“No,” she protested. “We saw it, my name was there. At the bottom.”
Ravik’s mouth thinned. “Then someone altered it after it left my hands.”
Alaric muttered, more to himself than anyone, “Maybe it’s magic.”
The silence that followed was instant.
“Son,” Rhaedor snapped, his tone dangerous. “I’m warning you.”
But Alaric didn’t back down. “We saw someone extinguish flames with nothing but a whisper. If they can snuff out fire with their hand, then what’s a name on parchment? Maybe Dasmon’s name appeared the same way. Maybe the list updates itself.”
“Enough,” Rhaedor thundered sharply. “No more talk of symbols. We do not speak of sorcery in this court. The Justicar will handle this. You will both focus on the wedding. The ceremony is in a few days. Our kingdom will not be ruled by paranoia.”
“But it must be considered,” Alaric pressed. “The fact remains—those involved are practitioners of magic. Banned or not, it’s still happening.”
Rhaedor’s eyes narrowed. “Where is this list?”
Alaric paused. Just for a moment. “My servant has it.”
“Then you will hand it over to the Lord Justiciar,” Rhaedor ordered. “It will be logged as evidence and investigated properly.”
Evelyne watched the muscle in Alaric’s jaw tighten. He took a deep breath but eventually nodded.
“Of course,” Alaric uttered through clenched teeth.
“I’m pleased that we are in agreement,” Rhaedor said, his tone carrying the unmistakable weight of closure.
Her voice cracked, but she didn’t let it collapse. “What about the rest?”
“As I said,” Ravik answered, his tone clipped, “you’ll focus on the marriage. People need hope to hold on to, and your union is just that.”
Evelyne’s chest flared with heat. “But we have to find out who really did it. We can’t just accept—”
“Evelyne.” Her father’s voice slammed through the infirmary. “I will not have a trial of my most trusted man with you as a witness. This must be handled with protocol.”
Her chin lifted. “You mean behind closed doors.”
His eyes darkened, the fury in them barely leashed. “I am warning you.”
“And I don’t care! Father, the person who killed Damson is still out there. We—”
“That’s enough,” Rhaedor thundered, his hand striking the armrest of his chair. “You do not rule this country. I do. Remember. Your. Place.”
Alaric took a step forward, is fists clenched.
Evelyne’s mouth tightened, nostrils flaring. Each unsaid word clawed at her ribs, desperate for release. When she clenched her fist, she discovered the faint tremor running through it.
Ravik, visibly exhausted, sighed and rested against the pillows. “I have nothing to hide. If the cost of safety is letting you all think I’m the villain in the dark—so be it. I would make the same call again.”
“The High Preceptor?” Rhaedor asked, not bothering to veil the steel in his tone. “Was he involved?”
Ravik didn’t hesitate. “He questioned my methods—frequently. He was wary of how I moved the guard.”
Alaric narrowed his eyes. “So he knew what you were doing.”
“Yes.” Ravik winced slightly. “When I first suspected a hidden passage beneath the chapel, I confronted him. He allowed me to post my men there.”
Alaric tilted his head. “So the Assembly’s hands are probably clean.”
