She lifted her chin by a fraction.
Alaric’s eyes had narrowed to slits.
“My daughter was a victim,” her father began. “She was injured by dark forces. She will undergo a cleansing rite before the next moon.”
The Sanctoral did not immediately respond. His gaze did not waver. Evelyne felt the moment stretch, a drawn cord threatening to snap. Alaric held her even closer. His thumb brushed against her arm, though she sensed the tension in his shoulders, the readiness to lunge.
The Sanctoral’s eyes focused on her, as though measuring the value of digging deeper. For one long, heavy breath, Evelyne thought he might. She could see the calculation behind his gaze. The balance between obedience and convenience, between risk and result.
In the end, he inclined his head a single inch. Then turned, but one of the Eclipsants did not follow immediately. They lingered. Staring. Evelyne felt them searching her chest, the corners of her mind.
At last, they also turned away and joined the others.
The chamber doors closed behind them with a hollow, echoing finality. Relief flooded the room like a wave. Councilors who had held their breath exhaled.
Evelyne stared down at the table, then up toward the sealed doors, wondering if it was over. If it ever would be.
Alaric leaned closer and spoke softly, close to her ear. “They won’t touch you. I swear it.”
She gave a small, hollow nod, but didn’t answer. Because she was not sure. They knew. And next time, the Assembly might not leave empty-handed.
“We can’t just sit here,” she began. “We have to do something.”
Her father didn’t acknowledge her at first. His finger tapped once against the armrest of his chair, a rhythm she knew by heart—disapproval, precise and unhurried. At last, he lifted his head. Stone met flame.
“It is not our jurisdiction,” he explained.
“And the prophecy?” she pressed. “That woman had the same sigil on her lips as Dasmon. You saw it yourself. Which means he—like her—delivered a prophecy after death.”
A silence slithered through the room.
“Which means there’s another name,” she staggered in his direction. “The next person to die with that symbol. The next line in that cursed song. You can call it heresy or superstition if it comforts you, but it’shappening. And we are not prepared.”
Rhaedor’s eyes narrowed, his mouth a thin slash of cold authority. “Prophecies don’t exist, Evelyne. They are the feverednonsense of dying madmen. Words mean nothing without order to give them weight.”
She stared at him, and felt the fury bloom like a bruise behind her ribs.
No, not fury. Fury she could use. This was betrayal.
“So Thalen died for nothing?”
He didn’t flinch, but something behind his gaze hardened further.
“No reason at all?” she pressed. “Just another child who tripped down the stairs and landed on a sword?”
“That’s enough,” he snapped, the words cracking through the air.
Her voice was loud now, frost streaming from her lips. “Then give me a better reason. If not prophecy. If not magic. Then tell me, father—why did he die?”
“Evelyne,” Alaric warned, gazing at the cold mist dissolving in the air.
Rhaedor stood up. His hand curled tight around the edge of the war table, knuckles gone bloodless. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched near his temple.
“I know you’ve lost a brother,” he thundered. “But I’ve lost anheir.”
The room dropped into silence. He didn’t let it linger.
“You are overcome with grief. We all are. But I cannot indulge it the way you can. I have to think a few steps ahead. I have to think about the kingdom. And that means seeing beyond this moment.”
