Evelyne’s gaze flicked toward Ravik—then to Alaric, startled.
He did?
Alaric’s tone didn’t waver. “Her Highness is the future empress,” he explained. “Her presence in matters of state is both appropriate and necessary.”
She glanced his way, and for the briefest second, their eyes met. Evelyne blinked. So, it wasn’t because they thought she’d caused trouble.Heinsisted for her be here. Rhyssa, he must’ve thrown a full tantrum behind closed doors to get that past the council.
A few heads turned. The High Preceptor’s mouth pressed into a thin, unreadable line.
Ravik exhaled, slow and deliberate. “Prince Alaric, I assure you—the investigation into the Maroon Slaughter was conducted with the highest scrutiny. The Crown is safe.”
“Is it?” Alaric asked. “What about the fire three years ago?”
What fire?
Evelyne’s brow furrowed slightly. She hadn’t heard of that.
Alaric didn’t turn to her. He remained focused on Ravik. “Three years ago, Kelvar’s Cross. Forty-two civilians dead.”
Her lashes fluttered once—then again.
1314 — the massacre in Zharesh.
1316 — the fire at Kelvar’s Cross.
1318 — the Maroon Slaughter.
A pattern.
She poured every ounce of strength into not coming apart at the seams. She wasn’t sure if she was shaking, or if the floor was.
Ravik’s voice was steel. “Are you accusing me of something, Your Highness?”
“Absolutely not,” Alaric replied, calmly. “I’m only saying that the nature of both events struck me as unusual. I wondered if anyone had considered a connection. Was it investigated?”
Ravik’s mouth tightened. “The fire was accidental.”
“Is that confirmed?” Alaric pressed.
“Yes,” Ravik said.
The High Preceptor’s head lifted, eyes narrowing just enough to sharpen the lines of his face. “There is no southern ascetic sect,” he said. “Orvath’s Doctrine is unified. What you suggest is heresy, manufactured by those who seek to undermine the faith.”
“I’m not suggesting,” Alaric replied, tone deceptively even. “I’m asking whether the possibility was considered—that the event at the Palace of Binding might have been part of a repeated, structured rite.”
The Preceptor’s expression cooled another degree. “I will not have the church slandered by speculation. Orvath’s Doctrine condemns such acts. Always has. Always will.”
Alaric didn’t break his gaze. “And yet that configuration matched one of the old Binding Arts rites.”
“That configuration,” the Preceptor drawled, “was the corruption of unbelievers centuries ago. The doctrine denounced it then, as it does now. To link it to our Doctrine is blasphemy.”
“I haven’t linked it,” Alaric countered. “I’m only asking whether anyone considered that history might have been repeated.”
That was when the Preceptor’s patience cracked. “You sit in our councils as a guest, prince of another realm, and presume to lecture me on the laws of my own faith? I am the voice of Orvath in this kingdom. There are no splinter sects, no hidden branches. You insult every believer with your insinuations—” With each word, flecks of spit hit the table, like punctuation made of fury.
“And you insult the victims if you refuse to ask the question,” Alaric cut in.
Several councilors looked between them. Evelyne’s gaze flicked to her father. He hadn’t intervened. His expression gave nothing away.Why? He wasn’t one to let tensions spiral in front of witnesses.
