“I wouldn’t go that far,” Ravik muttered. “But as far as the Preceptor himself—he gave me room to operate.”
Rhaedor’s voice was flat. “Are your men inside the enemy’s ranks?”
“Yes. Some,” Ravik admitted. “But the enemy is clever. They don’t use names. No one ever knows the full design. All we’ve ever had is the symbol. And only one name came up—Thandros.”
Evelyne’s eyes flicked to her father. He didn’t react visibly, but she could see it—the faint furrow at the center of his brow. He was calculating. But he wasn’t reconsidering the wedding.
This alliance had cost too much, taken too long, required too many sacrifices to unmake it now. He wasn’t going to call it off because of shadows and maybes.
No. Rhaedor was already shifting into strategy.
“We remove the Celestial Assembly from the castle. And we question the High Preceptor.”
There was a pause. It was a declaration that could fracture the continent. And he didn’t even blink.
“If they agree,” Alaric said quietly. “They’ll know we suspect them. And if they’re guilty... it won’t end quietly.”
Ravik nodded from the bed, wincing slightly. “We’ve danced in circles long enough. The longer they believe themselves above scrutiny, the deeper they root.”
Evelyne’s knuckles ached. “It will attract attention,” she noted. “From the court. From the continent. It will be seen as an act of aggression.”
Rhaedor ignored her.
And it hurt.
The guests would dine, toast and dance beneath chandeliers. Unaware that the castle beneath their feet was bleeding secrets into its stones. Unaware that the truth had teeth and was already chewing through the edges of their silver-trimmed bliss. And she would stand at the altar. Crowned in pearls. Wrapped in silk. Dressed like a bride, with a blade still pressed to her back.
There was nothing left to say. But there was plenty left to do.
Ravik watched her, silent, breath still shallow. Whatever he’d once been—monster or martyr—he had stepped in front of a blade for her.
“Thank you,” Evelyne said simply. “For saving my life.”
Ravik inclined his head.
Before turning to the door, Evelyne let her gaze shift to Alaric. She allowed herself a small smile. He caught it at once, the corners of his own mouth softening as he gave her a single nod, his eyes gentled in a way that made her pulse catch.
Then she slipped out alone.
Isildeth was waiting just outside, hands folded.
“Please send a message to Ysara,” Evelyne requested. “I want to speak to her.”
Chapter 51
Arider passed through the quarter, not bothering to dismount, tossing the sealed notice toward the mud-packed stoops and moving on. It landed in a puddle outside their door. Thessa was the one who picked it up while she was sweeping the dirt.
Joren had been talking about it for weeks in that offhand way boys do when they’re scared but too proud to say it out loud.
He held the note with shaking fingers, a grin that split his face. For a moment, he looked taller. Older.
“It’s a good sign,” he said, practically glowing. “Pay. Uniform. Maybe boots that fit.”
“And maybe a brain,” Thessa muttered, putting the broom in the corner of the room.
He grinned wider. “And a medal for being so handsome.”
Thessa gave him a look.
