“For your wrist,” he added, a bit more shyly now. “And because I’ve decided Prince Alaric is worthy.”
A strangled laugh escaped Evelyne before she could school it into something regal. Rhaedor’s lip quirked at one corner.
Thalen puffed up proudly, straightening the collar of his little formal coat with all the gravitas of a seasoned diplomat. “When I grow up,” he declared, “I’m going to marry someone as pretty as you.”
And that—well, that was her undoing.
Protocol be damned.
Evelyne bent, cradling him into a hug before anyone could stop her. The tight corset bit into her ribs, her sleeves pulled at the seams, but she didn’t care. Thalen’s arms wrapped around her neck with the kind of desperate sincerity only children could manage, and her composure cracked like thin ice beneath warm hands.
His small body trembled slightly against hers, and she realized too late that it wasn’t his comfort he was seeking—it was hers. The contact hit her like a wave. The scent of soap in his hair. The innocent, stubborn trust. She squeezed back, her cheek pressed to his temple, and for a moment, the world shrank to this—him. Her little brother. Her one true anchor.
When she let go, her throat felt raw, like she'd swallowed every unspoken word and locked it behind her teeth. Her chest ached where his arms had been. He blinked up at her with shiny eyes.
“Go on,” she urged. “Don’t keep the procession waiting.”
Ysara smiled, placing a guiding hand on Thalen’s back. “Come, brave sir. Time to escort me down the steps.”
He nodded solemnly, chest still puffed like a tiny soldier, and gave Evelyne one last look. She watched them go; the small pair framed in red and gold light spilling through the doors. And then—quiet again.
Her father stayed. For a moment, he just looked at Evelyne with eyes wide open. His lips pressing together as if holding back a flood of emotions.
“My dear daughter…” he murmured, stepping forward and placing a hand on her shoulder.
Evelyne turned slightly to meet his gaze, and for a moment, she caught something unguarded in his eyes—a quiet tenderness rarely seen in him, and certainly absent the last time they stood one year ago in similar circumstances.
“You look absolutely radiant,” he whispered. “Just like your mother did on our wedding day.”
She swallowed the lump rising in her throat.That’s not why I wore this dress.“Thank you, Father.”
Vesena stepped forward, silent and steady, her palm outstretched. Resting there—a delicate silver chain, its pendant a single, gleaming pearl.
The king took it with quiet reverence. “She would have wanted you to wear this today,” he remarked. “Allow me.”
Evelyne bowed her head with the obedience expected of her. The clasp clicked shut behind her neck. The metal was cold, heavier than it had any right to be. Like a memory. When she turned back around, her fingers found the pearl—too perfect, too smooth. She hated that she couldn’t feel its edge.
Her father watched her. Something flickered in his gaze—regret, perhaps. Or pride. She couldn't tell anymore.
Without a word, he reached behind her head and drew the shorter part of the veil forward. The red fabric floated down, settling over her face like a crimson breath.
For a heartbeat, she couldn’t see him clearly. That, at least, was a mercy.
“Now,” he said, tone brisk again, “let’s get you to the ceremony.”
Chapter 59
Control. Calm. Focus.
Her fingers tightened on her father’s arm. He must have felt it, because without a word, he covered her hand with his. The corridor stretched ahead, too bright, too wide, the echo of their steps hollow and final. Stained glass fractured the light into blue, gold, and red across the polished stone. She tried not to look at the red, but her stomach clenched anyway. It painted her skirts and shoes.
Step.
Another.
Every one scraped the marrow of memory raw.
The walk felt both too long and too short. With every stride, she had the sinking sense that she was crossing into something final. That whatever waited on the other side would seal the door behind her. Would keep her from resolving what remained unfinished, from saying what still needed to be said, from doing what she hadn't yet dared.
