Malren’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “I only meant that tradition matters. For those of us still invested in preserving what’s left of this kingdom’s dignity.”
Evelyne turned to her slowly, gaze composed, voice quiet. “Yes. Fear often wears the mask of dignity, doesn’t it?”
“You must understand, of course. After such… loss, it’s only natural to be cautious. It’s not good to invite bad omens.”
Especially where the bad omen meant Evelyne herself.
“Of course. Though I’ve always found misfortune prefers silence. The more we name it, the more real we make it.”
The matron's eyes narrowed, lips tightening—but Evelyne continued.
“We all serve where we’re most comfortable. I only hope our words carry as much grace as our intentions.”
Lady Malren passed the veil along without a word.
When the veil completed its round and returned to her, Evelyne didn’t hesitate. She folded it once, neatly, the silver birds and stitched prayers vanishing beneath her fingers. She was supposed to agree—to the silver thread, to the pattern, to the tradition that made every royal veil look the same. It was only embroidery, after all.
But she couldn’t.
Because this was the same veil she had worn the day Dasmon died. The same thread. The same color. The same lie of purity and grace that had soaked red before the vows were even spoken.
Something hot pressed against her ribs, sharp and breathless. She straightened, fingers still on the folded silk.
“I’ve decided I don’t like this color of embroidery,” she said.
The silence that followed was exquisite. A spool of thread slipped from someone’s hand and hit the stone floor with a metallic clatter.
For a split second, the scent of lilies and blood flooded her senses. A bright smear on white silk. The carved silence in Dasmon’s mouth. Red spilling across the altar like an offering that had gone too far.
She rolled her shoulders, and it was gone—but not really.
The ladies hesitated—once, twice—as if struggling to decide whether they had just witnessed madness or possession.
Evelyne blinked once. Then again. Her lashes felt heavy, her vision just a little too sharp around the edges. She swallowed, but it caught halfway down, lodging behind her ribs. Her fingers eased from the teacup, but her hand trembled faintly as she reached for her napkin.
“Wearing silver didn’t protect the union last time,” she continued. “I think I’ll try red.”
As she spoke, her breath curled in the air. Faint and pale, as if drawn from a frostbitten morning.
But it wasn’t cold.
She blinked. For a moment, her focus narrowed on that small, strange puff of breath. It looked like a cold mist, but on her lips it felt warm.
That’s… odd, she thought, watching it fade.
Her mind reached instinctively for an explanation—draft or nerves. Anything ordinary. Logical.
But none of it quite fit.
She gave the smallest shake of her head, and stood up.
“You may start over,” Evelyne announced. “I also expect my future husband’s crest to be represented.”
She left it at that. Calm certainty wrapped in crimson suggestion. She hadn’t planned it. It had simply arrived, fully formed, from some deep, defiant place she didn’t yet have the name for.
Still, she turned and walked out, each step in rhythm with the scandal blooming in her wake. She sensed their judgment. Of course she did. But if they had already decided she was uncomfortable—why not be? She had outgrown the script. Today, she’d torn a page from it.
And she was, quite frankly, rather proud of herself.
