Two myths stitched into formalwear.
“Let’s hope,” she said softly, “that if he has a falcon, it doesn’t bite.”
Thalen jolted to his feet. “I should go. I want to see him first. Boys can tell these things.”
Evelyne arched a brow. “What things?”
“If he’s good,” Thalen explained matter-of-factly. “If he’s brave. If he’ll love you.”
She swallowed a smile and gave him the look that always preceded duty. “You have breakfast first. Then lessons.”
He pursed his lips, caught between valor and porridge. After a moment of deep moral reckoning, he nodded gravely. “Yes. You’re right.” He paused, already halfway to the door, and turned back. “Let’s go, Evie.”
Her throat tightened at the sound of that name. She didn’t trust her voice, so she smiled, rising with him. For a moment, her hand hovered midair, uncertain. She did not reach for Thalen the way she once might have. Instead, her fingers curled in on themselves.
She watched him dash ahead, his little boots thudding against the stone, capelet flaring behind him as if he was off to slay dragons. A boy pretending to be a king.
Chapter 4
By the time Evelyne reached the dining hall, the morning sun had fully risen, spilling gold through the tall windows and across the long wooden table set for four. Iron chandeliers hung from heavy chains above, their light glinting off frescoes of armored figures marching through snow—a relic from before the Sundering, when artists still painted without crown or creed dictating their hands.
Now it was permitted solely in elite salons or within religious settings. Evelyne was fortunate enough to be allowed her paints at all, but even then, her work had to pass through polite supervision.
Servants stood in quiet rows along the walls, dressed in grey with red trim. The scent of fresh bread, honey, and tea lingered in the air. A familiar comfort in an otherwise unfamiliar morning.
Her father was already seated at the head of the table. His posture was straight; fingers curled around a steaming cup. The morning light caught the silver crown atop his tawny red-blond hair, Thalen’s exact shade, and made the faint lines of age across his face seem more etched. He wore full royal robes in crimson and silver. His blue irises flicked up to her the moment she entered, sharp and unreadable.
To his right sat her brother, swinging his legs beneath the table with all the unearned confidence of a ten-year-old prince who believed himself ready to command battalions. Beside him, Ysara brushed a few stray crumbs from his sleeve with quiet patience. The delicate blonde lifted her gaze as Evelyne entered, offering a nod and a kind smile.
“You are earlier than usual, my daughter,” her father remarked.
Evelyne inclined her head slightly as she took her seat on the left side of the table. “I found little reason to linger in my chambers.”
A servant approached, setting a plate before her with soft bread, a boiled egg, thinly sliced fruits, and honey. She picked up her spoon, stirring her tea, watching the ripples form on the surface.
Her father observed her for a heartbeat longer with a thoughtful expression. “It will be a long day.”
She lifted her gaze to his. “Has the prince reached Vellesmere?”
Her father exhaled slowly. “Not yet. His retinue met trouble in the Crownspire Range. He’s expected by nightfall.”
Thalen’s head shot up from his plate so fast the spoon clattered. “That late?”
Ysara reached for his wrist across the table. “Thalen your sleeve—don’t wipe jam on it again, please.” She dabbed lightly at the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin. “You’re a prince. Princes eat with clean hands and cleaner sleeves.”
“Can I stand with the guards at the gate?” Thalen pressed, wriggling free and twisting in his seat to look at Evelyne with wide, eager eyes. “I’ll behave, I promise.”
Evelyne smiled into her cup. The tea was aromatic, herbal, and bitter. Just as she liked. “He’s not here for a tournament, Thalen.”
Ysara added gently, “You may go with your sister to the Veiling ceremony.”
“No,” he huffed, slumping. “I don’t want to just sit around with the boring girls talking aboutembroidery.”
Her brows drew together. “Careful, little brother. One of those ‘boring girls’ is a future empress.”
Thalen flashed a grin, utterly unbothered. “You don’t count.”
She fought a chuckle. “Flattering.”
