Chapter 24
Evelyne had spent the entire morning attempting, with increasing creativity, to rid herself of Isildeth.
It started innocently enough. A sudden craving—something sweet, perhaps. “A tart strawberry pastry,” she wondered aloud, all innocence and wistful indulgence. “It might be my last chance.”
Isildeth had blinked once, nodded with stately gravity, and promptly sent Vesena to the kitchens.
After that, she tried again, each attempt met the same fate: Isildeth, perfectly serene, redirecting Vesena with the quiet efficiency of a general commanding a private army.
“Let the young ones do the running,” she’d say with a wave of one aged, capable hand.
“I’ve served long enough to earn stillness. ”
Evelyne resisted the urge to throw a pillow at her.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love Isildeth. She did. The older woman had brushed her hair, bandaged her scraped knees, and scolded her into proper posture more times than she could count.
But right now, she needed her to leave.
Just for a few minutes. Just long enough to speak to Vesena. Alone.
She didn’t even know exactly why she needed to speak with her.
Maybe it was because she wasn’t Isildeth—who, for all her loyalty, would lock the doors and tell Evelyne to sleep off her nerves.
Or maybe it was just a feeling. A sense that Vesena would understand. That she would listen.
Because something was brewing beneath the surface of her world, and she had the growing sense that Vesena knew how to help her name it. And right now, the person who had tucked her into bed for over two decades was the single greatest obstacle to her political subterfuge.
It happened during the fifth errand.
Poor Vesena had just been sent off in search of an embroidery kit Evelyne knew had been packed into one of the departure trunks. The look she’d given Evelyne on the way out promised a future full of mysteriously overstepped tea.
Evelyne didn’t blame her.
She had barely settled back into her chair when a knock echoed against the chamber doors. Isildeth glided to open it.
It was Alaric’s servant. The man bowed as he stepped inside, staying near the door.
Evelyne stood up, adjusting her expression into something appropriately neutral.
“Your Highness,” he intoned, “My name is Cedric, I’m Prince Alaric's personal servant. His Highness sends his regards and his particular admiration for today’s weather. He thought it might be an ideal time for a ride.”
Evelyne opened her mouth to respond, only to find her mind... uncooperative. She didn’t want to be rude, but she truly did not have the bandwidth for Alaric’s sun-soaked optimism, not when her own world felt steeped in fog.
“I—” she started, then faltered.
She could feel Isildeth watching her from the corner of the room. One eyebrow arched with polite interest. Her look said, Say yes. Be lovely. Do the thing.
But her chest was too tight, and her thoughts too loud.
Evelyne returned the smile. “Cedric, please tell him I’m occupied. I have… things to prepare before the wedding.”
Cedric didn’t budge. “Of course, but it won’t be a long ride. A short loop through the orchard paths. Just enough to enjoy the sun.”
“I’m not dressed for it.”
“We could delay fifteen minutes. I’ll ask the stablehands to make it slow-paced.”
“I haven’t eaten.”
“There’s a packed basket.”
Evelyne’s eyelid twitched. Was he trying to wear her down? Had Alaric put him up to this or was he simply taking initiative in the world’s most irritating way?
“I’m truly busy,” she declined again.
Cedric’s smile was starting to look slightly tight at the corners, like someone delivering a performance they didn’t quite believe in. “Forgive me, Princess, but His Highness seemed rather hopeful. And... well, if I may speak plainly he thought a little air might do you good.”
That’s it, Evelyne thought. I am being handled.
“I am not some old book in a damp library,” she snapped, resting her hands on her hips. “I don’t require airing out.”
Cedric had the audacity to look sympathetic. “Your Highness—”
She cut him off, breath rising, the pressure of the past few days bubbling at her throat. “I said no. I am visited by the month's tide.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them. Ridiculous, she knew—weaponizing etiquette and biology in one mortifying blow—but if it made him retreat, so be it.
The silence that followed was instant and heavy. Even Isildeth, halfway through straightening the edge of a curtain, paused.
Cedric’s jaw dropped. “Oh. I—understand. Please forgive me, Your Highness.”
She could see the awkward shuffle start in his shoulders, the desire to vanish politely clawing at him. She felt almost sorry for him, but he had asked for it.
“I’ll inform His Highness.”
He gave a shallow bow, all grace in retreat. The moment the door shut behind him, Evelyne let herself sink back into her chair.
She hadn’t meant to lie. Not quite. She was indisposed. With everything.
And truly, what was wrong with men these days? Was it so hard to understand that she didn’t want to hold hands or gallop through sunlit hills? Unbelievable.
Isildeth toddled over with the frantic energy of a hen discovering rain. Her hands fluttered before they found Evelyne’s shoulders, brushing imagined wrinkles from her dress.
“My lady, how are you feeling?” she whispered in a tone that suggested Evelyne might crumble at any moment. “The bleeding came earlier than usual—gods, it’s the stress of the wedding, I knew it. I told you not to drink that chilled lemonade—your poor insides.”
Evelyne blinked.
Before she could reply with something vaguely rational, Isildeth was moving.
“I’m fetching your tea. The strong one. You sit.”
And just like that, finally, Isildeth swept herself out of the chambers, muttering about herbs, gods, and irresponsible men who scheduled weddings during blood moons.
