Edrathen men believed they ruled. Perhaps they did, here and now, in obvious ways.
But Evelyne had watched something else unfold. She had seen how power moved quieter than they realized. Her mother—before illness hollowed her—had used it to convince a stubborn Council that Evelyne’s lungs would heal faster if she painted. That was how the oils had arrived. That was how Evelyne had learned to breathe again.
Ysara never raised her voice. She didn’t have to. Her influence lived in the way Thalen was being raised—taught empathy, not just lineage. Encouraged to listen, not just speak. A future king who might ask better questions than the ones men answered with war.
That was the kind of person Evelyne wanted to become. Not the loudest voice in the room, but the one who speaks for those who can’t—dead or alive.
She straightened, lifted her chin, and turned from the garden with Vesena at her side. They rounded the path near the barracks—and halted.
The sudden clash of wooden staves and laughter spilled into the path like a gust of summer wind. Inside the training yard, framed by the low wooden fence and the echo of shouted instructions, was Alaric. Sweat-slicked and laughing, hair pulled into a loose half-knot with sunlit strands falling rebelliously over his forehead. He spun a stick with infuriating grace.
Thalen was holding another stick, cheeks flushed, stance too wide, eyes full of admiration. Alaric corrected him gently, stepping in with a patience Evelyne had never witnessed from any soldier in this castle.
Leaning against the fence like a very disgruntled cat forced into sunlight, was Cedric—arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Thalen spotted her first and broke into a sprint.
“Evie!” he called, breathless and beaming. He barreled into her skirts, then stepped back sheepishly, cheeks flushed. “I already know the basics. Prince Alaric says my stance is very promising!”
“Does he now?”
“Mm-hmm.” He nodded so enthusiastically his curls bounced. “I learned about balance and weight and how not to stab myself!”
“Truly, a well-rounded curriculum,” she murmured. “And where is your mother?”
“She’s resting. She said the light gave her a headache.”
“And your nursemaid?”
Thalen shrugged.
Evelyne sighed through her nose. For a castle run like a clock wound by iron teeth, their father had always allowed Thalen to tumble through its gears unchecked. She still couldn’t tellwhether it was favoritism for the male heir or simply the soft foolishness of late fatherhood. Probably both.
He turned toward Vesena with sudden, princely gravity and bowed. “Lady Vesena. You look very nice today.”
Her heart tugged. He was growing up faster than she could hold onto.
Vesena, to her credit, didn’t laugh. “Thank you, Your Highness,” she replied with a small curtsy.
Alaric jogged up the path, breathless, hair damp at the temples, shirt clinging in ways no polite lady should have to notice.
“Princess,” he greeted, panting slightly. “Apologies. Your brother is surprisingly committed to stabbing me in the ribs.”
“Yes, he’s always been an overachiever,” Evelyne replied evenly, forcing her gaze to stay above the collarbone.
Alaric grinned wider. “If his fencing skills mature at this rate, I’ll be dead before the wedding.”
“I hit him once,” Thalen declared. “Almost in the thigh.”
Evelyne fought a smile, folding her hands neatly. “Do your sister a favor and aim a few inches higher next time.”
That earned a faint snort from Cedric.
She glanced sidelong at Alaric, who looked genuinely delighted, eyes crinkled with warmth. Thalen had always possessed the uncanny ability to bring people together. It was one of his most charming strengths.
She cleared her throat and turned back to her brother. “You don’t visit me as often as you used to.”
Thalen blinked in surprise. “I’m doing serious things now.”
