Chapter 32
Usually, she adored these afternoons. The weekly gatherings were one of the few court traditions she genuinely enjoyed: an hour or two offered up to the gods of tea, pre-Sundering art, and polite conversation.
Under the tall, sun-splashed windows of the castle’s east drawing room, nobles milled in curated casualness, pastries arranged like edible art across linen-draped tables.
But today she was restless.
Every tick of the clock scraped raw against her nerves.
If they failed tonight, it wouldn’t be her reputation that paid the price—it would be blood.
Duty was no longer an excuse for blindness.
Neither was decorum. She would not play the fool behind silk gloves and polite silence.
She knew too much now. And still, knowing didn’t stop the sweat from clinging beneath the layers of taffeta.
There were still hours before evening fell, and her mind spun endlessly on the real task ahead: breaking into Grand Marshal Ravik's office without sparking a diplomatic incident or, worse, having to explain herself.
Isildeth followed a few paces behind, her gaze steady on Evelyne’s back. She hadn’t said anything, but she had been watching her differently since yesterday. She could feel it in every glance that lingered too long.
Evelyne chose her armor carefully—a soft violet gown, high-waisted and silver-threaded, clinging just enough before spilling elegantly to the floor.
Her hair, as always, was pinned in immaculate loops and coils, except for one soft curl that had escaped, grazing her shoulder like it had done so many times before.
White silk gloves sheathed her arms, and a fan painted with wisteria blooms rested lightly in her hand.
She flicked it open, letting the breeze kiss her cheek as she studied the brushstrokes on painting a little too intently.
She was not herself.
Or rather—perhaps she was. Just a version of herself she rarely let see daylight. The one who schemed while smiling at oil paintings and complimenting an artist's technique. The one who would not hesitate to steal from her own commander if it meant protecting her kingdom.
Her father rarely attended these gatherings, and today was no exception. Likely sequestered in one of his council chambers, drafting new decrees no one would dare challenge, or feigning concern over matters he'd already decided weeks ago.
Movement at her side drew her attention. Vesena was approaching, steps measured, expression determined. To anyone else she was simply a maid tending her charge, but Evelyne caught the slight incline of her head, the sign meant for her alone.
Evelyne turned, catching Isildeth’s eye with a faint nod. “Would you be so kind as to bring a glass of lavender lemonade?”
Isildeth’s eyes lingered a fraction too long, her mouth tightening as if on an unsaid word. Evelyne swallowed softly, before Isildeth finally nodded and slipped away toward the long table where chilled glasses sweated lightly in the warm afternoon sun.
Vesena stepped in beside her then. “The false report has been placed on the Grand Marshal’s desk,” Vesena murmured, scanning the crowd. “It will be found.”
Evelyne didn’t look at her directly and covered her lips with a fan. “You’re certain?”
“I am.”
Evelyne gave a single nod, as though agreeing with some unseen detail in the canvas. “Good. Then we wait.”
Vesena stepped a fraction closer to her. A pack of young noblemen, fresh from whatever military academy their fathers had bought their commissions at, sauntered past.
They didn’t spare Evelyne more than a bow, but Vesena? Vesena they looked at. With thinly veiled superiority, and the kind of entitlement that came from boys who thought cruelty was just another currency of power.
Evelyne’s gaze flicked to Vesena, expecting to find the usual impassive mask she wore so well. A nothingness so complete it had often impressed Evelyne in its efficiency.
But not this time.
No, Vesena seemed furious, in that refined way only she could.
Evelyne tipped her fan just enough to shield her voice. “Don’t worry about them. They barely wiped the milk from under their noses.”
She caught Vesena’s startled expression—a fleeting, unguarded moment that almost made Evelyne smile.
“It’s nothing, miss,” she said after a beat, the words smooth but a little too quick.
Evelyne hummed. It struck her, suddenly, how little she truly knew about the woman who had been at her side. She knew Vesena was competent. But when it came to opinions, feelings, history she was a locked room with no windows.
Evelyne shifted the conversation lightly. “I suppose the nobility in Varantia is more... gracious?”
Vesena blinked, the faintest crease appearing between her brows. “They are... nobility, my lady.”
Evelyne arched an eyebrow. A non-answer if she had ever heard one.
