The Preceptor’s voice rose. “The church has kept this realm from the chaos of heresy for generations. This will not undone by your… curiosity.”
Alaric’s eyes narrowed. “Curiosity has preserved more lives than pride ever has.”
The Preceptor’s hand curled on the table. “Watch your words, Your Highness.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Alaric said quietly.
“Enough,” Rhaedor finally thundered. “This council serves the Crown, not your personal feuds. We move on.”
The Preceptor’s glare lingered on Alaric a heartbeat longer before he eased back into his chair.
The High Chancellor shuffled papers as though a rustle could stand in for reason. “Alright, let’s move on.”
Alaric didn’t take his gaze from the Preceptor.
“The collapse in the lower quarter,” the Chancellor intoned, “was the result of unstable foundations.”
What now?Another tragedy? Evelyne barely processed the words—too much, too fast, her thoughts spiraling without catching. Confusion twisted into dread, then anger. She didn’t even know what she was supposed to feel anymore. Her father was looking at her now, calmly, pointedly. She had to resist the urge to glare at him—or at anyone.
“The people saw the ground split in two,” Alaric countered. “They deserve to know why.”
The Preceptor’s lips tightened. “They will be told the truth.”
Ravik’s voice entered then. “That truth being that the old stonework failed. Panic serves no one. If we frame it as structural fatigue, we keep the masons’ guild in line and the mob quiet.”
The Master of Coin added, “And rebuilding after riots is more expensive than preventing them.”
A few chuckles stirred around the table—thin, dry.
Evelyne didn’t smile. “Were any families displaced? Do they need assistance?”
There was a pause—brief, but telling. A few councilors turned to look at her.
The Master of Coin inclined his head, polite but firm. “The situation was contained, Your Highness. The damage was minimal. No intervention required.”
Dismissed. Just like that.
Evelyne felt her jaw tighten. The council had folded another tragedy into a single line item:handled. And that was to be the end of it.
Outrage flickered through her, sharper than grief.
Is this what they call governance? To decide which truths live and which are buried? Apparently in court, truth wasn’t about facts. It was about how well you wore it.
Her attention slid across the table and met Alaric’s eyes. He was watching her already. His eyes caught hers for a long, deliberate beat, the faintest crease in his brow betraying the same frustration that coiled hot in her chest. She hated that in this room of polished indifference, the only other person who seemed as appalled as she was… was him.
She lowered her gaze back to the parchment before her, smoothing her skirts to disguise the tremor in her hand.
Heads were nodding. The Justiciar murmured assent. The Chancellor scribbled a note. The lie was already half-born.
She moved her attention to her father. He hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t stopped them.
A quiet shame settled beneath her ribs. She was still sitting here. Still playing the part. Because the seal on her report was the same as theirs, and her silence made her complicit. She had no idea what was happening in her own kingdom.
Her focus drifted back to Ravik. His calm no longer felt like discipline—it felt like concealment.
That was the moment the decision set in her bones.
Because the truth wasn't buried.
