Chapter 4
By the time Evelyne reached the dining hall, the morning sun had fully risen, spilling gold through the tall windows and across the long wooden table set for four.
Iron chandeliers hung from heavy chains above, their light glinting off frescoes of armored figures marching through snow—a relic from before the Sundering, when artists still painted without crown or creed dictating their hands.
Now it was permitted solely in elite salons or within religious settings. Evelyne was fortunate enough to be allowed her paints at all, but even then, her work had to pass through polite supervision.
Servants stood in quiet rows along the walls, dressed in grey with red trim. The scent of fresh bread, honey, and tea lingered in the air. A familiar comfort in an otherwise unfamiliar morning.
Her father was already seated at the head of the table.
His posture was straight; fingers curled around a steaming cup.
The morning light caught the silver crown atop his tawny red-blond hair, Thalen’s exact shade, and made the faint lines of age across his face seem more etched.
He wore full royal robes in crimson and silver.
His blue irises flicked up to her the moment she entered, sharp and unreadable.
To his right sat her brother, swinging his legs beneath the table with all the unearned confidence of a ten-year-old prince who believed himself ready to command battalions.
Beside him, Ysara brushed a few stray crumbs from his sleeve with quiet patience.
The delicate blonde lifted her gaze as Evelyne entered, offering a nod and a kind smile.
“You are earlier than usual, my daughter,” her father remarked.
Evelyne inclined her head slightly as she took her seat on the left side of the table. “I found little reason to linger in my chambers.”
A servant approached, setting a plate before her with soft bread, a boiled egg, thinly sliced fruits, and honey. She picked up her spoon, stirring her tea, watching the ripples form on the surface.
Her father observed her for a heartbeat longer with a thoughtful expression. “It will be a long day.”
She lifted her gaze to his. “Has the prince reached Vellesmere?”
Her father exhaled slowly. “Not yet. His retinue met trouble in the Crownspire Range. He’s expected by nightfall.”
Thalen’s head shot up from his plate so fast the spoon clattered. “That late?”
Ysara reached for his wrist across the table. “Thalen your sleeve—don’t wipe jam on it again, please.” She dabbed lightly at the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin. “You’re a prince. Princes eat with clean hands and cleaner sleeves.”
“Can I stand with the guards at the gate?” Thalen pressed, wriggling free and twisting in his seat to look at Evelyne with wide, eager eyes. “I’ll behave, I promise.”
Evelyne smiled into her cup. The tea was aromatic, herbal, and bitter. Just as she liked. “He’s not here for a tournament, Thalen.”
Ysara added gently, “You may go with your sister to the Veiling ceremony.”
“No,” he huffed, slumping. “I don’t want to just sit around with the boring girls talking about embroidery.”
Her brows drew together. “Careful, little brother. One of those ‘boring girls’ is a future empress.”
Thalen flashed a grin, utterly unbothered. “You don’t count.”
She fought a chuckle. “Flattering.”
Ysara gave a soft laugh, cracking the top of her egg and spooning it carefully from the silver cup. “Girls can be fun too. They just talk about different things.”
He wrinkled his nose, unconvinced. “Like what?”
Ysara exchanged a fond glance with Evelyne. “We’re better at keeping secrets and noticing things. And we don’t tend to tackle each other at the dinner table.”
“I know, Mother,” Thalen muttered, “I just… I want to learn how to fight.”
“And when the prince arrives, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunities. But you’ll still remember your courtesies.”
“I will,” he quipped, chin up. “But if he’s boring, I’m not sharing my almonds in sugar.”
Evelyne raised a brow, spreading the dark jam thinly over bread. “That seems fair. I wouldn’t either.”
He grinned at that.
Ysara returned to her tea with a smile that was soft at the edges.
Evelyne watched her for a beat. They were not close.
Not for lack of effort, Ysara had tried, in her gentle way.
But she was only eight years Evelyne’s senior, more like a careful older sister forced into the role of a second mother.
Evelyne liked her, but she did not confide in her.
Not about the dreams, or the tightening in her chest as the wedding approached.
“You’ll meet the prince at the official supper,” Rhaedor murmured at last, the words clipped but not unkind. “Lessons first. You’ll learn to fight when you’ll be able to hold a proper iron sword.”
“Yes, Father,” Thalen mumbled, looking at his plate.