“You’re close to Cedric, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Vesena replied. “Though 'close' might be a generous way to put it. He talks far too much. But...” she shrugged, a rare gesture. “I suppose I’m used to it by now.”
Evelyne allowed herself a quiet scoff. “That seems to be a common trait among Varantian men. You’ve known each other for some time, then?”
Vesena nodded. “Since I entered service at the palace. He was Prince Alaric’s personal attendant by then.”
Evelyne hummed. “And what about the rest of your friends?”
The moment the words left her mouth, she winced inwardly.
“That is, if you don’t mind me asking,” she added quickly.
Vesena arched her brow, an expression Evelyne had come to recognize as her version of dry amusement. “I don’t mind, my lady,” she said smoothly. “But there isn’t much to tell.”
Evelyne folded her arms. “I find that hard to believe.”
For a breath, Vesena said nothing. Then she let out a low sigh.
“There was someone,” she admitted, voice faltering. “A long time ago. But it was... complicated.”
She didn’t explain further, but the distance in her eyes said enough.
“Complicated,” Evelyne echoed, more gently this time.
Vesena’s expression had gone distant, unfocused, as though she were watching some private scene unfold in her mind.
“He was a nobleman,” Vesena said at last. “I was not. End of story.”
Evelyne frowned. “That’s a terrible ending.”
Vesena offered a thin smile. “It was a terrible story.”
Evelyne let the silence breathe between them, this time resisting the instinct to fill it with something polite or easy.
“I apologize if I’m being intrusive,” she said. “I just...” She hesitated, the words catching against her ribs, before sighing. “I thought we could use a conversation.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Vesena said simply. “I know what kind of day it’s been. And what kind of night it will be.”
Evelyne hesitated, then said quietly, “Thank you. For helping me.”
Vesena inclined her head. “Of course.”
“You can… you can absolutely resign. If you ever need to. I would understand. This could put you in danger. It could cause you trouble.”
Vesena looked at her for a moment, then gave a short breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “I didn’t come to serve a crown, Your Highness. I came to serve you. I’m not doing this out of loyalty to a title. I’m glad to be useful.”
She added, matter-of-fact, “So no, I won’t be resigning. If I wanted safety, I’d have stayed in the capital.”
Evelyne’s chest loosened around something she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. It mattered. Because she couldn’t do this alone. She didn’t want to. Not physically, not mentally, not with everything spiraling faster than she could control.
This—what she was asking of Vesena—wasn’t some idle favor.
It was dangerous. Treason-adjacent. The kind of risk that didn’t always leave room for a second chance.
And yes, Vesena was trained, so good at what she did it often looked effortless.
But that didn’t mean she wasn’t taking a risk with every step.
Evelyne looked away briefly. “Thank you,” she said. “Truly.”
Around them, the nobility drifted in curated clusters, all pastel silks and hushed voices. If they hadn’t succeeded tonight, she’d give them something new to clutch their pearls over.
The thought was almost comforting.
“So,” she began, going back to the present, “this nobleman—was he the first fool who dared admire you, or simply the first arrogant enough to think he could toy with someone smarter than himself?”
Vesena inhaled. “That’s bold, my lady.”
Evelyne shrugged. “You don’t have to answer.”
Vesena tilted her head slightly, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the sun-drenched windows, somewhere Evelyne couldn’t follow.
“It’s not like in Edrathen,” Vesena said eventually, her words careful, shaped with precision. “In Varantia, nobles and those of common birth can...” She hesitated, searching for the right phrasing, “...form attachments. It’s not forbidden.”
Evelyne dipped her head.
“But,” Vesena added, “both people have to want it.”
A flicker touched her mouth before disappearing.
“In my case,” she said, “only one of us did. The other was just... passing the time.”
Evelyne’s jaw clenched. “That’s horrible.”
Vesena let out a low, humorless laugh. “It’s life.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, more forcefully than she meant to, “that anyone treated you that way. You deserved better.”
Vesena offered a small shrug, the sort meant to dismiss the conversation. But Evelyne saw it. The wound might have scarred over, but it had never fully healed. She knew better than most how long the past could linger.
Men, Evelyne thought, her fan snapping shut with a faint, decisive click. The gods truly lacked imagination when they made them.