Her gaze drifted out to the lake, moonlight slick across its surface like milk. Her throat worked before words emerged.
“The day before the wedding,” she explained, “Dasmon’s sister—Irina—she was five. Bright-eyed, full of questions. She followed me everywhere that morning. Stared at me like I was spun from moonlight.”
A ghost of a smile crossed her lips, gone almost before it formed. “She loved the ribbon I had in my hair. Sky blue, soft silk. So, I gave it to her. Tied it into her little braid myself.”
“She wore it to the ceremony,” Evelyne whispered, her shoulders shook once, barely. “It was the first thing I saw when I stepped into the chapel. Sticking out from beneath her mother’s body.”
Her voice cracked, and for once she didn’t disguise it. Alaric wanted to reach for her. He wanted to let her break against him if she needed to. But he stayed still. Listening was the only gift he had to give.
“Thank you for trusting me with that.”
Evelyne smiled, soft and fleeting. The kind of smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, but said enough.
He glanced at the paling horizon, the faint thread of dawn tugging at the night. “It’s nearly dawn. We should go back.”
She steadied her breath, composure stitching itself back into place. “Yes. We should.”
The ride back was wrapped in silence. When they reached the courtyard, he dismounted, boots hitting stone with a finality he didn’t want. Evelyne followed, precise as always. He stepped forward, then stopped. If he closed the gap, he wasn’t sure he could stop himself from closing all of it.
“I would walk you to your door,” he began, voice lighter than he felt, “but I think I’ve already pushed my luck tonight.”
Her lips curved—small, dangerous, treacherous. “A wise decision. Even luck has its limits.”
He nodded, though his chest tightened. “Yes, I suppose it has. We will see each other at the ceremony, then.”
“I will be the one throwing daggers at you with my eyes.”
“Then I’ll look for the beautiful princess with the deadliest aim.”
That should have been the end—polite words, curtain drawn. But she didn’t move away. Her fingers tensed, caught in some invisible struggle. He felt it too—the perilous pull. Her palm rose, wavered in the air, close enough that he could sense its warmth through his shirt. Every muscle in him inclined toward her, waiting.
But she pulled back. He watched the struggle pass over her face like a shadow. Then came the nod, composed, practiced.
“Goodnight, Alaric,” she breathed.
He wanted to reach for her, to ask what she’d almost said. But he didn’t. Because he could see it—that this was all she could give him tonight. And the last thing he would ever do was take more than she offered.
So he let her go. Watched her retreat step by step into the castle, the distance growing like a slow wound. He stayed where he was, rooted, as though following would shatter the fragile trust she had just allowed him.
He’d thought he was the one offering clarity, but somewhere along the way, she’d taught him what it meant to be truly seen. She wasn’t a bride or a symbol—just Evelyne. The woman who had laughed with him beneath the stars and let him see the places where she hurt.
Chapter 57
Thessa left the castle at dawn, the streets hushed and empty. Her body ached from hours in the kitchens, dragged from Mera House to help with the pre-wedding frenzy. Each step felt heavier than the last, cobblestones slick beneath her shoes, her thoughts dulled by exhaustion. Which was why she didn’t notice the man until she walked straight into him. Hard.
The breath caught in her throat. She stumbled back a step, head ducked, already reaching for an apology. “I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t—”
She forced herself to look up.
And stopped.
The man was taller than any she’d seen up close, his hair a fall of black silk that brushed his waist. His jaw was clean-shaven, sharp as cut stone, and his eyes—gold, piercing—met hers with the kind of directness that made her stomach wobble. His skin was a deep bronze-brown, his shoulders broad beneath a purple cloak that screamed nobility even without the faint embroidery glinting at the hem. Likely a guest for the wedding.
Thessa braced herself for the scolding.
But instead, the man smiled.
“Forgive me, my lady,” he murmured, voice smooth and low, touched with an accent she couldn’t place. “It seems I was in your way.”
