Evelyne tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, still trying to compose herself. “I don’t think I’ve ever tried to laugh at the disaster I was walking into.”
“You should do it more often.”
Her lips quirked, then smoothed into something steadier. “It’s… oddly refreshing.”
Evelyne lifted her face to the stars. He studied her profile and realized that he wanted to keep it—fix the image in memory like a constellation he could follow when the night pressed close.
Because it was a masterpiece, fragile and dazzling, a glimpse of the woman beneath all the armor of silence. And he wanted more of it.
Then Evelyne turned her head toward him, the last traces of laughter still softening her features.
“Tell me something about you,” she said, almost casually. “Something not everyone knows.”
He blinked, caught off guard. She tilted her head toward him, that quiet curiosity back in her eyes.
“Something not everyone knows?” he echoed, rolling the thought around like it might reveal its own answer. “Alright. I like spiced nuts. Warm ones, preferably sold from a street cart, not served in those gilded bowls at court. I talk to myself when I’m working through a difficult thesis. I pace. A lot.”
Her lips twitched, but she didn’t interrupt.
“I hate figs,” he went on. “The texture, the seeds—utter betrayal disguised as fruit. Cinnamon is worse. Tastes like someone lit a tree on fire and decided it should be edible. And I despise the cold. Your kind of cold, especially.”
Evelyne laughed at that.
“And sometimes,” he added, quieter now, “I tend to talk too much when I’m nervous.”
Their eyes met, and this time neither looked away. A breath stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. He wasn’t sure if they were standing at the edge of war or something far more terrifying. And stars, he wanted to drown into it.
He let the silence hum a beat longer, then angled his head toward her. “And you?”
“Me?” She bit the inside of her cheek, hesitated. “Let’s see… I don’t like coffee, loud noises, and mess.” A small pause. “Water—open water—rivers or lakes are fine. But the sea…” she exhaled softly. “The big seas terrify me.”
Alaric’s brows lifted slightly.
“I like routine,” she continued, her tone gentling, as if louder words might fracture it. “Art. Conversation, too—but more thanthat, I like simply existing beside someone, doing the things I love.”
He watched her closely. There was something in the way she spoke, something quiet and careful that unsettled him. The pause between them lengthened, heavy with questions he should not ask.
“Did you love him?” he asked suddenly. The words escaped before he could call them back.
Her spine went rigid, a shift so subtle most wouldn’t notice. He did. The reflex to guard, to put the armor back on—it flickered across her like a shadow. He cursed himself silently.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “You don’t want to talk about it. I’ve always been very bad at reading that.”
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she exhaled. “It’s alright,” she assured. Her voice was low, steady, but he could hear the crack beneath. “You deserve to know. And this… I… deserve more than silence now.”
She looked down at her hands. Drew in a deep breath. And then: “No.” A single word, quiet but unshaken. “I didn’t. I had known him since childhood. We were friends.”
Alaric nodded slowly, something unreadable passing through him. He had met Dasmon once—just once. And he remembered thinking: kind eyes. A man who carried himself without hunger for power. “I met him,” Alaric said quietly. “Briefly. He seemed like a good man.”
“He was.”
“What do you remember most from that day?”
Her lips parted, then pressed shut again. He saw the war flicker across her face.
Finally, she whispered: “A blue ribbon.”
He blinked. “I’m not sure I follow.”
