The dress settled into place like it had been waiting for her. It was, objectively, a masterpiece. The bodice was stitched with silver-threaded florals, Pearls lined the sleeves and led into cuffs of sheer lace that floated over her wrists. The train trailed behind her in a tide of silk and lace.
It was beautiful. It was flawless. And it felt exactly like armor.
Vesena approached holding the veil and carefully pinned it into Evelyne’s hair. Transparent as breath, falling to the floor. At the hem, thick embroidery bloomed in deep red thread, rich and heavy at the bottom, growing finer and more delicate as it climbed toward her crown, until it thinned into nothing at the very top.
She slid her palms lightly over her waist, feeling the tight press of the corset beneath the silk. That was it. A final inhale before the chaos, music, and oaths.
A gentle knock stirred the silence. The door eased open, and Vesena stepped aside to reveal Ysara.
She looked tired, though she’d tried to hide it. Her hair was swept into a formal twist, a few loose strands curling stubbornly near her ear. Her gown was royal red. When she saw Evelyne, Ysara’s face lit up with a soft, genuine smile. “You look marvelous,” she breathed.
Evelyne inclined her head politely. “As do you.”
“May I come in?”
Evelyne nodded. The servants in the room instinctively drifted to the far wall, giving them space. Her stepmother entered slowly, hands clasped before her as if unsure what to do with them. She looked, for a moment, like she might change her mind.
“That day has come,” she began quietly. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m trying not to panic.”
Ysara nodded, her gaze flicking briefly to the window. “That’s fair,” she murmured. “Weddings are strange things. Even when you’re certain.”
She exhaled softly and stepped closer, reaching for Evelyne’s gloved hands with tentative care.
“I know I’m not your mother,” she began. “And I know closeness between us was never easy. You were grieving when I first entered this castle, and I… I never wished to claim what was not mine to take.”
Evelyne pressed her lips together, unwilling to trust her voice yet. Her attention shifted to Ysara’s face instead. Faint freckles marked the bridge of her nose, and fine lines traced the corners of her mouth—etched more by restraint than laughter, Evelyne suspected. It struck her, with quiet guilt, how rarely she had truly seen her stepmother.
“I only ever wanted to be someone you could rely on,” Ysara said, her tone soft yet sure. “Even from afar. And I need you to remember, Evelyne—whatever comes today, tomorrow, or in ten years—you will always have my loyalty.”
Evelyne drew in air carefully, forcing down the ache in her throat.
Ysara’s voice wavered, then found its steadiness again. “I wish you happiness, Evelyne. I hope this marriage gives you more than an alliance. I hope it gives you something gentler. You deserve that.”
Ysara smiled again, smaller this time. “In this world, women do not often get to choose their power. But we can choose each other. And we should. Especially now.”
Evelyne’s gloved fingers tightened slightly around Ysara’s. The warmth between them was thin, but it was there. And maybe, just maybe, it had always been.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last, the words low and clear. “For pushing you away.”
Ysara’s eyes softened. She gave Evelyne’s hands a reassuring squeeze. “What was, was,” she murmured. “We can’t change the past. But I hope you won’t forget this place.” Her voice caught just slightly, but she kept it steady. “Iwon’t forget you.”
Evelyne looked at her. “I won’t forget either,” she promised.
The moment was a small one. Private. Tucked away between layers of embroidery and expectation. All the years she’d kept Ysara at a distance flashed through her like a slow ache.
And for a heartbeat, she was furious. For wasting something that might have been gentle. For overlooking a thread of love that had always been offered, never demanded.
Another knock interrupted them, softer than before but just as final. The door eased open as Ysara released Evelyne’s palms, and there stood her father in full ceremonial silver, a crimson sash across his chest like a blade of duty. Beside him, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet, was Thalen.
He didn’t wait for formality.
“Evie!” her brother burst forward, something clutched tightly in one small, nervous fist. “I brought you a ribbon. For luck.”
Behind him, Ysara made a valiant attempt to shoo him back with a whisper of, “We talked about not interrupting—” but it was hopeless. Thalen’s excitement was a storm, and Evelyne didn’t mind being caught in it.
The ribbon—silver and slightly crumpled—was probably stolen from a dressing gown or drawer he wasn’t supposed to open. But he held it out like it was a crown.
