Chapter 3
She woke with the taste of memory in her mouth. It wasn't real; she knew that, but her tongue still curled as if to spit something out, and her fingers clawed instinctively at the sheets, the embroidered coverlet tangled around her legs. The curtains in her chambers were still drawn.
Evelyne sat up slowly, sweat dampening the fine linen at her collar. Her hair clung to the back of her neck. The dream was unraveling, but the copper smell of dead lingered.
She pressed a trembling hand to her forehead.
No one dreams. Not since the Sundering. Not unless—
She didn’t finish the thought.
Her bare feet touched the stone floor. She crossed the room, wincing as her joints ached from too much stillness, too little sleep. Her fingers fumbled with the curtain ties, but the moment it gave way; a pale gold light poured into the chamber like a sigh of relief.
She unlatched the window and pushed it open with both hands. The breeze was cool and gentle, brushing against her skin. She braced her palms on the window frame and stared out.
Deep breath in. And out.
The morning was breathtaking, the kind of sunrise poets wasted ink on, and yet all Evelyne could think was: What an utterly lovely day to vanish into the mist like some tragic heroine.
A someris haze curled along the valley, clinging to the trees like a lingering dream not yet ready to fade. She had seen this view countless times from her highest chamber of the royal castle, but today, it felt different. Sharper in its beauty, more fragile in its transience.
Below, the lake shimmered, the small island at its center stood untouched, its ancient willow draped like a mourning veil over the water’s edge. The Heart of Vellesmere, they called it.
Closer to the castle, the dew-dappled gardens fanned symmetrically.
The outer walls rose beyond them, dark stone glistening with mist, their watchtowers half-veiled by ivy.
Smoke curled from the crooked chimneys of the village cottages below, and farther still, the old trade road wound through the misty hills.
And just past that—the Ivory Bastion.
Its bones jutted from the rock as though the land itself had tried to swallow it and failed.
She read that it had floated once above the academy grounds.
An arcane marvel from the Age of Aetherum, suspended midair by leyline anchors and willpower.
But when the Sundering came and magic tore itself free of the world’s grasp, the Bastion had fallen straight to the ground.
Much like other buildings in Edrathen. Now the ruin looked like it was still trying to remember how to hover.
It had crushed hundreds. Now no one entered. By decree.
A bowl of crushed stone sat on her windowsill.
It was tradition, after all. To scatter it each morning beneath the panes, to lay a quiet barrier of protection.
The same dust was tossed before weddings, births, coronations—any moment the gods might notice.
But Evelyne hadn’t touched hers in over a year.
Somewhere along the way, she had stopped believing that stone could hold back fate.
Or that wax and ritual could undo whatever was already coming.
Her hair, long to her waist as tradition dictated, spilled over her shoulders in waves that caught the morning light, turning its usual shade of cool brown into something sun-kissed, nearly golden.
Today marked the end of one life and the beginning of another.
Again.
A year passed, and Evelyne stopped wearing the red thread on her wrist, though she kept it folded in a drawer.
Outwardly, she had resumed her life, but the dreams by no means left her.
They came without mercy, ending just before the chapel doors opened.
Sometimes, they began after—blood on the floor, Dasmon’s mouth carved open in that perfect, permanent hush.
The first time it happened, a week after the Maroon Slaughter, she had woken certain she had been standing in that chapel again. She had never told a soul about it. Not Isildeth, though she noticed. Not her father, not even her mentor, Keeper Halwen.
She couldn’t dare to ask for a numbing tonic; the request itself would have been an admission. And so, she endured, night after night. Moved through the dreams the same way she drifted through her days: in silence.
After the Maroon Slaughter, letters were sent across the continent like playing cards: detailed sketches, bloodlines, dowries, fertility reports. None had called back. Not a single prince, duke, or merchant lord. She had been measured and found inconvenient.
Until Varantia responded.
Brave or foolish, that much was still to be determined. They surely had heard of the massacre. The whole Aeltheris had. But they had sent word anyway. Perhaps they didn’t believe in omens, or perhaps they simply didn’t care.
Or maybe, she thought as she pulled her blue robe on, they were desperate enough to take in the continent’s most scandalous bride.
Evelyne exhaled softly and let her gaze drift back into the room.
