Chapter 15
“The loom always takes the brightest thread.”
Some afternoons had the nerve to pretend everything was fine.
This was one of them. The rustle of pages was the only sound in the garden as Evelyne read the Tale of the Singing Pearl.
Sunlight slanted through the carved lattice of the garden pavilion, scattering faint, dappled shadows across the stone table.
The roses bloomed too brightly, and the air felt borrowed from some softer kingdom.
Her gown, slate blue and neatly embroidered, gave the illusion of calm: square neckline, capped sleeves, a well-behaved empire waist.
The pastries beside her sat untouched, artfully arranged and utterly useless. A few strands of hair had pulled loose from their pins. She let them fall, everything else inside her head already was.
The book from Alaric was open, one palm covering the title. She’d read the same line three times. She still couldn’t tell what it said.
Because she couldn’t stop thinking about the sigil. It sat in her thoughts like a drop of ink in water, expanding slowly, staining everything around it.
The question, of course, was what now?
Who was she supposed to tell?
Isildeth would scold her for looking at a soldier’s report without permission. Her father would deny it. The Edrathen way of dealing with ghosts: pretend they had never been invited in.
And Alaric?
That earned a short, humorless laugh in the back of her throat. Yes. She could just imagine it— “My Prince, while we’re adjusting to marriage, might I trouble you with a half-buried conspiracy marked by a heretical sigil, tied to my last would-be husband’s murder?”
So. That left her.
She tried to make sense of it. Ravik had been involved in the investigation. Appointed as the royal family’s liaison. Maybe the inquiry wasn’t entirely closed. The Assembly’s official word meant nothing when it came to actual bureaucracy. Paperwork lasted years. But even so—why here? Why this?
Ravik wasn’t careless. And he wasn’t cruel. In her mind, he had always been the man who knew the most but revealed only what would keep the kingdom intact. So why did he leave the mark in plain sight?
The Maroon Slaughter had been classified exactly as: “Incident involving observable manifestations of prohibited arcane activity.”
Which, in the Assembly’s language, meant: we are not explaining this, and you are not asking.
So, she hadn’t asked. At least aloud. Until now.
Now the silence felt like complicity. Like something rotting beneath the floorboards of her life.
She rubbed her thumb along her wrist absently, half-expecting the red thread she no longer wore to be there.
Her solitude was interrupted by the soft rustling of skirts. Evelyne glanced up to find Isildeth approaching, a new maid trailing just behind her.
“Milady,” Isildeth greeted, dipping her head slightly, “I hope I am not disturbing you.”
Evelyne closed her book, letting her gaze linger on the girl behind Isildeth a moment longer. Time to go back to the present.
The same one from last night’s supper. She stood with hands folded, eyes downcast, posture as proper as a textbook.
“This is Vesena,” Isildeth continued, stepping aside so that the girl stood fully in view. “She will be accompanying you to Varantia and serving as your personal maid.”
Vesena lowered her head in a respectful bow. “It is an honor, Your Highness.” Her voice was soft with the distinct lilt of a southern accent.
Evelyne studied her for a moment, taking in the small details—the lack of nervous fidgeting, the calm way she held Evelyne’s gaze without overstepping propriety.
“You were chosen by the prince’s household?” Evelyne asked.
“Yes, milady,” Vesena confirmed. “I was trained under the high chamberlain.”
Evelyne turned to Isildeth, raising a brow slightly. “And what do you think?”
Isildeth’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. “She listens well and follows orders. She will serve you loyally.”
Evelyne inclined her head. “Then I suppose we will see how well we will both adapt, Vesena.”
Vesena did not waver. “I will not disappoint you, milady.”
Evelyne studied her a moment and gestured toward the opposite seat at the small stone table. “Sit. Join me for a meal.”
Vesena hesitated only a second before bowing her head. “As you wish, Your Highness.”
She moved toward the chair, seating herself carefully, hands folded in her lap. A servant appeared swiftly to place another set of utensils before Vesena, then retreated in silence.
Evelyne poured herself another cup of tea. “Tell me about Varantia,” she said, keeping her tone neutral. “Not the version I hear in diplomatic briefings. The truth.”
Vesena looked at her cup but hadn't touched it. “It’s different from here, Your Highness. Warmer, yes, but not just the weather. People talk more. Not to be rude, just… they don’t see silence the same way.
There’s sometimes music in the streets, arguments in the markets, neighbors who touch your arm when they speak. ”
Evelyne tilted her head slightly. “And the prince?”
Vesena’s lips curved slightly. “Prince Alaric is generally well regarded. He makes a point of being seen—walking among the people, speaking plainly. It’s something they seem to respect. The court holds him in regard. He is the sole heir, after all.”
Silence stretched between them. Evelyne reached for a piece of pastry, breaking it apart. The delicate flakes melted on her tongue.
“Tell me about the Emperor and Empress. What manner of people are they?”
Vesena paused for a moment before speaking. “Emperor Emrys values progress and knowledge, though his rule is not without opposition. Empress Aurevia is clever. She sees all, says little, and strikes when least expected. Her enemies underestimate her at their peril.”
“And where does Alaric stand between them?”
“He is his father’s son but with his mother’s instinct,” Vesena responded.
“And the people of Varantia? Are they content?”
Vesena hesitated a fraction before answering. “They are. But tensions grow, as they do everywhere.”
