Not this time.
“Now,” Vesena whispered.
Evelyne didn’t argue. The maid hid the original letter in its place, and reached for the doorknob, peeking into the hall. Evelyne moved with her, slipping through the passage. Dust brushed her cheek, the dry scrape of stone too close to her skin. Her foot caught on uneven flagging as they pushed forward, thetwo of them half-bolting toward the servant’s corridor before the voices swelled behind them.
They pressed the door shut just as those voices rose, closer now, overlapping in drunken irritation. They pushed through, leaving the narrow passage behind with breaths short and uneven. Evelyne’s fingers skimmed the edge of a tapestry as they slipped out into the eastern wing’s dim hall. The chill of the air struck her like a reprimand.
No words passed between them. They didn’t need any. One stretch remained: a single hallway, one corner, and then Evelyne’s chambers.
They turned it.
And stopped.
A tall figure stood silhouetted in the torchlight ahead, his ceremonial robes unmistakable—even in the gloom.
Evelyne felt the ice rise again. The High Preceptor said nothing at first. He stood like a carved monument to propriety, his hands folded before him, as though their meeting had been written in scripture long before they’d stumbled into it.
His skull gleamed in the torchlight. Deep creases marked his forehead and the hollows of his eyes. His gray robes fell in precise, symmetrical folds, not a thread out of place. A black chain hung over his shoulders.
“Your Highness,” he intoned.
Vesena bowed just enough to be polite. Evelyne inclined her head, spine straight despite the clammy brush of her nightgown clinging to her skin. “High Preceptor,” she greeted. “Forgive the hour.”
He regarded them both.“There are many paths within this castle. Some older than others. Some—” his head tilted, almost imperceptibly, “—not meant to be walked twice. I pray you tread them with care.”
Evelyne couldn’t see his eyes, but she felt them—pressing in, deliberate and patient. A hand at her throat without ever touching her.
“Your concern is appreciated,” she replied, her voice controlled. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I will retire to rest.”
A breathless beat passed. Then another. The High Preceptor stepped aside. Evelyne walked. Not fast. She was still Tresselyn. But every inch of her skin was aware of his eyes until she turned the corner.
It was only then that she exhaled, slow and shallow, her thoughts racing. He knew. Or suspected enough to become dangerous.
“We cut that too close,” Vesena muttered behind her.
Evelyne didn’t reply. She was too busy calculating how many steps it would take to outrun a shadow.
Chapter 36
That same night in a different part of the castle, Alaric crouched beside Cedric in the shadow-drenched corridor outside the chapel. They’d been there for half an hour. Watching. Listening.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No overzealous Silverwards making their rounds. Not even a rogue acolyte lingering for prayer.
Alaric glanced sideways. Cedric gave him the barest nod.
They slipped toward the chapel doors; boots muted against the stone. The space inside was colder than it had been earlier, the torches along the walls now little more than sullen orange smudges flickering in iron sconces. The air tasted like wax and disuse.
Cedric moved without hesitation, heading straight for the northern wall. He crouched beside the stone and ran his hands along its surface. Alaric kept watch by the door, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.
With a soft click and the low, gravelly groan a portion of the wall shifted. It slid aside just enough to reveal a narrow opening—half the height of a grown man and twice as unfriendly.
Alaric stepped forward, peering into the dark maw of the tunnel. The smell of old stone drifted out—damp, iron-heavy, as if the earth itself had been holding its breath since the Sundering.
He exhaled once and gave Cedric a look.
“Well,” he said, “after you.”