Muted gold wallpaper curled in delicate patterns across the walls.
The hearth was cold now, its marble mantel lined with trinkets: a silver clock, a porcelain deer.
In nivalen, flames warmed the space; now, only the faint scent of ash remained.
Books stacked neatly on her desk. Half-finished canvases waited in the corner.
Evelyne rose from the window seat. The stone floor was cool beneath her bare feet. Her wardrobe stood tall, full of heavy velvets in purple and wine, soon to be traded for the light silks of the south, where heat ruled everything.
A quiet knock broke her reverie. Evelyne turned just as the door creaked open, revealing her maid.
“My lady, you are already awake,” she said, stepping inside. “I had thought to wake you before sunrise.”
Isildeth moved with the calm precision of someone who had served courts longer than most nobles had lived, though a slight limp marked each step.
Evelyne smoothed her expression before turning to face her. “It seems sleep has abandoned me early today.”
Isildeth’s gaze flickered toward the open window, before returning to her. “It is understandable. The day ahead will be long.”
Evelyne nodded. “Then we should begin.”
Isildeth prepared the bath, and helped Evelyne out of her nightgown without a word. The only sound was water and birdsong from the open window. After, the maid helped her dry off and smoothed lavender oil onto her skin.
Evelyne braced against the back of her chair, staring at her reflection.
The dark circles beneath her eyes had settled in like old tenants.
Behind her, Isildeth tugged the corset into place.
Evelyne winced once when the fabric pinched.
The fit was never forgiving on her frame, soft where dresses preferred angles.
Today’s empire waist gown was in ash grey velvet, embroidered with silver vines. The neckline dipped just enough to reveal the hollow of her collarbone, and the short sleeves left the tops of her shoulders bare.
She sat at her vanity and angled toward the mirror, watching as Isildeth began to arrange her hair. Evelyne picked up a small dish of pins, passing them up one by one as Isildeth worked.
Long, unpinned waves were a symbol of youth and maidenhood. When a lady came of age, it was permitted to be seen only by a woman’s husband, parents, or her most trusted maid.
Isildeth’s fingertips lingered at the nape of Evelyne’s neck. As usual, she left one long curl unpinned, styling it softly between her fingers. The lock rested just where Evelyne’s shoulder met her collarbone.
Evelyne passed Isildeth another pin, but the maid hesitated, catching Evelyne’s gaze in the reflection.
“My lady,” she asked gently, “how are you truly?”
Evelyne met her eyes in the mirror. The answer came easily, practiced. “I am fine.”
Fine. The favorite lie of women who'd trained too long in ceremony. And the most hated one.
Isildeth did not look away, her expression knowing. “Are you?”
For a moment, Evelyne said nothing, her palms curled in her lap, a small movement, but telling.
“I do not know him,” she admitted at last.
Isildeth nodded slightly. “No. But perhaps, in time, you might.”
Evelyne regarded her own reflection. “And if I do not?”
There was a pause, a beat of silence so thin it could have disappeared unnoticed, but it lingered.
“Then you will endure,” the maid replied. “As you always have.”
Evelyne hummed in response. Isildeth was unfailingly warm in a way that never smothered, honest without cruelty, gentle without coddling.
She had never tried to shield Evelyne from the realities of the world.
Evelyne appreciated that about her. Just as she appreciated that they not ever spoke of what had happened a year ago.
Some things lived outside the reach of language—too tangled in silence to be captured by conversation.
And she was right. If her husband proved distant, if she never truly came to know him, she would endure.
Hope was a fragile, traitorous thing. Too much like glass to hold tightly.
She’d once reached for connection with open hands and woken to blood in her veil.
Tonight, she was engaged. Tomorrow she might be mourning again.
So, she put gloves on, fan in hand, curtain up.
Evelyne exhaled slowly. “Yes,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone. “I suppose I will.”
The door slammed open.
“Evie!”
Thalen barreled into the chambers like a cannonball wearing polished boots. Technically, he wasn’t allowed to. Decorum forbade unannounced entries, even from charming princelings, but everyone let him. It was hard to discipline a child who made rules feel as suggestions.
Evelyne turned on her bench with a soft smile forming. “Storming the lady’s chambers again, are we?”
Thalen grinned, all mischief and freckles. “I wanted to say good morning.”