That day…Maroon Slaughter?
There had been an investigation, yes. Performed with all the gravity a royal massacre demanded. But it had gone nowhere. Every possible suspect had died that day. The Silverwards had been cleared early. Evelyne’s own family had been scrutinized, but they had all been accounted for.
And the chapel itself had been under the protection of the Dvorenic Family Guard.
All of whom had died.
Eventually, people stopped asking. Superstition did the rest. The nobles whispered that the chapel was haunted. Eventually someone came up with a story that Evelyne was cursed and it was probably her fault. As if tragedy could be reduced to a convenient little phrase suitable to whisper behind fans and goblets.
“I acted in the name of the greater good. I’d do it again.”
“Of that,” the Preceptor murmured, “I have no doubt.”
Evelyne staggered back from the door as if struck, her breath catching hard in her throat. The corridor tilted. No sound. No thought. Just the thundering pulse of blood surging in her ears like a warning drum.
Her fingers had gone numb. She stared down at them as if they might not be hers, nails pressing faint crescent moons into her palms.
Isildeth’s hand was suddenly at her elbow. Evelyne barely registered it. Her eyes were fixed on the sealed door as if it might open and drag her in.
No… not now.
Her legs moved before her mind could catch up, carrying her several paces away, down the hall. She braced one hand against the cold stone wall, struggling to pull breath into her lungs.
The echo of her heartbeat had barely settled when quick footsteps broke the stillness.
Evelyne inhaled through her nose and straightened her spine like it hadn’t just curled with fear.
Control. Calm. Focus.
By the time the castle messenger appeared around the corner, her expression was once again composed. Hollowed, perhaps. But composed.
He stopped before her and bowed, breath catching from the pace he’d kept.
“Your Highness.”
“Yes?” Her voice faltered for a moment. Raspy and too high. She cleared her throat.
The boy straightened. “Prince Alaric is at the gates.”
Evelyne didn’t respond at once. A faint ringing still hovered in her ears. She glanced back at the sealed chamber, the place where old men wrote futures in blood and called it clarity.
Nothing good ever came from half-heard words behind closed doors. Context twisted everything, and she knew better than to linger on fragments not meant for her. It was nothing. It had to be nothing.Enough, she told herself.Do not wallow. Do not invite ghosts where they aren’t welcome.
“Very well,” she acknowledged.
She let one breath and count to three. When she looked up, nothing trembled.
“Let’s greet him.”
Chapter 6
The Castle of Edrathen rose from the hillside, pale limestone caught the sun, each tall sash window flashing like a drawn blade. At its heart, a grand portico unfurled with quiet authority, framed by columns that cast long, dignified shadows across the stone. Red banners of Edrathen stirred in the breeze.
At the center of the portico was the broken statue. Massive, half-crumbling, its pedestal worn smooth by time. No one repaired it. It didn’t resemble a person or animal, only an entanglement of shapes. Ivy curled through its crevices. Moss clung to its base. Rain had carved streaks down what might once have been limbs or wings. It had been left that way deliberately.
Down the sloped path, the wrought-iron gates were open. On either side, statues of stags stood with their focus set toward a distant horizon.
Evelyne lifted her gaze as the castle entrance loomed ahead. The sight before her came into full view—several carriages, their lacquered dark wood glinting in the morning sun, the banners of Varantia hanging proudly from their sides. A golden sun rising over deep blue waves. Servants busied themselves unpacking chests and crates and the Varantian guards watched the surroundings.
