The white light of the Cathedral didn't just fade; it turned into a cold, suffocating pressure. The shared consciousness pulled them into the heart of the Tower of Thorns, the place where the High Priest kept those he could not break with words.
The vision shifted to a damp, circular stone room. In the center, Past-Eveline was pinned to the floor by heavy, runic chains that suppressed her holy magic, causing her physical body to bruise under the weight of her own contained power.
The High Priest stood over her, a thick parchment in his hand.
"Sign it, Eveline," he commanded, his voice echoing with a dark, rhythmic power. "Sign the statement. Admit that Seraphina bewitched you. Admit she forced you to plot against the Emperor. Do it, and the pain stops. Do it, and I will let you return to the Cathedral."
Eveline's face was a mask of blood and sweat, her breathing labored. She looked up at him, and to the horror of the observers—Killian, Seraphina, and Alaric—there was no hatred in her eyes. Only a devastating, quiet pity.
"I will not bear false witness against my sister," she whispered, her voice like cracking glass. "And I will not give you the words you need to justify your cruelty. You may break my body, but you cannot make me lie."
The vision blurred, skipping through agonizing weeks of isolation and torture. They watched as the Inquisitors used "The Weight of Sin"—a spell that made her feel the physical gravity of every death in the city. Her spine groaned, her skin grew pale, and her hair began to turn white from the sheer spiritual toll.
"Why won't she just give in?" Alaric choked out, his spectral form trembling. "He's going to kill her."
"Because if she signs, the lie becomes the truth forever," Seraphina whispered, tears streaming down her face as she watched her friend endure what no human should.
Through it all, Eveline never cursed the guards. She never shouted for vengeance. When they denied her water, she prayed for their souls. When they struck her, she closed her eyes and whispered Seraphina's name like a shield. She blamed no one—not the Priest, not the silent Emperor, not even the gods who seemed to have abandoned her.
Finally, the Priest realized that no amount of pain would buy her signature. "If you will not be my tool," he snarled, "then you will be my scapegoat. We found the Astra ledger so you are no longer needed Witch."
The iron gates of the tower groaned open. Eveline was dragged out, tied to the back of a jagged wooden carriage. She was forced to walk the long road to the execution plaza.
The most harrowing part of the memory began. The crowds—the very people Eveline had spent her life healing—were lined up along the road. But the Priest's heralds had done their work. They told the people the Saintess had hoarded the grain; they told them she had cursed the children.
"Witch!" a woman screamed, throwing a jagged stone that cut Eveline's cheek.
"Traitor! Die with the Duchess!" a man yelled, hurling a clod of filth.
In the memory, Eveline stumbled, her knees hitting the sharp cobbles. She looked up at the crowd, her eyes wide with a heart-shattering, childlike shock. She didn't see the hate; she saw their suffering and realized the Priest had tricked them into needing a target for their pain.
"I forgive you," she whispered, even as a stone shattered her collarbone. "I am sorry I couldn't save you from the lies."
She reached the plaza, a broken figure in tattered white. She saw the pyre, but she didn't look at the wood. She looked at the distant window of the Imperial Dungeon where she believed that Seraphina was held.
She died not by the fire, but by the sheer weight of a love that refused to turn into bitterness. Her last breath wasn't a scream; it was a prayer for the very people who were cheering for her death.
Back in the shared mind-space, the "real" Eveline was curled in a ball, her spirit flickering.
"I just wanted them to be happy," she moaned into the dark. "I never blamed them. I just... I didn't want to be alone at the end."
Seraphina knelt and pulled Eveline into a fierce embrace. "You aren't alone. Not anymore. We saw the truth. You are the strongest of us all."
The metallic blue fog of Alaric's memory began to rise, cold and sharp as a guillotine.
"It's my turn," Alaric said, his voice a lethal, low hum. "See how the man who was meant to protect you both became the very thing he hated."