“She said no,” Cedric muttered, looking like a man who’d been swatted by a duchess and then told to apologize for it. “Respectfully.”
Alaric had nodded, offered a very princely “thank you,” and internally resigned himself to an afternoon of sulking and pretending not to sulk.
But then—miracle of miracles—Vesena had appeared ten minutes later, as composed as ever, and declared, “Her Highness has reconsidered. She would be amenable to a ride.”
Amenable.
Alaric wasn’t sure if he was supposed to feel triumphant or vaguely manipulated. He settled somewhere in the middle. Not that he had time to reflect on it. Evelyne appeared not long after near the stables, dressed in full riding attire—a fitted burgundy habit coat with silver buttons, a high-collared blouse, and a long split skirt. Polished boots disappeared beneath the hem, and her gloves gleamed faintly in the morning light. Her chin was lifted high enough to make a marble bust envious.
He was, regrettably, not proud of the way his stomach reacted to that.
They rode fast—Evelyne setting the pace in the sidesaddle. They rode, across the bridge rebuilt from salvaged stone, until the trees thinned, until the sound of hooves shifted from hard-packed trail to softer grass. Eventually, they reached the great beech tree that stood like a sentinel on the crest of the hill.
Below them, the land rolled out like a living map.
The town rested at the foot of the hill, rooftops gathered close like folded hands. Thin trails of smoke rose from the chimneys into the cool afternoon air. Beyond the streets, the lake caught the light in a pale shimmer, a lone willow at its heart movinggently in the breeze. To the left, the castle stretched along the horizon.
Alaric dismounted first, his boots landing softly in the grass. He made his way to Evelyne’s side and extended a hand.
She didn’t take it.
Instead, she lifted her chin to another impossible degree and dismounted herself. Alaric stepped back with a crooked smile.Gods, he thought,that infuriating sass of hers.
Behind them, Cedric and Vesena had begun setting out the contents of the basket—folding out a cloth, unwrapping parcels of cheese and fruit, pouring wine. The two Varantian guards and two Silverwards who had trailed behind dismounted at a polite distance, scanning the tree line.
They stood at the ridge, the wind tugging at her cloak, the distant ruins of the Ivory Bastion framed behind her like the ghost of another war.
She didn’t bother with the preamble.
“I assume you’ve already guessed,” she began, the wind tugged few strands of her hair free, “but I’ve had suspicions. About an... event. From last year.”
Alaric kept his silence, watching her the way a scholar might study a page written in disappearing ink—too much pressure and it would vanish, too little and the meaning would slip away.
Evelyne’s eyes slid to the guards, her gloved thumb pressed into her palm.
“There’s a sigil,” she confessed, voice steady but thin at the edges. “The one that was carved into Dasmon’s mouth when I found him dead. I saw it again, recently. In Ravik’s report.”
“What does it look like?”
She hesitated, then inclined her head just enough for him to catch the tightness in her jaw.
“Three lines,” she explained. “Inside a circle.”
Interesting. Another proof to his theory of pre-Sundering rituals buried under heretics’ cover.
“No one ever mentioned it after. Not once. They buried it—fast. And suddenly it was a tragedy. A senseless slaughter. Nothing more.” Her voice tightened. “But I remember what I saw.”
She drew a slow breath.
“There were small things. Things I remembered later. Two nights before the wedding, during a formal dinner, one of the guests was escorted out by three Assembly Eclipsants.”
She looked up, expression unreadable.
“But that’s not what stayed with me. What stayed with me was that on the day of the wedding, there were no Celestial Assembly present. Not one.”
Alaric’s brow furrowed. “The Assembly doesn’t miss an occasion to make a scene. The bigger the event, the greater the chance they’ll find someone to drag off.”
Evelyne nodded. “They’re always there. At royal ceremonies, state events, births—anything bound by oath. But that day, nothing.”
