Chapter 30
The council chamber was colder than she imagined.
Evelyne stood inside the arched doorway, her hands folded too neatly in front of her, and tried not to fidget.
It should have felt like a victory. But victories didn’t usually come with knots in the stomach and the weight of being the first. She’d barely slept the night before, too many thoughts crowding the corners of her mind: the sigil, the chapel, patterns.
No progress. No answers. Just rituals and reports and the endless spiral of feeling watched.
And now, she was about to be publicly scolded—or something worse. She didn’t know. If they truly knew she’d been asking questions, they wouldn’t drag her into a chamber for a lecture. They’d deal with her quietly.
She was sweating through her dress, pulse a shade too fast, fingers twitching beneath their careful pose but fidgeting was a privilege she couldn’t afford.
She didn’t know where to sit.
The table was long, carved from dark pine, lacquered until it gleamed like obsidian in the lamplight. The high-backed chairs were evenly spaced, save for one larger at the head, reserved for her father.
The door opened behind her. A soft footfall, unhurried. She turned—and Alaric’s gaze found her at once.
“Princess,” he greeted, dipping his head, “I’d ask if you come here often, but I suspect that would make this more awkward than it already is.”
Evelyne arched a brow, she hadn’t spoken to him since the infamous picnic. “Your Highness,” she returned. “If this is your idea of charm before council meetings, I’m beginning to understand Varantia’s reputation.”
He feigned a wince. “Ouch. Not even a good morning?”
“It stopped being good the moment you entered,” she replied.
He gave a low chuckle and took the empty space beside her, standing in companionable silence. She straightened instinctively, smoothing her skirts even though they didn’t need it.
He didn’t say anything. Just stood beside her.
He looked relaxed, like he had all the time in the world. There wasn’t a trace of surprise on his face when he saw her standing there, as if he’d expected it all along. She, on the other hand, felt like a violin string pulled just shy of breaking.
Slowly, the room began to fill. The High Chancellor entered first, his expression unreadable beneath a finely trimmed beard and a chain that looked like it had been forged from his ego.
Then Lord Justiciar, who gave her a curt nod that might have been polite if you squinted.
The Master of Coin followed, muttering something under his breath about tariffs and temple repairs. And then The High Preceptor.
His robes swept behind him, every inch of him unyielding. His eyes met hers and Alaric’s. Evelyne’s shoulders stiffened.
Then her father arrived.
The King said nothing as he took his place at the head of the table. The chamber quieted at once. The great door closed with a weighty finality.
“Let us begin,” he said. “Daughter. Sit on my left.”
Her gown brushed softly across the polished floor. She gave the Master of Coin a single nod in passing and caught the faint, startled inhale he tried to hide as she moved toward her seat.
Alaric took the seat opposite, at the King’s right hand.
One chair remained conspicuously empty—Ravik’s.
Evelyne kept her face composed, eyes forward, though her thoughts tightened. Where was he?
Chairs scraped as the council settled. The High Chancellor, a gaunt man with ink-stained fingers and a voice like dry parchment, handed out reports with practiced precision. A folded packet slid before Evelyne. She broke the seal with trembling fingers.
Wedding logistics. Costs. Routes. Staffing. The architecture of alliance laid out in ink and margins.
Alaric leaned slightly forward, his brows furrowed as he scanned the first page—but not before his eyes flicked to her.
“The procession will be rerouted through the western gardens to accommodate the dignitary processions,” the Chancellor was saying, “and we’ve approved the final guest list, pending arrival confirmations from Zharesh and Lysitha.”
“Which means the budget must be amended,” said the Master of Coin. “We’ll need approval from the crown for disbursement.”
King Rhaedor gave a single nod. “Granted.”
“And the rites?” came the nasal voice of the High Preceptor. “The ceremony will begin with the usual vows, as decreed by Doctrine—”
Evelyne spoke, soft but unwavering. “The rites will be performed by Keeper Halwen. Under the Flame of Rhyssa. It was already agreed upon.”
The room stilled.
A few councilors shifted in their seats; one coughed into his fist. Eyes flicked toward her, then to one another—quick, uncertain, disbelieving.
The Preceptor inclined his head slowly, though his jaw clenched. “...Naturally, Your Highness.”
Across the table, Alaric looked up from his pages and winked at her.
