And because she was only just now realizing how much she had taught herself not to see. It had been a skill, once. If she didn’t ask, then the world remained contained. So she told herself that everything was as it should be. That the silence meant safety. That unanswered questions were questions not worth asking.
And it was all in plain sight, and it had never been right. Not once.
She looked back at the painting. The colors dulled by sun and time. The figures blurred at the edges, like memory fading just before waking.
And now she couldn’t unsee it.
“We have one fresco in Solmara,” Alaric went on. “A beautiful work… no one knows who painted it. An unnamed man from Edrathen, long before the Sundering. We try to keep it in good condition.”
She barely heard him. Somewhere to her right, Isildeth shifted her weight ever so slightly, hands folded, face unreadable.
Then came the final blow—casual, almost kind.
“But you know as well as I do, Evelyne…” Alaric’s voice had softened again. “Stone can fracture. Sometimes all it needs is one good strike.”
She didn’t respond.
She was busy seeing everything differently.
The nobles, posturing like marionettes. The women who never spoke in council. The bloodless reports. The red thread.
Her breath caught. She wasn’t dizzy, not exactly. Just… peeled open.
“Princess Evelyne?” Alaric asked, gently.
Her attention flicked to him. For a breath, she just watched—the faint crease between his brows, the question he didn’t ask, the worry he tried to hide.
“Let’s move on,” she urged, wanting to escape the sudden flood of disgust and illumination. After a breath’s hesitation, he joined her and together they reached alcove with sculptures.
She loved the patient act of creating something with her own hands. Sculpture had always seemed like magic to her. The way an artist could once coax the illusion of movement from stone. The delicate texture of fabric frozen forever, the tender curve of ahand captured mid-gesture. It thrilled her in a way no speech or treaty ever could.
They paused before a striking work: two hands, forever caught in the act of reaching, only the thinnest twist of loose cloth trailing between them. The stone was so finely carved it seemed the breeze might unravel the fabric at any moment.
Evelyne tilted her head, studying the piece and trying not to collapse.
Alaric looked at her directly. “Have you made any progress?”
Her fan flicked open to cover her face. “Not here,” she warned. “The walls have ears.”
Alaric lifted one brow. “I didn’t use names.”
“You used enough,” Evelyne said coolly. “And regardless, I no longer require your assistance. This matter,” she added pointedly, “does not concern you.”
Alaric’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Doesn’t it?” he said, voice quiet. “We’re standing in a castle where truth gets buried faster than the dead, and you think I’m going to pretend I don’t see the dirt on their hands?”
She didn’t answer, but the snap of her fan was sharper this time.
He stepped closer. “You can tell yourself I’m a nuisance. A foreigner. An inconvenience. But we both know what’s happening isn’t just Edrathen’s problem.”
She met his gaze. “I said it does not concern you.”
He held her stare for a moment, then inclined his head with a smirk. “If that’s your wish then I suppose I’ll be unconcerned. Observantly.” A pause, and then— “As always.”
She studied him, letting the silence stretch between them. Why was he doing this? Why was he trying so hard to shake her, dismantle the carefully balanced foundation she stood on?
“Why did you want me at the Council?” she asked.
“Because I wanted you to see where your truth is shaped,” his eyes were shining, gentle. “I want you tolisten. See what they don’t say.”