Rhaedor turned to her, “Evelyne, you’ll greet him at the gates.”
“Of course.”
She ate in silence, her mind drifting as it often did these days. A month ago, her father had told her of the arrangement, in much the same way he told her of any important matter: directly, without unnecessary embellishment.
She had thought about it since. The south did not seem a terrible place to go. Varantia was said to be breathtaking in all seasons, and the palace in Solmara was one of the most beautiful on the continent. And there she would not be merely a wife. She would become an empress.
Empress.
The word was heavy and foreign, as if someone had handed her a crown meant for another head. She hadn’t been raised for rule. She had been prepared to be a wife. She had learned diplomacy as performance, not governance. Now, all at once, that performance would have consequences.
And so, she studied. Over the past month, she poured herself into Varantia’s laws and histories, its turbulent border conflicts, its habits of debate. She had studied the customs of its people, how they greeted one another, how they mourned and how they moved on.
And Prince Alaric…
She tore a piece of bread and dabbed it into the honey, careful not to drip on her sleeve.
Evelyne had heard of him, of course. Eldest child of Emperor Emrys and Empress Aurevia. A scholar at heart. Beyond that, she knew little.
The royal family of Varantia would not be attending.
Just Alaric. The official explanation was distance, health and political obligations.
But Evelyne doubted it was the only reason.
After all, what monarch in their right mind would accompany their son to marry a woman known across the continent as the Cursed Bride?
Perhaps Alaric had been sent alone to spare them from potential scandal. Or perhaps—if he didn’t matter to them—he had been sent as a willing sacrifice. Or maybe they simply didn’t believe in curses.
Across the table, Thalen dropped his spoon with a satisfied clang and announced, “I’m full.”
Ysara offered a quiet smile. “Then you can thank the cook and go to the lessons.”
“I already thanked the cook,” he noted, sliding off his chair before his nursemaid appeared in the doorway. She gave everyone a quick bow before shepherding the future heir out.
Ysara rose, smoothing her skirts. “I’ll walk him to his lessons.”
Rhaedor inclined his head, and she returned it with a hesitant nod before leaving. The door clicked softly behind her.
A servant slipped in at once, refilling their cups before retreating in silence. Rhaedor watched the steam rise from his tea, then shifted the spoon aside with the edge of his thumb.
“I’ve been thinking about your marriage, my daughter. Varantia is not Edrathen.”
She looked up, watching him closely.
“No, it is not,” she agreed carefully.
“They do not govern as we do. You will rule with him. As equal.”
“That’s true.”
He studied her.
“But you didn’t have much of an example of how a woman rules.”
She pressed the tines of her fork into a slice of pear, its juice slicking the silver. “I have watched you my entire life.”
His jaw set. “Maybe yes. Maybe not. They will know where you come from, who you are, and they will test you.”
Word had traveled fast—blood had a way of staining beyond borders, especially when spilled in such vast quantities. It didn’t matter that she walk into the chapel like any obedient daughter would. People needed symbols more than facts, and Evelyne had become one.
Funny, in a bitter way, how one moment she hadn't caused, had the power to reshape her entire existence. You witness horror once, and suddenly it follows you. Like a stain everyone stares at.
Evelyne reached for a slice of bread when a sound echoed faintly in the hall. Footsteps, too sharp on the stone, and instantly her shoulders twitched before she could stop it.
The chapel. The blood. The silence so thick it howled. It surged up like a wave inside her chest. She smoothed her palms against her skirts, pretending to fix a crease that wasn’t there.
Her mind knew how to contain it. Knew how to measure breath and control expression. But her body was less obedient. And she hated that.
But still, she curved her lips. “I expect as much.”
“You have many talents. Use them. Do not let them talk over you.”
A small smirk flickered across her lips just to cover the tremble. “That would be difficult, considering I once debated Lord Wenthall into an early retirement.”
Her father gave a rare, brief chuckle. “That poor man. He only wanted to teach you the finer points of historical rhetoric.”
“He shouldn’t have lost his composure,” she mused, sipping her tea. “He told me debating was about patience, turned gray overnight and swore never to tutor me again.”
Rhaedor shook his head. “Don't make them fear you. Make them respect you.”
“I understand.”
His gaze fixed, cool and deliberate. “Good.”
It was the closest thing to a blessing he had ever given.