“Most arrangements seem satisfactory,” the Lord Justiciar murmured, bringing the moment back into safer territory. “We should continue under the assumption that security measures will hold.”
“Has there been any investigation into the perimeter at Kelvar’s Cross?” Alaric asked. “Are we certain that no threats are coming from the outer approaches?”
The council doors creaked open.
“I assure you, Your Highness, I’m taking care of it.”
Grand Marshal entered, cloak billowed being him. He moved to his seat beside the High Chancellor, nodding to the king and then the table. Evelyne’s fingers stayed folded in her lap. Her focus didn’t leave Ravik’s face.
Alaric leaned forward, resting one palm against the report.
“If I may,” he began, tone calm. “I’ve been reviewing the architectural layout of Kelvar’s Cross—its outer embankments, troop placement records from five years ago, even flood damage reconstruction plans from the Archives. None of them match the current patrol pattern.”
Evelyne said nothing, but she was listening. Closely.
“I find it… concerning,” he continued, fingers tapping once on the parchment, “that a site historically positioned as a defensive fallback is now being left thinly manned.”
The Master of Coin gave a faint scoff, but the others listened with attention.
Alaric tapped a second document from the pile. “I’d also like to raise a question regarding the reports on the Maroon Slaughter investigation. Particularly those associated with the Palace of Binding.”
Ravik’s spine visibly straightened.
Evelyne’s breath caught. Her eyes went wide before she could stop herself. Was he about to expose her? Sweat prickled under her collar.
Alaric didn’t press, didn’t accuse. He simply continued.
“There are inconsistencies in the facts cited. They resemble early rituals from the pre-Sundering Orvath’s sect—referenced in the Treaty of Ashenfall, Volume III. The arrangement of victims and type of wounds was originally meant to anchor unstable magical environments during relic rites.”
King Rhaedor’s voice broke the silence. “This is not the purpose of today’s council.”
Alaric didn’t flinch. “With respect, Your Majesty… I believe it is. Because what happened before—can happen again. And if we don’t understand it, we can’t prepare for it. Shouldn’t we remember history, if only to avoid repeating it?”
Ravik studied him for a long moment, weighing the words on his tongue before clicking it and inclining his head in Evelyne’s direction.
“That’s why you insisted the Princess be here?”
The question struck like a flint.
Evelyne’s gaze flicked toward Ravik—then to Alaric, startled.
He did?
Alaric’s tone didn’t waver. “Her Highness is the future empress,” he explained. “Her presence in matters of state is both appropriate and necessary.”
She glanced his way, and for the briefest second, their eyes met. Evelyne blinked. So, it wasn’t because they thought she’d caused trouble. He insisted for her be here. Rhyssa, he must’ve thrown a full tantrum behind closed doors to get that past the council.
A few heads turned. The High Preceptor’s mouth pressed into a thin, unreadable line.
Ravik exhaled, slow and deliberate. “Prince Alaric, I assure you—the investigation into the Maroon Slaughter was conducted with the highest scrutiny. The Crown is safe.”
“Is it?” Alaric asked. “What about the fire three years ago?”
What fire?
Evelyne’s brow furrowed slightly. She hadn’t heard of that.
Alaric didn’t turn to her. He remained focused on Ravik. “Three years ago, Kelvar’s Cross. Forty-two civilians dead.”
Her lashes fluttered once—then again.
1314 — the massacre in Zharesh.
1316 — the fire at Kelvar’s Cross.
1318 — the Maroon Slaughter.
A pattern.
She poured every ounce of strength into not coming apart at the seams. She wasn’t sure if she was shaking, or if the floor was.
Ravik’s voice was steel. “Are you accusing me of something, Your Highness?”
“Absolutely not,” Alaric replied, calmly. “I’m only saying that the nature of both events struck me as unusual. I wondered if anyone had considered a connection. Was it investigated?”
Ravik’s mouth tightened. “The fire was accidental.”
“Is that confirmed?” Alaric pressed.
“Yes,” Ravik said.
The High Preceptor’s head lifted, eyes narrowing just enough to sharpen the lines of his face. “There is no southern ascetic sect,” he said. “Orvath’s Doctrine is unified. What you suggest is heresy, manufactured by those who seek to undermine the faith.”
“I’m not suggesting,” Alaric replied, tone deceptively even. “I’m asking whether the possibility was considered—that the event at the Palace of Binding might have been part of a repeated, structured rite.”
