Alaric leaned slightly forward, his brows furrowed as he scanned the first page—but not before his eyes flicked to her.
“The procession will be rerouted through the western gardens to accommodate the dignitary processions,” the Chancellor was saying, “and we’ve approved the final guest list, pending arrival confirmations from Zharesh and Lysitha.”
“Which means the budget must be amended,” said the Master of Coin. “We’ll need approval from the crown for disbursement.”
King Rhaedor gave a single nod. “Granted.”
“And the rites?” came the nasal voice of the High Preceptor. “The ceremony will begin with the usual vows, as decreed by Doctrine—”
Evelyne spoke, soft but unwavering. “The rites will be performed by Keeper Halwen. Under the Flame of Rhyssa. It was already agreed upon.”
The room stilled.
A few councilors shifted in their seats; one coughed into his fist. Eyes flicked toward her, then to one another—quick, uncertain, disbelieving.
The Preceptor inclined his head slowly, though his jaw clenched. “...Naturally, Your Highness.”
Across the table, Alaric looked up from his pages and winked at her.
“Most arrangements seem satisfactory,” the Lord Justiciar murmured, bringing the moment back into safer territory. “Weshould continue under the assumption that security measures will hold.”
“Has there been any investigation into the perimeter at Kelvar’s Cross?” Alaric asked. “Are we certain that no threats are coming from the outer approaches?”
The council doors creaked open.
“I assure you, Your Highness, I’m taking care of it.”
Grand Marshal entered, cloak billowed being him. He moved to his seat beside the High Chancellor, nodding to the king and then the table. Evelyne’s fingers stayed folded in her lap. Her focus didn’t leave Ravik’s face.
Alaric leaned forward, resting one palm against the report.
“If I may,” he began, tone calm. “I’ve been reviewing the architectural layout of Kelvar’s Cross—its outer embankments, troop placement records from five years ago, even flood damage reconstruction plans from the Archives. None of them match the current patrol pattern.”
Evelyne said nothing, but she was listening. Closely.
“I find it… concerning,” he continued, fingers tapping once on the parchment, “that a site historically positioned as a defensive fallback is now being left thinly manned.”
The Master of Coin gave a faint scoff, but the others listened with attention.
Alaric tapped a second document from the pile. “I’d also like to raise a question regarding the reports on the Maroon Slaughter investigation. Particularly those associated with the Palace of Binding.”
Ravik’s spine visibly straightened.
Evelyne’s breath caught. Her eyes went wide before she could stop herself.Was he about to expose her?Sweat prickled under her collar.
Alaric didn’t press, didn’t accuse. He simply continued.
“There are inconsistencies in the facts cited. They resemble early rituals from the pre-Sundering Orvath’s sect—referenced in the Treaty of Ashenfall, Volume III. The arrangement of victims and type of wounds was originally meant to anchor unstable magical environments during relic rites.”
King Rhaedor’s voice broke the silence. “This is not the purpose of today’s council.”
Alaric didn’t flinch. “With respect, Your Majesty… I believe it is. Because what happened before—can happen again. And if we don’t understand it, we can’t prepare for it. Shouldn’t we remember history, if only to avoid repeating it?”
Ravik studied him for a long moment, weighing the words on his tongue before clicking it and inclining his head in Evelyne’s direction.
“That’s why you insisted the Princess be here?”
The question struck like a flint.