Evelyne nodded, and took a slow sip of her tea before setting the cup down. “And what of you, Vesena? Tell me, where do you come from?”
Vesena did not falter, though her fingers briefly tightened around the edge of her napkin.
“I was born in Varantia, though not in the capital. My family served the royal household for generations, but my upbringing was among the lesser courts. It was an honor, of course. But more than that, it was an expectation.”
“Your family—are they still in Varantia?”
“Yes, my lady. They remain in service to the court, though our paths do not often cross,” Vesena replied smoothly.
After a pause, she asked, “Why did you agree to serve me?”
Vesena’s expression didn’t waver. “Because I was trained for this.”
Evelyne’s fingers stilled over her cup. Two women molded by circumstance, shaped into roles neither had truly chosen. She would be watching Vesena closely. And Vesena, she suspected, would be watching her just as intently.
“You know why I ask these things, don’t you?”
“I do, milady,” Vesena replied, her tone smooth and measured. “You wish to understand the world you are walking into.”
“I do not enjoy being unprepared.”
“Nor should you.”
Evelyne studied her for a moment, biting the inside of her cheek.
Vesena sat so still it might have looked like passivity to someone else, but Evelyne could see it.
It was indeed training. Evelyne wondered if, from Vesena’s side of the table, she appeared the same way: composed, deliberate.
She doubted it. Her own composure was a mask of small, human gestures meant to distract from what lay beneath.
Vesena’s stillness, by contrast, seemed absolute.
“You speak carefully, Vesena. Have you always been this way?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I have learned that words, once spoken, cannot be taken back.”
Evelyne chuckled, shaking her head. “Clever. And yet, I wonder, if I asked you something truly difficult, would you answer me honestly?”
Vesena met her gaze squarely, dark eyes calm and sharp beneath the shade of the pavilion’s roof. “That would depend, Your Highness,” she explained, voice smooth and without apology, “on whether you wish for honesty or comfort.”
“I’ve never had much use for comfort.”
Vesena inclined her head. “Then you will always have honesty from me.”
A breeze stirred the air between them. Leaves rustled softly, and somewhere beyond the hedge, a bird trilled a phrase it had likely repeated a thousand times before.
Out of the corner of her eye, Evelyne spotted Isildeth, still standing at a respectable distance, her expression neutral. But Evelyne knew better. Isildeth didn’t miss things. She simply filed them away for later.
“I like you,” Evelyne admitted turning her attention back to Vesena. “You are honest. I appreciate that.”
Her eyes widened slightly before she lowered her head. “That is very kind of you, Your Highness.”
“It is not kindness,” Evelyne corrected. “It is simply the truth. I value a good atmosphere. If we are to spend much time together, I prefer we do not make it miserable.”
“Then I will do my best to make it enjoyable, milady.”
Evelyne broke off another piece of pastry, though she didn’t eat it this time.
“You’ve told me about the Emperor and Empress,” she mused lightly. “And about the prince. But no man lives in a palace alone. Who… surrounds him?”
Vesena’s gaze shifted, not to Evelyne, but to the garden itself. Her eyes flicked across the rose trellis, lingered a beat too long on the archway, then swept the path where the servants had vanished.
“At court,” Vesena began, voice measured, “the prince is rarely without company. His sister, Princess Lysandra, is much beloved—spirited and charming. Captain Gareth of the Varantian army is close as well. He has stood at the prince’s side since they were both too young for titles.”
Vesena hesitated. Her fingers, steady until now, smoothed the fold of her napkin once, twice. “There is also Evandir.”
Evelyne’s brow arched. “Evangir?”
“Evandir,” Vesena corrected. “Of House Calladrios. His family holds the Myceanos island in the emperor’s name. They are powerful.”
Evelyne lifted her cup and drank. “I see.”
The breeze stirred again, carrying the faint scent of roses.
Evelyne set her cup down and studied Vesena more closely and realized one thing with bitter certainty: she could not do this alone.
Not with eyes on her from every angle—court, her father’s allies, the priesthood, Alaric, the Grand Marshal, and whoever else had taken an interest in the wedding.
To be honest, she didn’t know exactly what she was meant to do—only that she would not sit idle.
“You mentioned you were trained,” Evelyne said at last. “I’ve read that in Varantia, personal servants are… different than here.”
“That is true, Your Highness. We are called Shadows. We tend to the duties of a servant, but our purpose is broader. We are taught to defend, to heal, to keep watch when our mistresses cannot. Potions, combat, vigilance. A shadow is both handmaid and shield.”
Evelyne studied the girl’s dark eyes, noting how they flicked once more to the garden paths before returning to her. “That sounds… interesting.”
Vesena shrugged. “Usefulness is our measure. My duty is also to keep my lady informed of all matters, great and small.”
Evelyne could not quite suppress the small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Remind me to always let you near the court gossip.”
Vesena’s smirk was mischievous. “I'm already on it, Your Highness.”
The warmth of it caught Evelyne off guard. Evelyne couldn’t decide yet if that steadiness made her more comfortable or less. What she did know was that it wasn’t useless.
Her eyes slipped to Vesena’s cup. “You haven’t touched your tea.”
Vesena stayed quiet for a moment, looking down at the porcelain. Evelyne wondered what she was thinking in that pause, what she was choosing not to say.
At last, Vesena followed her gaze, then met it again without flinching. “I prefer water.”