And truly, what was wrong with men these days? Was it so hard to understand that she didn’t want to hold hands or gallop through sunlit hills?Unbelievable.
Isildeth toddled over with the frantic energy of a hen discovering rain. Her hands fluttered before they found Evelyne’s shoulders, brushing imagined wrinkles from her dress.
“My lady, how are you feeling?” she whispered in a tone that suggested Evelyne might crumble at any moment. “The bleeding came earlier than usual—gods, it’s the stress of the wedding, I knew it. I told you not to drink that chilled lemonade—your poor insides.”
Evelyne blinked.
Before she could reply with something vaguely rational, Isildeth was moving.
“I’m fetching your tea. The strong one. You sit.”
And just like that,finally, Isildeth swept herself out of the chambers, muttering about herbs, gods, and irresponsible men who scheduled weddings during blood moons.
Evelyne didn’t move. Not for a breath. Then she very nearly facepalmed.
That was it. That’s what it took. A fabricated menstrual emergency. She could’ve skipped the tactical lies and simply mumbled “cramps” from the start.
Of course now, with the chamber blissfully free of well-meaning surveillance, Vesena was nowhere to be found. Gone to fetch the world’s most elusive embroidery kit.
Rhyssa, please, she thought, staring at the ceiling.A little divine intervention wouldn’t hurt.
And just as she let herself sink into a defeated spiral of poor timing—
The door creaked open. Vesena entered with the missing sewing kit in her arms and a look that could only be described as haunted.
Evelyne was on her feet before the door even shut behind her.
“There you are,” she called. “We need to talk.”
Vesena stepped inside and shut the door with a swiftness that told Evelyne she didn’t need to ask for discretion—it was already given. The latch clicked softly into place.
Evelyne crossed the chamber in three quick strides and pulled the curtains shut. The light dimmed, but she didn’t care.
“I need your help,” she began, turning back to Vesena. “It’s important. And it can’t leave this room.”
Vesena said nothing—only nodded once, approaching the window.
“I’ve been... making notes,” Evelyne admitted.
From beneath the false panel under the window, she drew out a small leather-bound journal. The cover was worn at the corners, the binding softened by use.
Her fingers hovered for a moment. She brushed her thumb once along the spine. For a heartbeat, she almost pulled it back. Then she exhaled and held it out, the weight of it leaving her palms like breath leaving her chest.
“About the… Maroon Slaughter.”
Vesena opened it without flinching, flipping through the first few pages. Her expression didn’t change, but her fingers stilled at the entry where Evelyne had drawn the symbol. Beneath it—notations, dates, names.
“The day you came I overheard a conversation. Between Ravik and the High Preceptor. At the beginning I thought I was just… misinterpreting it. But then the sigil—”
Evelyne paced.
“I saw it carved on Dasmon’s lips. No one mentioned it in the reports. It was dismissed. And few days ago, I found it in the margins of Ravik’s notes.”
She started to pace again, twisting her fingers.
“I don’t know what’s worse—that Ravik could help to cover it up, or that he may have started it. Or that the Preceptor knew all along and calls it a rite. Arite, Vesena. What does that mean?”
She took a step, breath quickened.
