Her voice cut through the haze. “You're back on Elareth already?”
Alaric blinked. “What?”
She stared at him. “I was speaking to you, and your mind flew off somewhere far away.”
He leaned forward slightly. “Apologies. I was too dazzled by your profound analysis of plum texture.”
Her eyes narrowed, so blue that, damn them, they were more storm than sky.
“It was about border treaties,” she murmured.
He cleared his throat, stalling. “For the record, if I had known border negotiations could be this stimulating, I would’ve been attending them half-naked to stay awake.”
She shook her head and prodded a plum with her fork, nudging it aimlessly to the side of her plate.A faint smudge clung beneath her eye. She kept adjusting her skirts, her focus darted often toward the door. Every so often, her fingers drifted toward the pendant at her throat.
Something had happened.
“Evelyne,” he murmured, “are you alright?”
“I’m fine.”
The answer was too fast. Rehearsed.
He didn’t respond. Just watched her reach for the sugar pot, she missed it by half an inch, then corrected.
Alaric sat back slightly in his chair. “No, you’re not.”
She didn’t bristle. Instead, she went very still. Her fingers curled slightly around the sugar pot. Her eyes stayed fixed on the surface like it might give her an answer.
He watched her swallow. She was weighing something. Her gaze flicked toward the doorway, then exhaled. He saw with his own eyes the moment she gave up.
Then, quietly—so quietly he almost didn’t hear it—she said, “I dreamed of Thalen.”
She did what?
“He was holding the veil,” she continued, her voice flat and small. “The one from Calveran. Blood-soaked. Just standingthere.It was the same as the others. But this time it wasn’t Dasmon. It… it washim.”
Dreams.
Her hands twisted the napkin until the fabric bit into her fingers, knuckles blanching. She drew in short, shallow breaths, her gaze flicked up once.
His reaction wasn’t subtle—he’d gone still, eyes wide, mouth parted. Because he genuinely hoped he’d misheard her or that, saints willing, she was joking.
Evelyne pressed her teeth to her lower lip, fingers twisting together in restless motion.
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” she whispered, like the words themselves had betrayed her.
“No, you did right,” he assured, “How often?”
That stopped her. She blinked. “What?”
“How often do you have them?”
There was a long silence.
“Every week,” she admitted. “Now… more often.”
By the stars…
