Alaric didn’t blink. “Just the right to fight beside you when it starts,” he replied. “And to hold what’s left of you when it ends.”
Something inside her folded at that. As if another wall she hadn’t known she’d built had finally cracked open from within.
Then—gently—he released her hands.
For the briefest heartbeat, she mourned the loss of his warmth. But before the chill could settle, his palms found her shoulders instead. A grounding weight that steadied her spine and stilled the shaking she hadn’t noticed had spread to her breath.
“If you want to be looked down upon—stay here,” he said. “If you want obedience, marry a knight. But if you want devotion. Dangerous, foolish, all-consuming…”
He paused, letting her hear the truth in his voice and pulled back just enough to see her clearly.
“Then you already have it.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. She could hear the uneven hitch of his breath, when her own feet betrayed her, carrying her half a step closer.
Evelyne didn’t think. She was done thinking and waiting. For orders. For permission. Her hands found the edges of his tunic, fisting the fabric like she could anchor herself to him, and she kissed him. He caught her against him with a gasp, steadying her with both hands.
She kissed him with everything she had locked away inside her—passion she had taught herself to cage, sadness heavy as stone, grief so old it tasted like iron on her tongue, anger sharp and burning, and a sliver of hope so fragile she dared not breathe too hard against it.
She kissed him on impulse. For the first time, she did something without weighing gain against consequence.It felt right.
And then, slowly, they broke apart. Just enough for their foreheads to meet, breath mingling, eyes closed. Her hands hovered between them for a moment, uncertain, as though still deciding whether to retreat or reach.
His thumbs brushed the curve of her jaw before sliding down to her shoulders. He drew her fully into him, both arms wrapped around her shoulders, anchoring her against his chest.
Evelyne folded into the hold like a thread pulled back into its knot. Her own arms slid around his waist, tentative at first, then surer. Her cheek pressed beneath his chin, breath catching on the collar of his shirt. She let herself exhale there, into the safety of it, into the warmth and solidity that shouldn’t have felt familiar—but did.
Her body jerked once with the force of the sob that followed. A sound too high, too raw to be contained.
“My baby brother is gone,” she choked, the words breaking apart on her tongue as tears spilled fast and hot. She didn’t try to stop them.
He let her cry. Said nothing. Only held her tighter.
As she tightened her arms around his waist, she felt him flinch. Her grip eased slightly, gentler now, as she noticed the faint tremor in his stance, the warmth of blood still damp beneath his shirt.
Through the open window, dawn spilled in orange ribbons across the floor, gilding the edges of their silence. Beyond the glass, the willow swayed at the lake’s edge, its branches trailing the water. Farther still, smoke curled faint and grey where the Ivory Bastion once stood.
They killed Dasmon and his family. Torn apart a chapel full of innocents for a prophecy so broken it didn’t even make sense. They killed her brother.
And for that, they would pay.
The rage was no longer something she could pack away between layers of duty and diplomacy. It sat full and molten in her chest, bleeding through the cracks. She let it burn. Let herself feel it.
This wasn’t just about survival anymore. Or proving she could play the game.
She didn’t want to play anyone’s game.
They would watch her now, yes. That wasn’t what hurt. What truly hurt—what had her fists clenched into Alaric’s waist, heart pounding—was knowing how long she'd tried to be what they needed. Obedient. Controlled.
No more.
Because if whatever had been cracked open tonight could no longer be shut, then everything was about to change. The rules she had memorized. The truths she had been handed. The delicate, diplomatic lie that peace was possible so long as everyone stayed intheirplace.
She was done staying inhers.
Chapter 77
Thessa sat at the small table and chewed slowly. The bread tasted good, but she couldn’t enjoy it fully. The tea went cold. She’d made too much out of habit. But there were no other hands reaching for a bowl. No voice arguing with her over sugar.
