Isildeth held her breath in quiet disapproval.
Evelyne leaned closer to the door, the carved wood cool against her temple. This was, by all accounts, wildly inappropriate.
What would they do if they caught her listening—cancel the marriage? Rhyssa preserve, as if anyone in this castle possessed that much courage. Besides, she was bored, and Ravik’s arguments with the High Preceptor were always… entertaining. Like watching a sermon wrestle a sword.
Inside, Ravik’s timbre rang out, sharper than she was used to hearing it.
“—waiting is a luxury we can no longer afford,” he was saying. “The guards are spread thin, the lesser nobles are anxious, and your symbolism does nothing to anchor them.”
Oh…
The reply came in a lower voice, calm in a way that didn’t soothe.
“The rites are designed to speak to order, not panic. It is not the function of doctrine to mirror fear. Doctrine is what tempers fear.”
She imagined Ravik narrowing his eyes.
“You are mistaking stillness for stability.”
“No,” the Preceptor replied, tone unshaken. A chair scraped against stone inside the chamber, “We are not here to crush rebellion with swords. The wedding is a consecration, not a demonstration of might.”
Evelyne’s brows rose.
It was always Orvath behind the curtain—the silent painter of Edrathen's law. His faith, cold and ascetic, had long ruled not just the altars but the politics as well. A god for men who needed a divine excuse for the treaties they wrote.
It had been this way for generations. In Edrathen, to challenge The Doctrine of Orvath was to challenge the very bedrock of the kingdom itself.
Isildeth clasped her hands together, twisting the edge of her sleeve as if to keep from pulling Evelyne away by force.
“Thissickness,” the High Preceptor drawled, “is not eradicated by spectacle. This marriage is not merely political. It is a purification. If properly upheld, it will anchor Varantia to Edrathen. And her to us.”
She almost didn’t notice Ravik’s pause before his next words.
“And if it won't work?”
A silence answered him. The kind that made her wonder if the Preceptor was smiling.
“Then we won’t have the luxury of waiting for the constellations to align in another lifetime.”
Evelyne’s blood chilled, a shiver threading down her spine. Her grip on the carved wood tensed, the grooves biting into her palm.
The Preceptor’s murmur was quieter now. “I understand the need for strength, Grand Marshal. But strength without clarity is little more than blind momentum.”
A heavy thud rattled through the wood, as if a fist had struck the table. Ravik’s reply came quickly. “I am doing what is necessary to preserve the structure of this realm. You should understand something about that.”
“You silenced names that still sit in people’s mouths,” the Preceptor noted calmly. “And now you speak of preserving order as if it were a living thing you’re feeding.”
What?
Ravik’s voice dropped lower. “Truth is a privilege in times of peace. But in times of change? Truth is a risk. One that I, unlike you, am not free to indulge.”
The Preceptor’s tone stayed level, but it had lost its patience.
“Call it what you wish. But I’ve buried enough people to recognize what’s being built when people start using words likenecessary.”
“You have no idea what would have happened if we hadn’t intervened,” he snapped at last. “The blood spilled that day saved the realm. Not just for the crown—but for the people. We cut out the infection before it rotted the entire body.”
Evelyne’s mouth went dry.
