Chapter 35
They were ready that night. Or as ready as anyone could be to commit light treason in silk slippers.
There was no disguise, no black-hooded cloaks like in the old stories.
If someone caught them early, they were simply two sleepless women walking off a restless evening.
If someone caught them later…well, Evelyne doubted a bedtime stroll explained lockpicking.
They crouched in the narrow bend of the servant corridor. From beyond the oak door came the sound she had been waiting for at least two hours: Ravik’s voice, low and cutting, the scrape of parchment across wood.
“…misaligned… figures don’t match… incompetent—” His words snapped like whips, muffled by the door. Then, the solid thud of papers slammed shut.
“He found it,” Evelyne breathed.
Beside her, Vesena’s mouth curved just slightly. “Of course he did.”
A pause. The heavy beat of boots pacing.
Then the sound grew louder, heading for the door.
The latch clicked. The door sighed open.
Ravik muttered something sharp about the archives, then the door shut again, harder this time.
His stride carried away, fast and clipped.
The echo of it lingered long after he was gone.
Her chest felt too small for her heart, each beat like a fist trying to punch its way out.
“Now?” Evelyne whispered.
“Wait.”
Evelyne pressed her fingers into her palm, forcing stillness. She hadn’t eaten. Her stomach had knotted itself hours ago, and now it churned with something between dread and disbelief.
The corridor was silent, save for the soft spit of the torch.
“How long before he comes back?”
Vesena tilted her head, calculating. “Half an hour, if the Archivist argues. Longer if he finds more to correct.”
“Not long enough,” Evelyne muttered.
“It’s all we’ll get.” Vesena crouched, pressing her ear to the door. A long silence stretched, Evelyne’s gaze darting up and down the empty corridor until it felt like the very walls might sprout eyes.
Finally, Vesena straightened, her voice a whisper of certainty. “Empty.”
Evelyne’s hand brushed the doorframe, grounding herself in the cold wood.
“Then let’s not waste it.”
They slipped through the narrow door into the corridor. The hinges groaned faintly, and both women froze, listening. Nothing stirred but the draft rolling in from the high windows.
The hall stretched ahead of them, shadows pooling between the torch brackets. Evelyne’s gaze darted left, right, searching the silence for movement. She gathered skirts in one hand and approached the door to Ravik’s office.
Vesena tested the latch. A click, stubborn and final. Locked.
Without a word, she slid her hand into her apron pocket and drew out a small leather package. She unrolled selecting a pair of slim picks.
The seconds crawled. Evelyne felt sweat gather at the nape of her neck despite the cold. Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides.
Then—click. Another.
The door shifted with a soft sigh. Vesena looked over her shoulder, calm as dusk—but her fingers flexed once before she stilled them. Evelyne gave a short nod. She didn’t trust her voice.
They moved inside.
The air in Ravik’s office was warmer than the corridor, but Evelyne barely felt it. Her heart was thudding hard enough to drown everything else out. She crossed the threshold and pulled the door shut behind her.
The room looked exactly as she imagined it would.
Modest. Methodical. Trimmed down to the essentials, like the man himself. The furniture was polished but plain—dark wood, iron fixtures, nothing decorative unless one counted the lone map pinned to the far wall. Even that had been carefully aligned with the edge of the cabinet beneath it.
There were no personal touches. No family portraits, not even a dent in the rug to suggest he paced when thinking. Every object had its place, and more importantly Ravik would know if something was moved.
Vesena drifted toward the desk, quiet as a whisper. Evelyne took the bookshelves. She scanned titles—military doctrine, trade route assessments, historical analyses. Her fingers were trembling, which made everything harder. She pulled one volume, checking for tucked notes, loose pages. Nothing.
She glanced toward the door. Every sound felt like a death sentence.
Vesena was sorting through correspondence. Letters already opened, nothing sealed. Evelyne opened a drawer. Neat rows of ink pots, perfectly arranged collection of sealing stamps, lined up by size, and a wolf brooch. She closed it again carefully, letting the click settle before moving on.
She felt like a girl again. Like someone who’d made a mistake she couldn’t undo. Vesena caught her eye for a second, her expression confident. It was irritating, how composed she was. In her element.
Evelyne took a calming breath and turned her attention to a stack of reports. Routine. Dull. Nothing marked as restricted. She thumbed through them anyway. Something might be hidden in plain sight. She hoped.
Minutes passed. Or hours. She couldn’t tell anymore. She kept thinking: This is stupid. This is necessary. This is dangerous. This is the only way.
She pressed a hand flat on the edge of the shelf to steady herself. She couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not here. Not now. Not when they were in too deep.
