“I’m afraid I’m not headed south,” Alaric said smoothly. “And I have a terrible sense of direction. I might get lost and never find my way back.”
The Grand Marshal did not smile.
Alaric took one last glance down the hall. “I’ll see you at the council, Marshal. I heard it’ll be quite the event.”
And then, without waiting for permission or protest, he walked away, with Cedric at his side.
Chapter 30
The council chamber was colder than she imagined.
Evelyne stood inside the arched doorway, her hands folded too neatly in front of her, and tried not to fidget. It should have felt like a victory. But victories didn’t usually come with knots in the stomach and the weight of being the first. She’d barely slept the night before, too many thoughts crowding the corners of her mind: the sigil, the chapel, patterns. No progress. No answers. Just rituals and reports and the endless spiral of feeling watched.
And now, she was about to be publicly scolded—or something worse. She didn’t know. If they truly knew she’d been asking questions, they wouldn’t drag her into a chamber for a lecture. They’d deal with her quietly.
She was sweating through her dress, pulse a shade too fast, fingers twitching beneath their careful pose but fidgeting was a privilege she couldn’t afford.
She didn’t know where to sit.
The table was long, carved from dark pine, lacquered until it gleamed like obsidian in the lamplight. The high-backed chairs were evenly spaced, save for one larger at the head, reserved for her father.
The door opened behind her. A soft footfall, unhurried. She turned—and Alaric’s gaze found her at once.
“Princess,” he greeted, dipping his head, “I’d ask if you come here often, but I suspect that would make this more awkward than it already is.”
Evelyne arched a brow, she hadn’t spoken to him since the infamous picnic. “Your Highness,” she returned. “If this is your idea of charm before council meetings, I’m beginning to understand Varantia’s reputation.”
He feigned a wince. “Ouch. Not even a good morning?”
“It stopped being good the moment you entered,” she replied.
He gave a low chuckle and took the empty space beside her, standing in companionable silence. She straightened instinctively, smoothing her skirts even though they didn’t need it.
He didn’t say anything. Just stood beside her.
He looked relaxed, like he had all the time in the world. There wasn’t a trace of surprise on his face when he saw her standing there, as if he’d expected it all along. She, on the other hand, felt like a violin string pulled just shy of breaking.
Slowly, the room began to fill. The High Chancellor entered first, his expression unreadable beneath a finely trimmed beard and a chain that looked like it had been forged from his ego. Then Lord Justiciar, who gave her a curt nod that might have been polite if you squinted. The Master of Coin followed, muttering something under his breath about tariffs and temple repairs. And then The High Preceptor.
His robes swept behind him, every inch of him unyielding. His eyes met hers and Alaric’s. Evelyne’s shoulders stiffened.
Then her father arrived.
The King said nothing as he took his place at the head of the table. The chamber quieted at once. The great door closed with a weighty finality.
“Let us begin,” he said. “Daughter. Sit on my left.”
Her gown brushed softly across the polished floor. She gave the Master of Coin a single nod in passing and caught the faint, startled inhale he tried to hide as she moved toward her seat.
Alaric took the seat opposite, at the King’s right hand.
One chair remained conspicuously empty—Ravik’s.
Evelyne kept her face composed, eyes forward, though her thoughts tightened.Where was he?
Chairs scraped as the council settled. The High Chancellor, a gaunt man with ink-stained fingers and a voice like dry parchment, handed out reports with practiced precision. A folded packet slid before Evelyne. She broke the seal with trembling fingers.
Wedding logistics. Costs. Routes. Staffing. The architecture of alliance laid out in ink and margins.
