Evelyne stared at the floor, at the fine grain of the wood beneath her bare feet. Her mouth opened, but the words scattered before they formed.
“I remember,” Isildeth recounted softly. “When the fever took you. When the physicians whispered about your lungs.”
Evelyne’s gaze snapped to her. Sharp. Wounded.She didn't want to listen to that. “You don’t—”
“Don’t what?” Isildeth’s voice rose—just a breath, but enough. “Don’t remember how they smiled in pity and left flowers and condolences like they were already burying you? Don’t remember the way no one said your name for months, like it might summon bad luck?”
Evelyne’s throat tightened. She remembered it too. All too well. But until now it was conveniently buried in place she couldn't reach.
“They canceled the betrothal,” she whispered.
“You were fifteen,” Isildeth pressed on. “And the moment you survived, they didn’t thank the gods. They asked if you’d still be able to bear children.”
Evelyne’s hands flew to her ears. “Stop—”
“No,” Isildeth said softly. “You need to hear it.”
Evelyne shook her head.
“No one wanted a sick girl,” Isildeth forced out. “Not when your lungs wheezed like bellows and your hands shook too badly to hold a quill. Not when you might not carry heirs.”
The words struck without malice, and still they hurt.Broken. Delicate. Too old.The language of politeness and pity. Every gentle “woman,” every too-sweet “dear,” had been a reminder of what she wasn’t—useful, whole, unremarkable enough to be wanted.
“I was an embarrassment they kept indoors” Evelyne’s voice trembled. “And I knew—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed. “I knew if I wanted to be worth anything, I had to be perfect.”
Silence stretched.
“So, you practiced,” Isildeth continued gently. “You folded yourself into something they could marry off again.”
“Seven years later Calveran came calling.” Evelyne’s voice sharpened. “Because the granaries ran dry and suddenly a cursed girl with wide hips looked more appealing than famine.”
She pressed her hands flat against her stomach and trotted back to the bed. “And my father said yes,” she whispered, sitting carefully.
Isildeth sat beside her. “You never gave yourself permission to be angry.”
“What would it change?”
“Nothing,” Isildeth whispered. “And everything.”
Evelyne let herself fold forward, elbows on her knees, eyes burning.
“Strength is not never needing help,” Isildeth explained. “It’s not turning into marble just to prove you can’t be hurt.”
Evelyne wrapped her arms around her body. Her fingers found the edge of her sleeve and pressed until the fabric wrinkled beneath her grip.
Isildeth’s voice lowered, threaded with something tender and raw. “It’s a risk. And I think the bravest thing you could do right now… is let yourself be seen.”
Evelyne’s throat tightened.Seen. The word landed like a stone dropped into deep water, rippling through years she had spent trying to disappear gracefully.
Isildeth hesitated. “You practiced, learned, and fought. Just because you’re not a warrior doesn’t mean you’re not a force. Moonlight and steel are both the color silver.”
Evelyne’s chest rose with a shallow breath. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Youcan,” Isildeth said, her voice gentling but firm. “It’s your decision if you do—but something kept you going all this time. Whatever it is, don’t let it go to waste.”
Evelyne blinked hard. It scraped against memories she’d packed away too neatly: the smell of smoke from the infirmary, the sound of servants whispering, her father’s quiet pity disguised as restraint. She had rebuilt herself on obedience and poise because it was safer than falling apart.
“I kept thinking about how every woman in Edrathen—” she began, the thought crumbling before it finished.
