Fine.
Fine.
He would remember this moment. She would pay. A knife ever so slightly dull. A pillow mysteriously missing its corner tassels.
Revenge, after all, was a dish best served mildly inconvenient.
Chapter 18
The hearth remained cold. So did the half-eaten supper Vesena had left on the tray. Evelyne had claimed fatigue to avoid the dinner, which wasn’t a lie.
She exhaled, sinking deeper into the chair as a dull ache began to pulse low in her abdomen, spreading slow and familiar. It wasn’t new; the pain came and went as it pleased, a private rhythm she had learned to endure. Lately, she had been fortunate—lighter episodes, fewer nights spent doubled over. But tonight, it caught up to her. The throb sharpened, and she pressed a hand against her stomach, stifling a quiet groan.
Isildeth hadn’t needed to ask. She had recognized it the moment Evelyne refused supper. Without a word, she had warmed a few smooth river stones, wrapped them in linen, and placed them on Evelyne’s lap. The heat now seeped slowly through the fabric, dulling the edge of the pain, grounding her in something she could at least hold.
But what she really needed was silence. Or distance. Or a very well-placed wall between herself and Prince Alaric of Varantia. For one unreasonable second, she resented him for arriving now, like a storm tide at the wrong moon. But as clever as he was, he couldn’t possibly know what lived beneath the surface.
The ache in her stomach deepened, pulsing with every thought she couldn’t voice. She gripped the armrest, her knuckles white against the dark wood. She wanted to rage, to shatter the stillness of this perfect, obedient life she’d been trained to perform. Instead, she sat—helpless, polite, composed—as always.
Her own body betrayed her too, twisting on its own rhythm, punishing her for every mask she’d worn. Sleep, memories and her own kin had turned against her.
She drew a slow breath, jaw tight.
She needed her journal. She needed ink and the steady comfort of structure—dates, times, impressions, what she’d seen, what she thought she’d seen. Anything to turn the storm in her mind into something she could fold neatly into a page. Maybe then it would make sense. Maybe then it would mean less.
“Do you think I offended him?” Evelyne asked after a moment, her voice low, half a sigh.
Isildeth didn’t look up from straightening the sheets. “I think he’ll survive. Men of Varantia rarely faint from being toldno.”
“I said what needed saying,” Evelyne murmured.
Vesena extinguished another candle. “If anything, it likely intrigued him more.”
Evelyne’s lips curved into a brief smirk—one that faltered as a sharp pang tightened her stomach. She drew a shallow breath.
A soft knock at the chamber door disrupted the quiet stillness of the evening. Vesena glanced toward her, awaiting instruction. Evelyne exhaled, smoothing the fabric of her nightgown before sitting up properly against the chair.
“Come in,” she called.
The door creaked open, and her father stepped inside. He wore his usual dark robes, the silver embroidery at the cuffs catching the low candlelight with a muted shimmer. For a moment, he stood there in silence, taking her in with that same unreadable expression he always wore—part calculation, part something she could never quite name.
Isildeth and Vesena lowered their heads respectfully before silently retreating from the chamber.
Evelyne studied him carefully. It was not often that her father visited her chambers at this hour. He was a man of routine, if he was here now, it was with purpose.
“May I sit?” he asked.
Evelyne inclined her head. “Of course.”
The warmth of the hidden stones pressed against her abdomen; she angled her body so the folds of her robe concealed them.
Rhaedor pulled the chair nearby and lowered himself into it.
“I heard about your walk with Prince Alaric.”
Evelyne’s fingers curled slightly against the silk of her robe. She had expected as much.
“I trust you already know everything,” she said carefully.
