He straightened slowly, eyes dark and sharp as obsidian. “What happened was a tragedy. But it must not become a weapon for chaos.”
She laughed—low, bitter, sharp enough to cut her own throat. “No. Not a weapon. Just a secret. Buried under politics and protocol until no one remembers his name.”
Rhaedor slammed his fist onto the table. The boom resounded like a war drum, and Evelyne flinched despite herself.
“When you are an empress,” he roared, each word enunciated like a verdict, “you will understand what it means to carry a kingdom on your spine. Until then, hold your tongue and remember your place. You are not the only one who has bled for this realm.”
He didn’t wait for her reply. He didn’t need one.
The dismissal was clear.
She looked at him—at the man who had shaped her into something sharp and still expected her not to cut.
And thought:
I’ve watched you rule my whole life.
And now I understand exactly what kind of empress I want to be—
One who never becomes you.
He sat like a fortress at the head of the council. His gaze flicked toward her, the unspoken command obvious:stay where it’s safe.
Evelyne didn't intend to.
She set her teacup on the mantle, the clink against the saucer drawing a few glances.
“I want to see Halwen,” she declared.
The king’s face tightened. “It’s unnecessary,” he countered. “Let the Magistrates deal with him.”
Across the table, the High Preceptor of Orvath nodded solemnly, as if blessing her father’s command. Ravik, however, didn’t hide his sideways glance at the priest.
“Your Highness, if I may,” The High Preceptor began, addressing Evelyne. “Keeper Halwen is dangerously mad and possessed by remnants of the old gods. He is not the man you once knew. I am aware that he was your mentor and you needclosure. So let me explain the circumstances. Foryourpeace of mind.”
Evelyne raised her brow.
“There are things you should understand,” the Preceptor continued, his voice smooth and grave. “Long ago, when the gods first shaped this world and gifted it with life, they gave magic freely to mankind. They watched as we built, as we grew, and in time they grew jealous.”
“And so they cursed us,” he continued. “Magic, once a gift, became a hunger. It demanded payment—first from the land, then from the blood of men. Cities crumbled. People lost their loved ones. What we now call the Sundering was their vengeance made manifest.”
He paced slowly as he spoke.
“But three among the gods rebelled,” he recited, his voice rising with righteous fervor. “Orvath, Ilmora, and Rhyssa. They rose against their own kin, putting the old gods into slumber. Thanks to their defiance, the world was saved.”
He paused, as if granting her a moment to absorb the weight of it.
“But the curse remained,” he added. “Magic could not be undone—it could only be stilled. Orvath and Ilmora set the new direction. A world of law and order, where destruction could be kept at bay.”
The Preceptor’s expression grew pained, touched with sadness. “But Rhyssa wavered. She mourned the loss of the old ways. She wished to bring them back. And so her followers, even now, cling to forbidden rites. They seek to avenge her doubts.”
He spread his hands wide. “That is why the priests of Rhyssa do these things. That is whyyourKeeper believed he was fulfilling her will.”
Evelyne listened without moving, without betraying a single thought. Every child in Edrathen had been fed that tale by rote.Magic had once been good. Until the gods, in their mercy, had made it bad. Because it demanded a price no kingdom could afford.
When magic created, it destroyed in equal measure.
And now Evelyne had seen it with her own eyes.
