Lord Mera exhaled sharply through his nose, then looked down at Thessa with a sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ll be paying for anything broken,” he said coldly. “And if I see you hovering near a closed door again, you’ll find yourself back in the kitchens.”
Thessa nodded once, still kneeling.
He didn’t wait for a reply. “Get up. Clean this, then finish setting the tables in the west room. The others are behind.”
And then he was gone—just footsteps and disdain, vanishing down the corridor like nothing had happened at all.
Only Thessa remained, trembling fingers gathering polished silver, heart thudding like a warning drum against her ribs.
Chapter 32
Usually, she adored these afternoons. The weekly gatherings were one of the few court traditions she genuinely enjoyed: an hour or two offered up to the gods of tea, pre-Sundering art, and polite conversation.
Under the tall, sun-splashed windows of the castle’s east drawing room, nobles milled in curated casualness, pastries arranged like edible art across linen-draped tables.
But today she was restless.
Every tick of the clock scraped raw against her nerves. If they failed tonight, it wouldn’t be her reputation that paid the price—it would be blood. Duty was no longer an excuse for blindness. Neither was decorum. She would not play the fool behind silk gloves and polite silence. She knew too much now. And still, knowing didn’t stop the sweat from clinging beneath the layers of taffeta.
There were still hours before evening fell, and her mind spun endlessly on the real task ahead: breaking into Grand Marshal Ravik's office without sparking a diplomatic incident or, worse, having to explain herself.
Isildeth followed a few paces behind, her gaze steady on Evelyne’s back. She hadn’t said anything, but she had been watching her differently since yesterday. She could feel it in every glance that lingered too long.
Evelyne chose her armor carefully—a soft violet gown, high-waisted and silver-threaded, clinging just enough before spilling elegantly to the floor. Her hair, as always, was pinned in immaculate loops and coils, except for one soft curl that had escaped, grazing her shoulder like it had done so many timesbefore. White silk gloves sheathed her arms, and a fan painted with wisteria blooms rested lightly in her hand.
She flicked it open, letting the breeze kiss her cheek as she studied the brushstrokes on painting a little too intently.
She was not herself.
Or rather—perhaps she was. Just a version of herself she rarely let see daylight. The one who schemed while smiling at oil paintings and complimenting an artist's technique. The one who would not hesitate to steal from her own commander if it meant protecting her kingdom.
Her father rarely attended these gatherings, and today was no exception. Likely sequestered in one of his council chambers, drafting new decrees no one would dare challenge, or feigning concern over matters he'd already decided weeks ago.
Movement at her side drew her attention. Vesena was approaching, steps measured, expression determined. To anyone else she was simply a maid tending her charge, but Evelyne caught the slight incline of her head, the sign meant for her alone.
Evelyne turned, catching Isildeth’s eye with a faint nod. “Would you be so kind as to bring a glass of lavender lemonade?”
Isildeth’s eyes lingered a fraction too long, her mouth tightening as if on an unsaid word. Evelyne swallowed softly, before Isildeth finally nodded and slipped away toward the long table where chilled glasses sweated lightly in the warm afternoon sun.
Vesena stepped in beside her then. “The false report has been placed on the Grand Marshal’s desk,” Vesena murmured, scanning the crowd. “It will be found.”
Evelyne didn’t look at her directly and covered her lips with a fan. “You’re certain?”
“I am.”
Evelyne gave a single nod, as though agreeing with some unseen detail in the canvas. “Good. Then we wait.”
Vesena stepped a fraction closer to her. A pack of young noblemen, fresh from whatever military academy their fathers had bought their commissions at, sauntered past.
They didn’t spare Evelyne more than a bow, but Vesena? Vesena theylookedat. With thinly veiled superiority, and the kind of entitlement that came from boys who thought cruelty was just another currency of power.
Evelyne’s gaze flicked to Vesena, expecting to find the usual impassive mask she wore so well. A nothingness so complete it had often impressed Evelyne in its efficiency.
But not this time.
No, Vesena seemedfurious, in that refined way only she could.
Evelyne tipped her fan just enough to shield her voice. “Don’t worry about them. They barely wiped the milk from under their noses.”
