The guards were on the attacker in a heartbeat, forcing him to the ground. Evelyne sat up just in time to see the mark on the blade: three vertical lines within a circle.
Near the dais, a ring of Silverwards closed tightly around Thalen, escorting him back toward the castle steps. He protested, but followed their lead, wide-eyed and pale.
“Seal the gates,” Rhaedor barked.
The crowd was moving, screaming and gasping. Guards charged at the remaining attackers. Ravik groaned, bloodied but alive, escorted by two soldiers, casting her one last glance.
And Evelyne watched as the crowd swallowed him, unable to tell if what burned in her chest was fear, triumph, or guilt.
Chapter 50
The castle infirmary smelled of burnt sage and old metal, sharp and bitter on the tongue. Pale stone walls rose around them, lined with narrow windows that allowed only a thin spill of daylight. Iron candelabras flickered near the rafters, casting long shadows across rows of narrow beds and cluttered tables. Physicians moved quickly through the space, their voices low and urgent. A groan broke the quiet behind one of the linen curtains. In the corner, a glass slipped and shattered. No one paused to look.
Evelyne sat on the edge of the cot, propped up with far more pillows than necessary. Her arms were scraped, wrists stung, and her backside throbbed from where she’d met the stones in an entirely unroyal manner. It hadn’t hurt at all during the chaos. Now, seated and safe, the aches had arrived with punctual vengeance. She hadn’t been given anything for the pain—Edrathen didn’t believe in dulling it. Pain was to be endured.
They’d wrapped her in bandages and recommended rest. She nodded graciously. And ignored them.
Isildeth hovered beside her, muttering about evil andwhy in the gods’ names she’d worn such light shoes. Vesena stood a little further off, arms folded, eyes on everything, body angled slightly toward the canopied bed across the infirmary.
Ravik’s.
He was behind the curtain. Blood loss, they said. Deep but clean wound. He’d live.
Evelyne’s gaze remained fixed on that canopy. She couldn’t look away. He had stepped in front of her. Taken the dagger meant for her ribs. And now she didn’t know what to think.
Was it calculated? Even he wasn’t that reckless. No man would offer his life to a blade just to tilt the narrative. But then again, men had done worse. Especially when power was at stake.
She shifted slowly upright, as if that would keep Isildeth from noticing.
It didn’t.
“Milady,” she warned. “Back. To. Bed.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“Isildeth, please.”
She huffed with all the force of a woman denied a crisis.
Vesena had filled her in between physician inspections and Isildeth’s fussing. One moment Evelyne was pressed to the cold stones, pulse hammering, Alaric crouched over her like a living shield. Second, he handed her to Cedric, barked something sharp, drew his sword and was already halfway across the square before she found her breath again. He had barely waited for her to be swept behind Silverward shields before he launched into action.
The courtyard had been sealed. Guests detained. Thalen secured. Entire squads were surrounded, searched, and questioned. One company had been a ruse: men in her country’s colors, armed with curved blades etched with that cursed sigil. Fortunately, there were only a few wounded on the Edrathen side.
One of the physicians emerged from behind the curtain holding blood-soaked materials.
“Excuse me,” she called, “When he wakes I want to be informed immediately.”
The man murmured an acknowledgment, already turning back.
The doors to the infirmary opened with a hiss of old hinges. She looked up. Alaric entered first, her father followed a step behind.
Alaric’s gaze found her instantly. And gods help her, some ridiculous part of her relaxed the moment it did. No blood, no bruises, just that quiet, steady presence that had become something like... constant.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, coming closer.
“I’m alright,” she assured, her tone cold. “And you?”
