Chapter 25
“She said no,” Cedric muttered, looking like a man who’d been swatted by a duchess and then told to apologize for it. “Respectfully.”
Alaric had nodded, offered a very princely “thank you,” and internally resigned himself to an afternoon of sulking and pretending not to sulk.
But then—miracle of miracles—Vesena had appeared ten minutes later, as composed as ever, and declared, “Her Highness has reconsidered. She would be amenable to a ride.”
Amenable.
Alaric wasn’t sure if he was supposed to feel triumphant or vaguely manipulated.
He settled somewhere in the middle. Not that he had time to reflect on it.
Evelyne appeared not long after near the stables, dressed in full riding attire—a fitted burgundy habit coat with silver buttons, a high-collared blouse, and a long split skirt.
Polished boots disappeared beneath the hem, and her gloves gleamed faintly in the morning light.
Her chin was lifted high enough to make a marble bust envious.
He was, regrettably, not proud of the way his stomach reacted to that.
They rode fast—Evelyne setting the pace in the sidesaddle.
They rode, across the bridge rebuilt from salvaged stone, until the trees thinned, until the sound of hooves shifted from hard-packed trail to softer grass.
Eventually, they reached the great beech tree that stood like a sentinel on the crest of the hill.
Below them, the land rolled out like a living map.
The town rested at the foot of the hill, rooftops gathered close like folded hands.
Thin trails of smoke rose from the chimneys into the cool afternoon air.
Beyond the streets, the lake caught the light in a pale shimmer, a lone willow at its heart moving gently in the breeze.
To the left, the castle stretched along the horizon.
Alaric dismounted first, his boots landing softly in the grass. He made his way to Evelyne’s side and extended a hand.
She didn’t take it.
Instead, she lifted her chin to another impossible degree and dismounted herself. Alaric stepped back with a crooked smile. Gods, he thought, that infuriating sass of hers.
Behind them, Cedric and Vesena had begun setting out the contents of the basket—folding out a cloth, unwrapping parcels of cheese and fruit, pouring wine. The two Varantian guards and two Silverwards who had trailed behind dismounted at a polite distance, scanning the tree line.
They stood at the ridge, the wind tugging at her cloak, the distant ruins of the Ivory Bastion framed behind her like the ghost of another war.
She didn’t bother with the preamble.
“I assume you’ve already guessed,” she began, the wind tugged few strands of her hair free, “but I’ve had suspicions. About an... event. From last year.”
Alaric kept his silence, watching her the way a scholar might study a page written in disappearing ink—too much pressure and it would vanish, too little and the meaning would slip away.
Evelyne’s eyes slid to the guards, her gloved thumb pressed into her palm.
“There’s a sigil,” she confessed, voice steady but thin at the edges. “The one that was carved into Dasmon’s mouth when I found him dead. I saw it again, recently. In Ravik’s report.”
“What does it look like?”
She hesitated, then inclined her head just enough for him to catch the tightness in her jaw.
“Three lines,” she explained. “Inside a circle.”
Interesting. Another proof to his theory of pre-Sundering rituals buried under heretics’ cover.
“No one ever mentioned it after. Not once. They buried it—fast. And suddenly it was a tragedy. A senseless slaughter. Nothing more.” Her voice tightened. “But I remember what I saw.”
She drew a slow breath.
“There were small things. Things I remembered later. Two nights before the wedding, during a formal dinner, one of the guests was escorted out by three Assembly Eclipsants.”
She looked up, expression unreadable.
“But that’s not what stayed with me. What stayed with me was that on the day of the wedding, there were no Celestial Assembly present. Not one.”
Alaric’s brow furrowed. “The Assembly doesn’t miss an occasion to make a scene. The bigger the event, the greater the chance they’ll find someone to drag off.”
Evelyne nodded. “They’re always there. At royal ceremonies, state events, births—anything bound by oath. But that day, nothing.”
He leaned back slightly, propping his elbow on his palm, fingers brushing the edge of his stubble. That was definitely odd. In Varantia, there was a saying that if no one was taken by the Assembly before the vows, the gods would claim someone after.
She met his eyes, steady and unflinching now.
“I don’t have proof. But I have memories. They don’t form anything coherent yet. Only fragments.”
“No, I believe you,” he murmured crossing his arms over his chest.
She shook her head slightly, the motion so small it might have been invisible if he hadn't been watching her so closely.
