Everything that happened in the past had its echo now. They were roots, curling into the present, cracking stone from underneath. If they investigate, then yes, it might save their necks. It might even uncover what happened last year. But more importantly, it might lead to the biggest truth, a part of a much larger pattern. A design threaded through time.
He had assumed, foolishly, that Edrathen was simply hiding the truth. But no. That was far too clumsy for them. They didn’t burn the evidence. They didn’t erase it.
Theyreinterpretedit.
They wrapped it in honorifics, painted it across their ceilings in soft golds and flowing robes, then whispered a gentler story into the ears of their children. LikeThe Rite of First Breath. Once a ritual of passing magic to humanity—clear, elemental, terrifying in its power—and now presented as a metaphor for harmony.
Hypocrisy, Alaric thought, at its most beautiful.
Evelyne’s expression didn’t shift much. But she nodded. Once.
“It’s all connected,” Alaric went on, voice softer now. “That’s obvious. It’s all hidden in plain sight. And if we do it right, we might still have time to figure out who started the fire before everything burns down.”
Her attention drifted far past the town, the lake, the wind-swept trees. Maybe even beyond the horizon itself.
The light caught her cheekbone, glancing over her skin just enough to make it unfair. Stars, she was beautiful. Not in the shallow, practiced way courtiers meant it, but in a way that demanded quiet. There were silver circles in her blue irises, like frost threading glass, and a single curl had always escaped hercoiffure, grazing the long line of her neck whenever the wind shifted. A small beauty mark rested just above her lip.
She was soft and strong in the same breath—shoulders held with discipline, mouth calm but never cold.
“I’m afraid,” she admitted pulling him back from his thoughts, eyes still fixed on the distance. “That someone I know was behind this.”
Alaric clenched his jaw.
To her, it wasn’t politics or duty. It was personal. And she had chosen to trust him with it. With a man with questions and a fixation he hadn’t fully untangled from his purpose.
He was hoping she might help him dig deeper into what lay beneath Edrathen’s polished silence. Into the stories no one told. But what mattered more now? Chasing his obsession? Or showing up for the woman who had bled history at his feet?
A future empress. His future wife. Not a mystery to solve. A person.
“I think everyone knew what happened that day,” she went on, “and played their part in hiding it. Even if none of them carved that symbol on Dasmon’s lips... they insulted him by pretending it meant nothing.”
She set her plate down on the blanket.
“I won’t let that memory rot,” she declared, still not looking at him. “Not his. Not mine. I won’t sleep until I’ve uncovered the truth. And once I have...”
A pause. Her jaw tightened slightly.
He felt it before she finished, the force behind her words. Her conviction landed like a hand on his shoulder.
“They’ll answer for it. Whatever it takes.”
She finally looked at him, and he saw it—conviction burning through the composure, steady and terrifyingly alive. It wasn’t duty speaking. It was her. And it left him breathless with the need to answer.
“Then I’ll help you find it.”
He met her eyes and didn’t look away. The weight of the moment pressed close, too close, and something in him resisted it. He cleared his throat, reaching for safer ground.
“So,” he said lightly. “Ravik, The High Preceptor. Did you analyze anyone else? The Assembly, or Calveran itself?”
Her head turned slowly, and when she looked at him, there was no trace of humor. Her gaze was sharp, unflinching.
“Yes. I suspected Varantia.”
“Oh, wonderful,” he winked. “Treason at breakfast. My favorite way to start the day.”
He nervously sipped his wine and she didn’t even blink.
“Okay. Very funny,” he muttered, forcing a smile. “Hilarious, really. Now seriously…”
