They were back in Evelyne’s chambers. The candles, untouched since morning, had burned low and cast a golden, almost sickly light across the walls. Shadows gathered in the corners, still and thick. Isildeth had excused herself to fetch a fresh gown, leaving the room in a hush that felt heavier than quiet. Vesena sat opposite her with her hands neatly folded. When she spoke again, her tone was calm, far too calm to be comforting.
“There was another massacre. A similar one. Two years ago—the same month. Everyone was found dead.”
Evelyne braced the chair arm. “Where?”
“Zharesh.” Vesena's gaze didn’t waver. “I found a single report signed by Ravik. It came as a disposition from the unit on your shared border.”
Zharesh. That dry, sunburnt jewel, where trade came on caravans and stories on the wind. She had visited it once, long ago. The markets had smelled of citrus and spices, with Sandtellers louder than wind.
This had never come up over any of their meals. But then again—why would it? Just because her father spoke sometimes about state matters didn’t mean he said everything. There was no rule that said he had to. No reason she could be certain he hadn’t kept things to himself.
“What happened?” she asked.
“The report doesn’t say—just that an entire village was found dead. The single detail noted is that the village lay near the Buried City.”
The Buried City. One of Zharesh’s Old Bones. Like Edrathen’s Fallen Keeps, but more haunted. the Sundering broke the magic, the sand-built cities fell apart. Thousands died as their homes dissolved into dust under the desert. No one went near it anymore, not unless they wanted to disappear. Officially, the place was cursed. Unofficially, it was a cemetery. It could be a pattern but yet Palace of Binding wasn’t in any shape a part of Old Bones. Nothing made sense, yet everything fit.
“Any symbols mentioned?” Evelyne asked, tone clipped.
“None.” Vesena’s brows drew together. “Nothing specific.”
Evelyne looked away, fixing her gaze on the stone window arch, half-expecting a breeze. There wasn’t one. Just the stillness of a room holding its breath.
Two massacres, same month, a year apart.
One is a tragedy. Two is a pattern. And a third...?
Her skin went cold.
She needed to find out the truth. Quietly. Before the wedding. Before anyone else paid for politics with their life. If Varantia would cancel the wedding, so be it. And as much as Alaric tried her patience, she didn’t want him dead. No one deserved to die for this.
One candle flickered on the desk; its wax having melted into a golden puddle. Evelyne crossed her arms, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. There was a tiny fissure in everything she had been raised to be: loyal, precise, controlled.
Vesena’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying her. “Do you need something, Your Highness?” she asked quietly. “Shall I call Isildeth?”
Evelyne shook her head. “No.” Her voice came out weaker than she intended. “Stay.”
Aa knock cut through the silence first. Two sharp raps. Precise.
Evelyne went still, but Vesena was already on her feet. She opened the door to find footman George waiting on the other side, his expression grave and unreadable.
“Your Highness,” he greeted, eyes dropping respectfully. “I was instructed to deliver this by hand.”
He extended a sealed envelope—thick cream stock, red wax unbroken, pressed with the seal of the Royal Council. Vesena accepted it with a nod and passed it to Evelyne. She took a few cautious steps forward and accepted the envelope. The footman bowed again.
The door closed. Silence poured back in.
Evelyne stared at the envelope, its weight absurd in her hand. She opened it. One line inside:
Your Highness,
You are requested at the next Council session. Attendance expected.
— High Chancellor.
The blood drained from her fingers until the parchment felt slick; no woman was ever permitted to set foot in that chamber. The very architecture of Vellesmere proclaimed it.
They knew.
