Evelyne turned, skirts whispering against stone.
Alaric unrolled the scroll carefully, the parchment whispering against itself as it opened. There were no prefaces or ritual blessings. Only names, row upon row, the ink so dark and heavy it might have been mixed with blood.
Cedric leaned over his shoulder, squinting at the parchment. “Is that a list of mages?”
Each name bore a single word. Resolved.
And then he saw it, at the end—Dasmon Dvorenic. Resolved.
“I don’t think so” Alaric murmured.
Evelyne snatched the paper from his hands, her breath quickening. He followed her eyes downward to the last line.
Only one name left unmarked.
Evelyne Tresselyn.
Chapter 47
Cedric had endured a lot in his life—starvation, plague, and a year in Zhareshian jail. But this? This was new.
They were wedged behind the hidden portrait panel in the Halls of Seals, packed close like a group of culprits mid-crime. Vesena crouched beside him, narrowing her focus, palms pressed to the stone. Alaric rested his shoulder against the opposite wall, composed as ever, his attention fixed on Evelyne.
She hadn’t said a word since they’d left the chamber behind them. Just stood there in that too-perfect stillness of hers, eyes fixed forward. Calm as a winter lake. And about as inviting.
Because this wasn’t good. The guards were standing at the exit, talking and laughing. There was no exit that wouldn’t lead to questions or arrest. His brain spun through the possibilities, but they all collapsed under the reality that these weren’t drunk noblemen in a Varantian court. These were Silverwards.
“Alright,” he whispered, nudging the edge of the false panel open a fraction. Warm torchlight spilled through the crack, along with the dull clink of armor. “Two guards. Ten paces apart. Facing outward.”
“We can take them both quietly,” Vesena murmured.
“We could also distract them,” Alaric offered. “Set off an alarm somewhere else. Knock over a priceless painting and blame it on Cedric.”
“Or,” Vesena countered, eyes scanning the corridor like a predator, “we wait for the changing patrol. Could be twenty minutes. Could be an hour.”
“Right,” Cedric said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “So our options are: wait in a dusty hole until our legs fall off, or gambleon a distraction that might earn us an armed escort to the nearest dungeon.”
Behind them, Evelyne moved.
He turned, expecting her to speak. She didn’t.
Instead, she crouched.
Alaric inhaled sharply beside him.
Because Evelyne Tresselyn, Princess of Edrathen, future Empress of the Varantian Imperium, breaker of noble hearts and political stalemates, was crawling.
She slipped under the portrait frame and into the open hall like it was a ballroom entrance, not a covert maneuver past state security. Her skirts didn’t even rustle. One hand balanced against the stone.
Cedric, Alaric, and Vesena all pressed closer to the gap, peering through.
She rose without a sound and began walking. Straight toward the exit.
Between two Silverwards.
Cedric didn’t breathe. Neither did Vesena.
Alaric looked like he’d just been hit by divine revelation. Cedric could pinpoint the exact thought that crossed his mind:
