Evelyne sat up slowly, sweat dampening the fine linen at her collar. Her hair clung to the back of her neck. The dream was unraveling, but the copper smell of dead lingered.
She pressed a trembling hand to her forehead.
No one dreams. Not since the Sundering. Not unless—
She didn’t finish the thought.
Her bare feet touched the stone floor. She crossed the room, wincing as her joints ached from too much stillness, too little sleep. Her fingers fumbled with the curtain ties, but the moment it gave way; a pale gold light poured into the chamber like a sigh of relief.
She unlatched the window and pushed it open with both hands. The breeze was cool and gentle, brushing against her skin. She braced her palms on the window frame and stared out.
Deep breath in. And out.
The morning was breathtaking, the kind of sunrise poets wasted ink on, and yet all Evelyne could think was:What an utterly lovely day to vanish into the mist like some tragic heroine.
A someris haze curled along the valley, clinging to the trees like a lingering dream not yet ready to fade. She had seen this view countless times from her highest chamber of the royal castle, but today, it felt different. Sharper in its beauty, more fragile in its transience.
Below, the lake shimmered, the small island at its center stood untouched, its ancient willow draped like a mourning veil over the water’s edge. The Heart of Vellesmere, they called it.
Closer to the castle, the dew-dappled gardens fanned symmetrically. The outer walls rose beyond them, dark stone glistening with mist, their watchtowers half-veiled by ivy. Smoke curled from the crooked chimneys of the village cottages below, and farther still, the old trade road wound through the misty hills.
And just past that—the Ivory Bastion.
Its bones jutted from the rock as though the land itself had tried to swallow it and failed. She read that it had floated once above the academy grounds. An arcane marvel from the Age of Aetherum, suspended midair by leyline anchors and willpower. But when the Sundering came and magic tore itself free of the world’s grasp, the Bastion had fallen straight to the ground. Much like other buildings in Edrathen. Now the ruin looked like it was still trying to remember how to hover.
It had crushed hundreds. Now no one entered. By decree.
A bowl of crushed stone sat on her windowsill. It was tradition, after all. To scatter it each morning beneath the panes, to lay a quiet barrier of protection. The same dust was tossed before weddings, births, coronations—any moment the gods might notice. But Evelyne hadn’t touched hers in over a year. Somewhere along the way, she had stopped believing that stone could hold back fate. Or that wax and ritual could undo whatever was already coming.
Her hair, long to her waist as tradition dictated, spilled over her shoulders in waves that caught the morning light, turning its usual shade of cool brown into something sun-kissed, nearly golden.
Today marked the end of one life and the beginning of another.
Again.
A year passed, and Evelyne stopped wearing the red thread on her wrist, though she kept it folded in a drawer. Outwardly, she had resumed her life, but the dreams by no means left her. They came without mercy, ending just before the chapel doors opened. Sometimes, they began after—blood on the floor, Dasmon’s mouth carved open in that perfect, permanent hush.
The first time it happened, a week after the Maroon Slaughter, she had woken certain she had been standing in that chapel again. She had never told a soul about it. Not Isildeth, though she noticed. Not her father, not even her mentor, Keeper Halwen.
She couldn’t dare to ask for a numbing tonic; the request itself would have been an admission. And so, she endured, night after night. Moved through the dreams the same way she drifted through her days: in silence.
After the Maroon Slaughter, letters were sent across the continent like playing cards: detailed sketches, bloodlines, dowries, fertility reports. None had called back. Not a single prince, duke, or merchant lord. She had been measured and found inconvenient.
Until Varantia responded.
Brave or foolish, that much was still to be determined. They surely had heard of the massacre. The whole Aeltheris had. But they had sent word anyway. Perhaps they didn’t believe in omens, or perhaps they simply didn’t care.
Or maybe, she thought as she pulled her blue robe on,they were desperate enough to take in the continent’s most scandalous bride.
Evelyne exhaled softly and let her gaze drift back into the room.
Muted gold wallpaper curled in delicate patterns across the walls. The hearth was cold now, its marble mantel lined withtrinkets: a silver clock, a porcelain deer. In nivalen, flames warmed the space; now, only the faint scent of ash remained. Books stacked neatly on her desk. Half-finished canvases waited in the corner.
Evelyne rose from the window seat. The stone floor was cool beneath her bare feet. Her wardrobe stood tall, full of heavy velvets in purple and wine, soon to be traded for the light silks of the south, where heat ruled everything.
A quiet knock broke her reverie. Evelyne turned just as the door creaked open, revealing her maid.
“My lady, you are already awake,” she said, stepping inside. “I had thought to wake you before sunrise.”
