It felt like running out of time.
Rhaedor paused just before the entrance to the grand ballroom, turning to look at her once more. Stones were scattered at the foot of the door.
“Are you ready, my dear?” he asked quietly.
No. No, I’m not.
Evelyne’s shoulder gave the faintest twitch. She adjusted the fall of her sleeve, buying herself a second before answering.
But her chin lifted on command. “Yes.”
He hesitated, then leaned closer. “Remember, my dear… this is for the kingdom. For the peace and prosperity of our people.”
Evelyne wanted to laugh.
For the kingdom.
The lump in her throat had been there since dawn, immovable, lodged somewhere between memory and duty.
“I know,” she whispered. Only two words, and already she feared that if she let any more loose, the whole fragile stage would splinter.
The doors creaked open like the mouth of a crypt.
Control.
But the mantra was fraying.
Light spilled in—too golden, like it didn’t belong in this world. The grand ceremonial hall stretched out before her, all soaring arches and chandeliers, silver-veined marble and candlelight.
She should have felt majestic and holy. Instead, she braced herself for a scream. For crimson pooling at her feet. The scent hit her all at once. Lilies meant to say purity, rebirth, and blessed union. But to her, it smelled like death. She nearly gagged.
Please let it not end in red. Please, please…
Her father led her forward. His steps were careful. Hers… less so. The fabric of her gown whispered around her ankles, and the train dragged behind her like a reluctant shadow.
The hall unfolded before her like a stage. In the front row, Thalen sat upright as a sapling, hands clenched in his lap, eyes wide. Beside him, Ysara seemed composed, but Evelyne caught the way her fingers twisted the edge of her handkerchief. Vesena stood off to the side, straight-backed and still, but her gaze was sharp. Watching for threats. Watching her.
Isildeth’s lower lip trembled once before she caught it between her teeth. Cedric’s arms were crossed, jaw tight.
A spike of cold climbed her spine. She couldn’t feel her hands. Couldn’t feel her face. Her heart pounded, fast and out of rhythm, but her legs kept moving.
They had to.
She focused on the floor, counting the steps.
One.
Two.
Guests stood taut as bowstrings, silence felt more like a trap than ceremony; counter-archers lined the balconies with bows half-drawn; medics waited in alcoves with baskets at their feet. Evelyne’s eyes swept the crowd of nobles, searching each shadow, as though expecting a dagger to flash from the crowd.
The throne room was meant to impress, but it looked more like a dungeon. Everyone was trapped inside, guilty by proximity, locked in by verdict.
Her ribcage locked. She couldn’t get air in. Not enough, never enough.
But no one noticed. Her mask was flawless.
And then she sawhim. Through the lace threaded in crimson. The light caught the red just so, casting its hue across his face. For a moment, it looked as though blood had been brushed over his skin.
