And then she read the final name.
Her own.
“Evelyne Tresselyn.”
A soft plume of frost escaped her lips, visible in the light. Too cold. Or not cold enough.
A collective gasp swept through the crowd, louder this time. Nobles turned to one another, whispering behind gloved hands. Even the Council exchanged rapid glances.
From the corner of her eye, she saw her father frown. A tight, displeased expression. Alaric watched Ravik as a hound watches the moment before a stag bolts.
She saw as Ravik’s mask—perfect, practiced, polished through years of service—faltered. His mouth pressed into a hard line. For a heartbeat, just one, anger flashed raw across his face before he crushed it down.
Evelyne smiled.
“Today,” she went on, turning back and silencing the crowd once more, “is not only about honoring the loyal dead. It is also about recognizing those who have guarded this kingdom in life. Those who, throughnecessary acts, have preserved our nation’s strength.”
She turned her gaze toward the edge of the dais, and there was no mistaking where it landed.
“Grand Marshal Ravik,” she called. “For your unwavering service, your dedication to the security and longevity of Edrathen—you are called to receive the Medal of Divine Honor.”
There was no room for refusal. No courtly way out. He could not defy the future empress on the public stage she had so elegantly constructed.
Ravik came forward resting his palm on his sword's hilt. He stopped next to her with perfect posture, staring at the crowd, searching it.
A servant approached, presenting the cushion where the Medal of Divine Honor gleamed in silver. She lifted it and slowly affixed the medal to the broad sash that crossed Ravik’s uniform, careful not to let the tremor in her chest reach her hands.
“For your tireless dedication todivine purification,” she said, the first blade slipping between the armor.
Ravik's jaw tightened.
“For your exceptional leadership duringcontrolled disruption,” Evelyne continued, fastening the clasp neatly.
“And for ensuring Edrathen’s stability,” she finished, smiling with regal grace and looking up at him, “no matter the cost.”
The blade twisted deep.
And the faintest flicker of tension tugged at the corner of Ravik’s mouth.
He realized it now. The noose was closing, but not on her neck.
Evelyne stepped back with a small, flawless nod. To the crowd, it looked like nothing more than a princess honoring her most loyal servant.
And Evelyne, smiling like a saint painted in gold leaf, made sure he knew exactly who had wielded the hammer. “Thank you for your service. Thandros.”
Ravik’s eyes widened before his brow drew low as he surveyed the gathered crowd once more.
It lasted two seconds. Just a blur at the edge of her vision.
Alaric was at her side in an instant, hand slammed into her shoulder, shoving her backward. She stumbled and hit the ground hard, wind punched from her lungs, the world tilting sideways. For a breath, all she heard was the crack of boots. She looked up with a wince.
The assassin was inches away—blade bared, eyes wide.
Ravik stepped between.
And the knife drove deep into his side.
He didn’t shout. Just a hard exhale, like air forced out of a furnace. He staggered back, blood soaking through his armor in heavy, unstoppable pulses.
