Alina could feel it before Elina spoke.
The apartment was too quiet. Not peaceful—sealed. Like a room where a decision had already been made and no one had bothered to announce it yet.
Elina stood by the window, arms folded, watching the street below. She didn't turn when Alina came in.
"You know," Elina said calmly, "the curse reacts to intention."
Alina dropped her bag. "So?"
"So tearing things apart doesn't weaken it. It sharpens it."
Alina laughed, sharp and defensive. "You think sitting still is better?"
"I think pretending we're in control is killing us faster."
That hit.
Alina stepped closer. "You don't know that."
"I do," Elina said, finally turning. Her eyes were steady, exhausted, stripped of hope and denial alike. "They tried to burn her. It didn't end anything."
The word her settled like a bruise.
"You met her," Alina said quietly.
"In the dream," Elina replied. "But dreams aren't just dreams anymore, are they?"
Alina's chest tightened. "Then we stop sleeping."
Elina almost smiled. "You already tried that."
Silence stretched between them, thick and unyielding.
"How much time?" Alina asked.
"Eighty-one days."
Alina dragged a hand through her hair. "That's still time. We can—"
"We," Elina interrupted softly, "are not moving in the same direction anymore."
That stopped her.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Elina took a breath. "The dreams aren't the same. Mine show endings. Yours show resistance."
Alina's voice rose. "Because I refuse to accept this!"
"And that," Elina said gently, "is why the curse is watching you more closely now."
The words cut deeper than Alina expected.
"You think this is my fault?"
"I think you're trying to save me," Elina said. "And the curse doesn't like it."
Alina stared at her sister—really stared. At the calm that wasn't peace, at the acceptance that looked too much like surrender.
"You're giving up," Alina said.
Elina shook her head. "I'm choosing clarity."
That night, Alina dreamed of fire.
Not the witch's fire—but her own. Burning bridges. Burning pages. Burning time itself.
The number flared violently above her.
79
She woke shaking, throat raw, the echo of Elina's words lodged deep in her chest.
We are not moving in the same direction anymore.
Alina sat up in the dark, fists clenched.
"No," she whispered. "I won't let you walk toward this alone."
Outside, unseen, the countdown adjusted again.
And somewhere between resistance and love, the curse leaned closer—listening.