The Preceptor’s expression cooled another degree. “I will not have the church slandered by speculation. Orvath’s Doctrine condemns such acts. Always has. Always will.”
Alaric didn’t break his gaze. “And yet that configuration matched one of the old Binding Arts rites.”
“That configuration,” the Preceptor drawled, “was the corruption of unbelievers centuries ago. The doctrine denounced it then, as it does now. To link it to our Doctrine is blasphemy.”
“I haven’t linked it,” Alaric countered. “I’m only asking whether anyone considered that history might have been repeated.”
That was when the Preceptor’s patience cracked.
“You sit in our councils as a guest, prince of another realm, and presume to lecture me on the laws of my own faith? I am the voice of Orvath in this kingdom. There are no splinter sects, no hidden branches. You insult every believer with your insinuations—” With each word, flecks of spit hit the table, like punctuation made of fury.
“And you insult the victims if you refuse to ask the question,” Alaric cut in.
Several councilors looked between them. Evelyne’s gaze flicked to her father. He hadn’t intervened. His expression gave nothing away. Why? He wasn’t one to let tensions spiral in front of witnesses.
The Preceptor’s voice rose. “The church has kept this realm from the chaos of heresy for generations. This will not undone by your… curiosity.”
Alaric’s eyes narrowed. “Curiosity has preserved more lives than pride ever has.”
The Preceptor’s hand curled on the table. “Watch your words, Your Highness.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Alaric said quietly.
“Enough,” Rhaedor finally thundered. “This council serves the Crown, not your personal feuds. We move on.”
The Preceptor’s glare lingered on Alaric a heartbeat longer before he eased back into his chair.
The High Chancellor shuffled papers as though a rustle could stand in for reason. “Alright, let’s move on.”
Alaric didn’t take his gaze from the Preceptor.
“The collapse in the lower quarter,” the Chancellor intoned, “was the result of unstable foundations.”
What now? Another tragedy? Evelyne barely processed the words—too much, too fast, her thoughts spiraling without catching.
Confusion twisted into dread, then anger.
She didn’t even know what she was supposed to feel anymore.
Her father was looking at her now, calmly, pointedly.
She had to resist the urge to glare at him—or at anyone.
“The people saw the ground split in two,” Alaric countered. “They deserve to know why.”
The Preceptor’s lips tightened. “They will be told the truth.”
Ravik’s voice entered then. “That truth being that the old stonework failed. Panic serves no one. If we frame it as structural fatigue, we keep the masons’ guild in line and the mob quiet.”
The Master of Coin added, “And rebuilding after riots is more expensive than preventing them.”
A few chuckles stirred around the table—thin, dry.
Evelyne didn’t smile. “Were any families displaced? Do they need assistance?”
There was a pause—brief, but telling. A few councilors turned to look at her.
The Master of Coin inclined his head, polite but firm. “The situation was contained, Your Highness. The damage was minimal. No intervention required.”
Dismissed. Just like that.
Evelyne felt her jaw tighten. The council had folded another tragedy into a single line item: handled. And that was to be the end of it.
Outrage flickered through her, sharper than grief.
Is this what they call governance? To decide which truths live and which are buried? Apparently in court, truth wasn’t about facts. It was about how well you wore it.
Her attention slid across the table and met Alaric’s eyes.
He was watching her already. His eyes caught hers for a long, deliberate beat, the faintest crease in his brow betraying the same frustration that coiled hot in her chest. She hated that in this room of polished indifference, the only other person who seemed as appalled as she was… was him.
She lowered her gaze back to the parchment before her, smoothing her skirts to disguise the tremor in her hand.
Heads were nodding. The Justiciar murmured assent. The Chancellor scribbled a note. The lie was already half-born.
She moved her attention to her father. He hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t stopped them.
A quiet shame settled beneath her ribs. She was still sitting here. Still playing the part. Because the seal on her report was the same as theirs, and her silence made her complicit. She had no idea what was happening in her own kingdom.
Her focus drifted back to Ravik. His calm no longer felt like discipline—it felt like concealment.
That was the moment the decision set in her bones.
Because the truth wasn't buried.
It was sitting at the table, dressed in duty, and speaking with the voice of the god.
If this is their truth, then I want no part of it.