“And…” There was a pause, her throat worked once, a small, tight movement. “I can’t do it alone.”
Evelyne looked down, jaw set, then turned slightly as if the horizon might offer steadier ground. One hand drifted to her side, fingers curling lightly into the folds of her cloak. He could see how much it cost her—asking. She carried things. Until her shoulders nearly cracked from the weight.
“I need help,” she admitted at last.
Alaric didn’t answer right away.
She was still staring out across the hills, chin high, like even vulnerability had to be offered at an angle.
He nodded toward the blanket Cedric and Vesena had laid out beneath the spreading shade of the beech tree, his voice low. “Sit with me. We’ll discuss it over a meal.”
They walked slowly, the guards’ gazes following every step. Cedric and Vesena waited by the horses. Evelyne sat across from him, all composed edges and clean lines, adjusting each fold of her skirt as though the world itself depended on perfect symmetry.
Alaric placed a strawberry tartlet and a neat cluster of grapes on her plate, before turning to select a handful of nuts and a wedge of spiced cheese for himself.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The wind played through the tall grass, and far below the hill, the town murmured with distant life.
Then Alaric broke the quiet.
“I’ve been looking at Ravik’s latest patrol shifts,” he admitted. “He’s drawing everything in toward the castle. One of the outer watch points is under-manned, and any requests for additional coverage are redirected back to the capital’s perimeter.”
He glanced sideways at her. “And then there’s the High Preceptor.”
Evelyne’s eyes narrowed, just slightly.
He popped a nut into his mouth, chewed, and continued.
“He called the wedding a ritual. Said it was a way to ease unrest, give people something to believe in. He was talking about turning us into a symbol. Ravik has a reason. But also, what the Preceptor is planning to achieve is not religion. That’s control. ”
Evelyne hummed gently. “The entire situation is strange. Ravik and the High Preceptor have never been close. They’re aligned on law and order, yes, but politically? They're oil and ash. And yet…” Her gaze flicked toward the Ivory Bastion. “I overheard them speaking.”
Alaric stilled.
“They were talking about the Maroon Slaughter, I’m sure of it,” she continued. “They said something about rites too. And then—” She hesitated, her fingers tightening briefly around her spoon, “they spoke of our union. As a kind of… purification.”
That word lingered too long in the air.
Alaric’s expression didn’t change, but his voice lowered. “Did they say what rite it was?”
“No. Only that the wedding wasn’t meant to be a show of force. That it was a consecration.” Her eyes narrowed faintly. “What do you make of that?”
He didn’t answer at once. Instead, he leaned back slightly, processing. His mind ran through a dozen overlapping theories.
He met her gaze. “I’ve been studying the roots of the Sundering. And I’m starting to think that the New Religion didn’t just replace the Old Gods. It just… took what was convenient and threw away anything else.”
She frowned. “You think they’re using the rites to contain something?”
“To channel it, maybe. Or bind it. I don’t know yet.
” He paused, gaze steady. “I’ve spent most of my life trying to uncover what was lost. You’ve been living with the consequences.
And if the Preceptor sees our marriage as a ritual, not a political event…
then we’re not walking into an aisle full of flowers.
And I also don’t think that the use of words such as “ritual” or “purification” is a metaphor. Not in this scenario.”
She went still at that.
Everything that happened in the past had its echo now.
They were roots, curling into the present, cracking stone from underneath.
If they investigate, then yes, it might save their necks.
It might even uncover what happened last year.
But more importantly, it might lead to the biggest truth, a part of a much larger pattern. A design threaded through time.
He had assumed, foolishly, that Edrathen was simply hiding the truth. But no. That was far too clumsy for them. They didn’t burn the evidence. They didn’t erase it.
They reinterpreted it.
They wrapped it in honorifics, painted it across their ceilings in soft golds and flowing robes, then whispered a gentler story into the ears of their children.
Like The Rite of First Breath. Once a ritual of passing magic to humanity—clear, elemental, terrifying in its power—and now presented as a metaphor for harmony.
Hypocrisy, Alaric thought, at its most beautiful.
Evelyne’s expression didn’t shift much. But she nodded. Once.
“It’s all connected,” Alaric went on, voice softer now. “That’s obvious. It’s all hidden in plain sight. And if we do it right, we might still have time to figure out who started the fire before everything burns down.”