Thalen let out a victorious shout—he’d apparently managed to tap Cedric’s shin with a wooden stick. Vesena watched, faintly amused. Cedric’s expression was pure betrayal.
Evelyne turned slightly toward the scene, but her attention stayed on Alaric. “Whatever you’re trying to prove,” she said quietly, “I suggest you do it without turning me into a hypothesis.”
Alaric sobered just a fraction. “I’m not,” he assured. “But you’re… not just who they say you are. And I’d rather you see that for yourself than have it defined by everyone else.”
She studied him for a beat, the shadows of the courtyard dancing across his face. Then, dry as ever, “Go drink some water, Alaric.”
The corner of Alaric’s mouth lifted before he pivoted with princely grace and jogged off. She watched him go, fists politely clenched in her gloves, lips pressed tight. In her mind, a list was forming—articulate, blistering, and entirely dedicated to everything wrong with Prince Alaric of Varantia.
Impudent. Arrogant. Self-important. Apparently incapable of finding a shirt that fit properly. And entirely too pleased with himself.
Her internal rant was rudely interrupted by a smaller, more earnest voice.
“Why don’t you like him?” Thalen asked, looking up at her with furrowed brows. “He’s fun.”
Evelyne blinked, caught off guard. She glanced down at her little brother, eyes bright.
“I—” She grimaced, faltering.
So, she straightened her skirts, smoothed her tone, and said with what she hoped was enough restraint, “It’s not that I don’t like him.”
“Then why aren’t you nice to him?”
A fair question. A cruel one. Evelyne looked back toward the barracks where Alaric had vanished, his voice still echoing in her ears, maddeningly amused. Her throat tightened.
Why wasn’t she?
She’d blamed his arrival. His manners. His constant overstepping. And yes, those were valid irritations. But the truth—it shifted under her feet like a stone that wouldn't stay put. Every word he said scraped against her carefully maintained control.
And that was uncomfortable.
“Because that’s what adults do,” she murmured with resignation, her gaze still distant. “They complicate things.”
Thalen frowned, genuinely wounded by the logic of it. “Adults are stupid.”
Evelyne exhaled, a soft laugh catching in her throat like mist. She turned and ruffled his hair gently.
“Yes,” she admitted. “They really are.”
She crouched so they were eye to eye, her skirts pooling around her on the packed dirt. “Thalen,” she said softly, “your mother told me you’ve been having dreams.”
His face pinched. He glanced over his shoulder as though the shadows might be listening.
“It’s all right,” she whispered. “You can tell me. You’re safe.”
He hesitated, then whispered back, “Wolves. And moons. And once the sky was gold.” His brows drew tight. “They weren’t bad dreams. Just… strange.”
She nodded, though her chest tightened. “Strange dreams can still matter.”
“Mom gave me the tea,” he explained. “It’s better now.”
Evelyne nodded again, not reassured at all.
Without warning Thalen leaned closer, cupping his hand around her ear as though sharing the deepest secret. His breath tickled her skin when he whispered, “I saw the Grand Marshal. By the Halls of Seals—on the way to the Rhyssa chapel, when I went with Mother for the sleeping draught. I think he’s preparing a surprise for the parade tomorrow.”
Evelyne froze. The air caught sharp in her chest. The Halls of Seals—lined with the portraits of Edrathen’s rulers.
Her hand moved before she could think, cupping Thalen’s cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered, steady as she could manage. “Go on. Find Cedric. Tell him to show you the sword grip again.”
