Her gloves were tight. Her breath, tighter.
To her right waited Alaric, polished to princely perfection. Her father loomed on her left with Ysara and Thalen—chest puffed, trying his best to look taller than ten. Ravik remained nearby, silent and unreadable. Further back among other attendants waited Vesena, Isildeth, and Cedric. The Silverwards flanked the platform.
Below, the courtyard resembled a game board. Dignitaries, nobles, and foreign envoys stood in organized rows along the upper tiers, their jeweled sashes and crested cloaks catching the late morning light. Between the middle ramparts and the inner walls, the central road served as the main artery for the parade. It was usually reserved for royal passage, but today it had been transformed into a ceremonial path.
The troops advanced down the route, banners lifted, iron helms polished, spears held at a uniform angle. The sound of their synchronized steps echoed sharply off the stone. At a signal, the front line halted with impeccable timing, then turned outward to form a corridor of armored bodies, standing sentinel on either side of the path.
A thousand soldiers. Maybe more. She hadn’t seen so many gathered in one place since Thalen's birth. She should have felt safe. But she didn’t. She felt instead like a very well-dressed target.
Ravik watched her all morning. It was the look of a man who’d tied the noose and simply waited for the right gust of wind. She wondered if he heard about her little escapade.
She straightened. Alaric was watching the crowd, watching Ravik. Watching her. And somehow, that presence made her feel a little less like she was about to bleed alone.
Another squad marched past as her father gave his signature nod. When the square cleared, Evelyne would step forward first, then the king. She was supposed to speak with grace and maiden blessing. He would follow with power and legacy.
That was the plan.
When the last squad marched past and the drums faded, Evelyne stepped forward. Vesena approached from the side, offering the scroll written last night. Evelyne accepted it with trembling hands. Below, the crowd had fallen silent. Rows of faces watched, hungry for the smallest crack in her composure. She stood alone at the center of it all, and for one sharp, unbearable moment, she wished she could abandon the breathing altogether. Not forever. Just long enough to escape their eyes.
She tried to draw a breath. Her lungs fluttered instead, shallow and fast. Steeling herself, she pressed her heel firmly into the floor, anchoring her body while her mind scrambled for stillness.
One breath.
Then another.
She counted to four.
Control. Calm. Focus.
“Edrathen endures,” Evelyne began, her voice steady, cutting cleanly into the breathless hush. “Not because it seeks war. Not because it thirsts for conquest. But because it remembers.”
Her throat moved with a swallow she didn’t try to hide.
“Strength,” Evelyne continued, “is not the sword drawn too eagerly, nor the shield lifted in reckless fear. Strength is the hand that does not tremble when it chooses not to strike.”
She paused—half for control, half to keep her heartbeat from rattling out of her chest. Her gaze swept the crowd, and every eye was fixed on her. Waiting.
“Edrathen’s strength is not forged by armies alone. It is shaped by its people. By those who endure nivalens when the roads vanish under ice. By the miners who carve steel from mountains. By the priests who bind the weight of our laws to parchment. By the mothers who bury their sons—and still offer prayers for the realm.”
The wind caught her cloak, snapping it sharply behind her. She felt her father’s gaze, heavy and sharp as a drawn bow; Ravik’s was cooler, but no less intent.
She let the pause stretch just long enough to hold the crowd on a knife’s edge before softening her voice, drawing them closer.
“A kingdom is measured not by the sharpness of its swords, but by the loyalty of its dead. Let us remember those names.”
Evelyne drew in a steady breath. Her voice carried clean across the parade grounds, cutting through the murmurs, the restless shuffle of armor and silk.
“Lord Aeren Valmyre.”
“Lady Corinne Deymar.”
“Sir Halvek Rhend.”
Each syllable landed like a stone cast into still water, ripples spreading through the gathered court. Nobles shifted in their polished boots, silken sleeves whispering as they cast glances, they thought discreet. Soldiers, rigid in their lines, flicked their eyes toward her, a muscle tightening here, a breath drawn there. Foreign envoys leaned closer to one another, their practiced smiles thinning to razors.
“Dasmon Dvorenic.”
The reaction was immediate—gasps sharp as blades, a muffled curse.
