Chapter 33 #2
And it was all in plain sight, and it had never been right. Not once.
She looked back at the painting. The colors dulled by sun and time. The figures blurred at the edges, like memory fading just before waking.
And now she couldn’t unsee it.
“We have one fresco in Solmara,” Alaric went on. “A beautiful work… no one knows who painted it. An unnamed man from Edrathen, long before the Sundering. We try to keep it in good condition.”
She barely heard him. Somewhere to her right, Isildeth shifted her weight ever so slightly, hands folded, face unreadable.
Then came the final blow—casual, almost kind.
“But you know as well as I do, Evelyne…” Alaric’s voice had softened again. “Stone can fracture. Sometimes all it needs is one good strike.”
She didn’t respond.
She was busy seeing everything differently.
The nobles, posturing like marionettes. The women who never spoke in council. The bloodless reports. The red thread.
Her breath caught. She wasn’t dizzy, not exactly. Just… peeled open.
“Princess Evelyne?” Alaric asked, gently.
Her attention flicked to him. For a breath, she just watched—the faint crease between his brows, the question he didn’t ask, the worry he tried to hide.
“Let’s move on,” she urged, wanting to escape the sudden flood of disgust and illumination. After a breath’s hesitation, he joined her and together they reached alcove with sculptures.
She loved the patient act of creating something with her own hands.
Sculpture had always seemed like magic to her.
The way an artist could once coax the illusion of movement from stone.
The delicate texture of fabric frozen forever, the tender curve of a hand captured mid-gesture.
It thrilled her in a way no speech or treaty ever could.
They paused before a striking work: two hands, forever caught in the act of reaching, only the thinnest twist of loose cloth trailing between them. The stone was so finely carved it seemed the breeze might unravel the fabric at any moment.
Evelyne tilted her head, studying the piece and trying not to collapse.
Alaric looked at her directly. “Have you made any progress?”
Her fan flicked open to cover her face. “Not here,” she warned. “The walls have ears.”
Alaric lifted one brow. “I didn’t use names.”
“You used enough,” Evelyne said coolly. “And regardless, I no longer require your assistance. This matter,” she added pointedly, “does not concern you.”
Alaric’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Doesn’t it?” he said, voice quiet. “We’re standing in a castle where truth gets buried faster than the dead, and you think I’m going to pretend I don’t see the dirt on their hands?”
She didn’t answer, but the snap of her fan was sharper this time.
He stepped closer. “You can tell yourself I’m a nuisance. A foreigner. An inconvenience. But we both know what’s happening isn’t just Edrathen’s problem.”
She met his gaze. “I said it does not concern you.”
He held her stare for a moment, then inclined his head with a smirk. “If that’s your wish then I suppose I’ll be unconcerned. Observantly.” A pause, and then— “As always.”
She studied him, letting the silence stretch between them. Why was he doing this? Why was he trying so hard to shake her, dismantle the carefully balanced foundation she stood on?
“Why did you want me at the Council?” she asked.
“Because I wanted you to see where your truth is shaped,” his eyes were shining, gentle. “I want you to listen. See what they don’t say.”
“So, you did want me to question them?”
He glanced at her. “No. I wanted you to see it and come to the conclusion yourself,” he explained gently. “It’s not disloyalty.”
She had sat proudly at the Council, believing her presence meant if not trouble, then progress. That being the first woman at the table was a victory in itself.
But pride soured quickly. It didn’t take long for belief to curdle into disappointment. If they could shape tragedies into negligence instead of what it was, how many other things had they twisted? How many truths had been carved down into doctrine while she repeated them like a dutiful daughter?
She believed she was so educated. But it had only taught her how to polish their illusions, not see through them. That was not education. It was training. All the while, she had been the audience to their performance.
She hated it.
“You realize,” he cautioned at last, voice low and steady, “this may be heading toward something dangerous.”
“If you grow any more tender, I may actually shed a tear,” she took a small sip of her lavender lemonade, savoring the coolness against the slow burn building behind her ribs. “But don’t worry, I'd hate to be caught scheming over nothing.”
She could feel, rather than see, the way he turned his head slightly in her direction.
“I can handle it,” she continued. “Contrary to what some at court may whisper, I am not made of porcelain, Your Highness.”
He gave a soft huff, somewhere between amusement and frustration. “I don't think you are,” he admitted.
Evelyne shifted her gaze toward him.
Alaric met her look head-on, no evasion, no attempt at charm.
“Our methods are different. And that’s alright.
” He hesitated, then added, more quietly, “I shouldn’t have judged.
I was impatient. There isn’t much time, and I let that urgency push me to speak before thinking.
I was wrong to force my approach onto you. ”
He took a breath, voice steady but edged with sincerity. “But this matter concerns me as much as it does you. It’s not just your kingdom, your burden. It shouldn’t divide us. Let me help.”
Gods help her, she considered.
Because the truth—however tightly she tried to lock it behind court-trained composure and carefully rationed words—was that she needed him.
Not his title. Not his alliance.
Him.
His mind, sharp and unsparing. His eyes, always catching what others missed.
But the fact that he had opened her eyes to illusion didn’t mean she could trust him.
It didn’t mean his intentions were pure—or that this wasn’t manipulation wrapped in well-placed insight.
She had lived too long surrounded by clever men to fall for sincerity at face value.
She couldn't afford another crack.
“I appreciate the offer, Your Highness,” she said politely. “But I believe it would be unwise to entangle you further in matters that are already... complicated.”
There. Final. Elegant.
But Alaric only smiled—a slow, infuriating curve of the mouth that held no mockery this time. Only certainty.
“Fortunately for you, Your Highness,” he remarked, voice low and maddeningly pleasant, “I have a habit of involving myself where I’m not strictly needed… and staying longer than I should. So, I’ll be there if you happen to need me.”
Evelyne blinked once but otherwise gave no sign that his words had struck her harder than any blow could have.
Alaric offered her a courtly half-bow, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Good evening, Princess.”
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing amidst the glittering court with the taste of unfinished arguments sharp on her tongue.
She watched his back recede into the crowd, and she felt it again.
The pull.
Infuriating. Impossible. And utterly, dangerously real.