Evelyne was on her feet before the sentence finished. Pain flared at the base of her spine but she ignored it. She crossed the room in purposeful strides and pulled the curtain back herself.
Ravik lay propped against a mound of pillows, colorless and drawn, his torso wrapped in thick bandages, a dark patch of blood already seeping through. His eyes snapped to attention the moment he saw them.
“Your Highnesses...” he began, his voice hoarse. He tried to rise, muscles twitching beneath the gauze.
“At ease,” Rhaedor said sharply.
Ravik sank back, grimacing.
“What happened?” he rasped, scanning each of their faces.
“You were stabbed protecting my daughter from an assassin. We’ve captured the squad responsible. One of them named their employer: a man named Thandros.”
Ravik's jaw clenched at the word.
“A religious fanatic,” he muttered after a pause. “They’ve been stirring again in the northern ranges.”
Evelyne studied him, one brow lifting with slow precision. “Do you know this Thandros?”
Ravik turned to look at her and whatever was in his eyes made the back of her neck prickle.
“I’m sure it is not me,” he said at last; voice stripped of irony.
Evelyne swallowed hard, the motion slow and deliberate. “Strange, then, that none of this was mentioned at the Council’s meeting.”
His gaze flicked to hers. “You arenotin the Council.”
“She doesn't have to be,” Alaric replied firmly. “BecauseIaddressed the issue many times.”
Ravik fixed his attention on him, mouth hardening to a thin line.
“Kelvar’s Cross?” Alaric pressed.
The Grand Marshal nodded.
Alaric’s jaw clenched with barely contained anger.
Rhaedor took a slow breath. “We’ll need your full account, Marshal. Everything you know. Every detail.”
Ravik exhaled, slow and shallow. The sound was closer to a groan than a sigh.
“What do you know?” he asked.
“I found the symbol,” Evelyne confessed. “The same one carved into Dasmon’s mouth, etched into the dagger that nearly killed me. It’s in your notes.”
Ravik’s brow creased. For a moment, he only stared at her. Then, he gave a strained, humorless laugh. It broke midway into a grimace.
“I scribble when I think,” he muttered. “Margins, backs of pages... when something gnaws at me, it ends up on parchment. That symbol—” he paused, eyes distant “—it haunts me.”
Evelyne blinked.What?
Her attention flicked to Alaric. He seemed equally unsettled, though he held his tongue, watching Ravik with that precise, assessing calm that meant he was committing every detail to memory.
Ravik drew back slightly, eyes closing for a brief beat before he continued. “I’ve been investigating the Maroon Slaughter. And a pattern emerged. Each year brings some new catastrophe. Most never reach the official ledgers—but I kept my own records. And in time… I saw the connection.”
Rhaedor folded his arms. “What sort of connection?”
“The sites,” Ravik answered. “Each massacre took place on ground once bound to ancient power. And this sigil reappears—always on a single body. Each time, the Celestial Assembly arrives soon after, armed with a convenient explanation. Heresy. Rebellion. And the world accepts it—because no one dares ask what truly lies beneath.”