A soft tap.
Vesena’s fingers moved across the surface of the desk, drumming with purpose. Evelyne turned her head. The rhythm changed—controlled, deliberate. She’d found something.
She stepped closer, careful not to knock into anything. Vesena was drawing another pin from her collection—one thinner than the last—and wedging it into the seam beneath the top drawer. Vesena adjusted her angle, pressed, shifted, pressed again.
Click.
The drawer gave way with a soft groan, revealing a false bottom, tucked beneath the velvet lining was a single envelope. Heavy. Expensive parchment. Deep red wax sealed its flap, broken, stamped with a symbol Evelyne recognized immediately—though she wished she didn’t.
Sun torn down the middle. The seal of the Celestial Assembly.
Vesena slid the letter free and held it between two fingers. She offered it to Evelyne without a word. Evelyne hesitated only a second before opening.
The parchment inside was written in a tight, slanted hand, crisp and formal.
To Grand Marshal Ravik Kordane of the Edrathen Silverwards,
Authorization granted for controlled disruption under the authority of divine purification.
Target: Palace of Binding in Calveran.
Date of action: 14th of Orvakar, 1318.
One week after the Maroon Slaughter.
Evelyne stared at the words. Her mind tried to make sense of them—rearrange them into something sane. It didn’t work.
Controlled disruption. Purification?
The Assembly? That couldn’t be right. They rooted out mages and sympathizers, yes—but they did it quietly. Discreetly. Not like this. Not with an altar made of corpses.
Her fingers tightened around the page.
Dasmon. His family. Their guests. Accused of—what? Magic?
It was absurd. Ridiculous. Dasmon couldn’t light a fire without three attempts and a flint stone. His father once had a bard thrown out for suggesting dragons still lived.
None of them were heretics. None of them practiced magic.
She let go of the paper before she crushed it, it fluttered slightly as Vesena took it back.
None of it made sense.
Then—voices.
Faint at first. From afar.
Evelyne froze. For one suspended moment, she considered staying. Confronting whoever it was. Demanding answers. She was a princess, wasn’t she? She had the right to be anywhere in this castle. But the pounding in her chest said otherwise.
Not this time.
“Now,” Vesena whispered.
Evelyne didn’t argue. The maid hid the original letter in its place, and reached for the doorknob, peeking into the hall.
Evelyne moved with her, slipping through the passage.
Dust brushed her cheek, the dry scrape of stone too close to her skin.
Her foot caught on uneven flagging as they pushed forward, the two of them half-bolting toward the servant’s corridor before the voices swelled behind them.
They pressed the door shut just as those voices rose, closer now, overlapping in drunken irritation.
They pushed through, leaving the narrow passage behind with breaths short and uneven.
Evelyne’s fingers skimmed the edge of a tapestry as they slipped out into the eastern wing’s dim hall.
The chill of the air struck her like a reprimand.
No words passed between them. They didn’t need any. One stretch remained: a single hallway, one corner, and then Evelyne’s chambers.
They turned it.
And stopped.
A tall figure stood silhouetted in the torchlight ahead, his ceremonial robes unmistakable—even in the gloom.
Evelyne felt the ice rise again. The High Preceptor said nothing at first. He stood like a carved monument to propriety, his hands folded before him, as though their meeting had been written in scripture long before they’d stumbled into it.
His skull gleamed in the torchlight. Deep creases marked his forehead and the hollows of his eyes. His gray robes fell in precise, symmetrical folds, not a thread out of place. A black chain hung over his shoulders.
“Your Highness,” he intoned.
Vesena bowed just enough to be polite. Evelyne inclined her head, spine straight despite the clammy brush of her nightgown clinging to her skin. “High Preceptor,” she greeted. “Forgive the hour.”
He regarded them both. “There are many paths within this castle. Some older than others. Some—” his head tilted, almost imperceptibly, “—not meant to be walked twice. I pray you tread them with care.”
Evelyne couldn’t see his eyes, but she felt them—pressing in, deliberate and patient. A hand at her throat without ever touching her.
“Your concern is appreciated,” she replied, her voice controlled. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I will retire to rest.”
A breathless beat passed. Then another. The High Preceptor stepped aside. Evelyne walked. Not fast. She was still Tresselyn. But every inch of her skin was aware of his eyes until she turned the corner.
It was only then that she exhaled, slow and shallow, her thoughts racing. He knew. Or suspected enough to become dangerous.
“We cut that too close,” Vesena muttered behind her.
Evelyne didn’t reply. She was too busy calculating how many steps it would take to outrun a shadow.