The Imposter

I leaned forward, my elbows resting on my knees, eyes locked onto Anastasia's. The firelight flickered between us, casting long shadows along the walls of the cabin. There was something off, something gnawing at the back of my mind since we left the altar. And now, with Aurelia and Lyan out scouting, I finally had the opportunity to address it.

"So," I began, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade, "why did you do it?"

Anastasia looked up at me, confusion crossing her features. "What are you talking about, Draven?" she asked, her voice trembling. She played the part well—the nervous mage, confused and unsure—but I wasn't buying it. Not this time.

"The countdown," I said, my tone cold and unyielding. "Every loop, you always mention the countdown. Always. And yet, this time, you didn't say a word." I leaned back, crossing my arms over my chest, my eyes narrowing. "Why is that, Anastasia?"