Evelyne didn’t move. Not for a breath. Then she very nearly facepalmed.
That was it. That’s what it took. A fabricated menstrual emergency. She could’ve skipped the tactical lies and simply mumbled “cramps” from the start.
Of course now, with the chamber blissfully free of well-meaning surveillance, Vesena was nowhere to be found. Gone to fetch the world’s most elusive embroidery kit.
Rhyssa, please, she thought, staring at the ceiling. A little divine intervention wouldn’t hurt.
And just as she let herself sink into a defeated spiral of poor timing—
The door creaked open. Vesena entered with the missing sewing kit in her arms and a look that could only be described as haunted.
Evelyne was on her feet before the door even shut behind her.
“There you are,” she called. “We need to talk.”
Vesena stepped inside and shut the door with a swiftness that told Evelyne she didn’t need to ask for discretion—it was already given. The latch clicked softly into place.
Evelyne crossed the chamber in three quick strides and pulled the curtains shut. The light dimmed, but she didn’t care.
“I need your help,” she began, turning back to Vesena. “It’s important. And it can’t leave this room.”
Vesena said nothing—only nodded once, approaching the window.
“I’ve been... making notes,” Evelyne admitted.
From beneath the false panel under the window, she drew out a small leather-bound journal. The cover was worn at the corners, the binding softened by use.
Her fingers hovered for a moment. She brushed her thumb once along the spine. For a heartbeat, she almost pulled it back. Then she exhaled and held it out, the weight of it leaving her palms like breath leaving her chest.
“About the… Maroon Slaughter.”
Vesena opened it without flinching, flipping through the first few pages. Her expression didn’t change, but her fingers stilled at the entry where Evelyne had drawn the symbol. Beneath it—notations, dates, names.
“The day you came I overheard a conversation. Between Ravik and the High Preceptor. At the beginning I thought I was just… misinterpreting it. But then the sigil—”
Evelyne paced.
“I saw it carved on Dasmon’s lips. No one mentioned it in the reports. It was dismissed. And few days ago, I found it in the margins of Ravik’s notes.”
She started to pace again, twisting her fingers.
“I don’t know what’s worse—that Ravik could help to cover it up, or that he may have started it. Or that the Preceptor knew all along and calls it a rite. A rite, Vesena. What does that mean?”
She took a step, breath quickened.
“I don’t want to believe Ravik is guilty. I’ve known him since I could walk.”
She turned back toward Vesena. She was still scanning the journal with focus.
“But also, I don't think it was the heretics,” Evelyne pondered. “I think it was ordered. Maybe to stop something. Maybe to start something.”
She hesitated, the silence folded carefully around her. Saying it aloud would make it real. Would strip away the comforting distance of theory and force it into the cold light of truth.
“And I think…” —a breath, shallow but deliberate— “I think my family might have been involved.”
There. Said aloud. The words hung in the air like smoke. Heavier than she expected. Vesena was still. Evelyne could see her thinking, reading between the lines not just on the page but in the room.
Then, finally, Vesena looked up.
“I’m already working on it,” she confessed.
Evelyne’s brow rose. “What?”
Vesena gave a small, matter-of-fact nod. “Cedric and I found a hidden passage beneath Orvath’s chapel.”
Evelyne gasped, the words taking a moment to land.
A tunnel. Of course there was a tunnel. There were always tunnels—beneath shrines, behind thrones, under the feet of anyone foolish enough to believe in open ground.
Still, something about Orvath’s chapel made it worse.
That place had always reeked of something secretly haunting.
But this? This meant those secrets moved.
“Hidden passage? Are you certain?”
“I’m not certain of anything,” Vesena admitted. “But I’m close.”
She narrowed her eyes slightly, her voice calm but edged. “What was Cedric doing there?”
Vesena replied without hesitation. “The prince sent him. Alaric has his own suspicions about Ravik and the High Preceptor. Someone who possibly is working for Grand Marshal disappeared there.”
That caught Evelyne off guard.
She turned from the table and took a few slow steps toward the window, the light outside was fading into the afternoon. She didn’t open the curtains, only stood in front of them, arms lightly folded, watching dust dance in the air.
“It’s none of his concern,” she muttered.
“It became his concern the moment his fiancée’s life may be in danger,” Vesena said closing the journal.
Evelyne's heart gave a traitorous little skip.
Oh.
The blood was on her hands that day. Her hands, not anyone else’s. It was one thing to have him at her side on paper. Quite another to think he’d care.
Vesena continued, matter-of-fact. “Cedric told him that you are concerned. It’s likely Alaric will try to speak with you. Soon.”
Evelyne halted mid-spin. So that explained Cedric’s unrelenting insistence earlier. The ride, the sunshine. She should have guessed. Nothing in this castle ever truly came without a second intention.
She turned back to Vesena. “He already tried,” she admitted.
“And?” Vesena asked. “Will you meet him?”
Evelyne lifted her chin. “Well… It’s possible—entirely possible—that I may have... declined.”
There was a short pause when Vesena looked at her without any reaction.
“Oh,” she said eventually, the single syllable carrying all the elegance of you absolute idiot without ever needing to say the words.