the young kingdom until the Tristaine Dynasty solidified its rule and eradicated the treasonous masses. After ruthless battles and bloodshed, the Royal Family declared the Holy Church and High Priest as the single authority over the chosen faith, and all traitors were either sentenced to death or excommunicated. 

It was history Jovine had never questioned, yet if she read the faded entries with the different perspective she now held, she couldn’t help but wonder if something was purposefully left out. 

If these “cults” were centered around magic or the supernatural, it could align with the ideas Erin had heard on the streets. Could history have been fabricated for the sake of the Empire? But how could people forget such a crucial part of the story? 

Jovine squeezed her eyes, shaking her head. She was desperate enough for answers that she was rewriting history in her mind. Sighing in exasperation, Jovine scolded herself for her deluded thoughts and flipped through the pages. 

She scanned through the same accounts she had studied as a young child, impatience creeping under her skin the longer she spent searching for an explanation that never came. It wasn’t until she neared the end that she found something unfathomable. 

Past the entries of Richard’s grandparents and his father’s youth as the Crown Prince, Jovine came upon several pages that were torn out. The only legible heading was on a ripped sheet titled Dreamers in a handwriting that she recognized. 

The late Empress Helene. 

Jovine’s blood ran cold. 

What was this? 

Countless times in the past she had gone through this exact book, yet something that never existed was now before her. 

And the word Dreamers…

“I’ve had strangers come up to me asking if I’ve ever dreamed of a world ruled by magic.” 

Jovine recalled the words Erin had said and terror prickled down her spine as she stared in shock. 

This couldn’t be a coincidence. She swore this had never been there before, yet the ripped pages still intact were the same faded yellow as the ones preceding it, as if it had been written all this time. A handful of pages were missing, meaning someone had ripped them out, and the handwriting was unmistakably the late Empress’s, whose penmanship was as familiar as her own after studying under her for years. 

Flicking through the torn pages in a state of frantic panic, Jovine finally came to the entry of Richard’s birth, the expected record that used to come right after, but something crumpled was stuck between the spine of the book now. 

Taking it out with bated breath, Jovine unfolded the battered page until a discolored map came into view. 

I don't understand, Jovine thought in disbelief.

What are you trying to tell me?