She paused a heartbeat too long before replying, as if weighing her words, though really she was waiting for the pain to ease.
“That she did.”
“It will not always be a battle of wit and will,” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “There will be days when words are not enough. When silence will speak louder than anything you could say.”
“And what would you suggest I do on those days?”
“Listen. To him, to yourself. Even to what is left unsaid.”
“Did you listen to her?”
His expression turned wistful. “Not always. But when I did, I never regretted it.”
Evelyne hummed thoughtfully, rolling the delicate chain between her fingers. “I wish I could have learned from her.”
The king exhaled, his gaze steady as he studied his daughter. “You have more of her in you than you know.”
She forced a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes but passed inspection.
Her mind drifted, just for a moment, to her mother—Lady Serenya of Lysitha, land of fertile vineyards and turquoise shores, where the earth trembled and mountains sometimes split with fire. Her mother had been a daughter of beauty anddanger, with olive skin kissed by sun, dark hair like ink, and eyes that held storms. Evelyne, by comparison to most, was unmistakably Rhaedor’s child.
Finally, the king sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “You should sleep. You have much ahead of you.”
Evelyne nodded. “Thank you.”
He lingered, standing near the door, as if reluctant to leave just yet. He tilted his head slightly. “I have a feeling that everything will be fine,” he said at last. “And remember, yield where you must, but never lose your shape.”
Her gaze remained composed, but her fingers pressed against the fabric at her waist, seeking the heat beneath.
“Rest well, Evelyne.”
And with that, he turned and stepped through the door. It closed softly behind him, the click making the candlelight tremble.
Only then, when the silence settled, did she let herself wince and exhale. Her gaze drifted to the closed journal on the desk. She reached for the necklace, pressing it into her palm until the metal warmed against her skin—a small thread of belief left for her to carry forward.
The circle, and its waiting lines, remained.
***
She stood once more in the chapel at Calveran.
Everything was wrong, as it always was. The frozen glass bled light where there should have been shadow. Her veil dragged behind her like a snare, soaked through with red. It clung to her feet, to the stones, to her hands. Seeped up her skirts, soaking the embroidered hem, the silver shoes Isildeth had buckled that morning.
She moved forward anyway. She always did. The silence was too thick to speak through. She knew what waited at the altar.
Dasmon, pale and still, mouth split wide by that cruel, carved sigil.
Only this time, when she lifted her gaze, it wasn’t him.
It was Alaric.
His palms at his sides, fingers stained with ink. A bright silver thread was looped around his throat like a ribbon pulled too tight. Above him, the chapel ceiling cracked open to reveal two moons.
Her scream fractured the dream.
She bolted upright with a cry. Her nightgown clung to her back; she fell asleep on her desk. Her heart thundered in her chest. Louder, harder, like it might break through her ribs if she didn’t force it still.
She stumbled out of the chair, half-blind with dread, hands reaching for something—anything—to anchor her.
