Chapter 37
The veil was red again.
Evelyne stood where she always did in the dream, halfway between the altar and the exit, frozen by that same invisible bond twisted tight around her ribs.
She knew what came next. The air would grow thick, the stone beneath her feet would groan and then, as always, Dasmon would turn—his mouth carved into silence, eyes emptied, the mark of heresy grinning from his ruined skin.
But this time, it wasn’t Dasmon who stood in the blood.
Not Alaric.
It was Thalen.
His brown curls were soaked red, his tunic clinging to his chest in wet folds. The symbol had been carved into the soft skin just above his collarbone, where no child should bear a curse. His lips parted, as if trying to say her name.
And Evelyne’s knees buckled.
Her stomach flipped, cold and acid, while her vision swam with nausea and dread. The edges of the chapel bled into shadow, warping like glass before it shatters.
No…
She reached for him—but her limbs refused. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Could only watch as blood crept toward her shoes like it wanted her to step forward.
His little boots were too polished for the carnage around him.
His hand reached forward. In it, he held the veil.
His eyes were sad. Ancient. Far too knowing for a child.
And as he opened his mouth to speak, Evelyne heard not her brother’s voice, but something older.
A whisper beneath the skin of the world.
The brightest thread will snap.
And the loom will spin again.
The words unfurled into a dry rip of material tearing, as though the very fabric of reality was being pulled apart around her.
Evelyne woke up gasping. The sheets were twisted around her legs, damp with sweat. She reached for the bedside table—missed—then reached again, hand trembling until she found the edge and pressed her palm flat against it.
She was breathing, but the air vanished before it reached her lungs. It scraped down her throat and fade away, offering no comfort.
Her body was still in the dream. The veil, the blood, the sound of the fabric tearing, Thalen’s eyes—
Control. Calm. Focus.
She clung to the words like a spell. But they didn’t work this time. She was still shaking, almost convulsing.
A floorboard creaked outside her door.
Then the soft knock.
“Milady?” Isildeth’s voice came through, muffled but alert. “Are you awake?”
Make it stop.
Evelyne managed, “Yes,” though her voice cracked in the middle.
Isildeth entered, she was carrying a robe and a glass of water.
“You cried out,” she explained, placing the cup on the windowsill before crossing to her.
Evelyne took the robe. “It was just… a sound outside.”
Isildeth gave a small hum.
Evelyne stood slowly, wrapping the robe tighter and avoiding eye contact. “I need air,” she murmured, avoiding Isildeth’s gaze.
“Would you like me to fetch your tea?”
“No,” Evelyne replied quickly. “No, thank you.”
She crossed to the window, pushing it open with more force than necessary. Cold air rushed in. It smelled of rain and burned herbs.
Isildeth was still watching her.
“My lady,” she said. “Are you—”
“I’m fine,” Evelyne cut in, sharper than she meant. “Please prepare my gown.”
A pause. Too long.
And then—soft, but firm: “No.”
Evelyne turned. Slowly. “Excuse me?”
“No,” Isildeth protested, squaring her shoulders like she was bracing for battle. “You are not fine. You haven’t been for months. I’ve watched you bite your tongue so hard it leaves marks. I have done everything I could to give you space. But enough is enough.”
Evelyne blinked. Isildeth had never raised her voice to her.
“You are a princess,” Isildeth continued. “Yes. But you are also human. For the first time since Queen Virelle, you’ve been granted real power. You command a future. One that terrifies them. Yet you walk through this castle like someone waiting to be punished.”
Evelyne opened her mouth, but no words came.
“You’re like a daughter to me,” Isildeth went on, more quietly now. “I shouldn’t say that. I know my place. But it’s true.”
Evelyne looked away. That was usually enough to end things. But not this time.
“You’re hurting yourself,” Isildeth insisted, voice shaking just slightly now. “You are a brilliant woman. But arrogant.”
“That is none of your—”
“It is,” she retorted. “Because I care. And because I’ve watched you treat everyone else with more grace than you grant yourself. You think silence makes you strong, that walls make you safe. But they don’t. They make you lonely, cold, and blind.”
Evelyne’s hands curled at her sides.
“My lady… I wouldn’t say anything if you really felt nothing. But I know you do. You feel it all, but you treat it like a flaw.”
Evelyne inhaled sharply. “I… I don’t know what came over me.”
“Yes,” Isildeth said. “You do.”
That stopped her.
“Everything,” Isildeth continued. “The pressure. What happened last year. And eight years ago. You’re unraveling, but pretending you aren’t. I know you.”
Evelyne stared at the floor, at the fine grain of the wood beneath her bare feet. Her mouth opened, but the words scattered before they formed.
“I remember,” Isildeth recounted softly. “When the fever took you. When the physicians whispered about your lungs.”
Evelyne’s gaze snapped to her. Sharp. Wounded. She didn't want to listen to that. “You don’t—”
“Don’t what?” Isildeth’s voice rose—just a breath, but enough. “Don’t remember how they smiled in pity and left flowers and condolences like they were already burying you? Don’t remember the way no one said your name for months, like it might summon bad luck?”
Evelyne’s throat tightened. She remembered it too. All too well. But until now it was conveniently buried in place she couldn't reach.
“They canceled the betrothal,” she whispered.
“You were fifteen,” Isildeth pressed on. “And the moment you survived, they didn’t thank the gods. They asked if you’d still be able to bear children.”
Evelyne’s hands flew to her ears. “Stop—”
“No,” Isildeth said softly. “You need to hear it.”
Evelyne shook her head.
“No one wanted a sick girl,” Isildeth forced out. “Not when your lungs wheezed like bellows and your hands shook too badly to hold a quill. Not when you might not carry heirs.”
The words struck without malice, and still they hurt. Broken. Delicate. Too old. The language of politeness and pity. Every gentle “woman,” every too-sweet “dear,” had been a reminder of what she wasn’t—useful, whole, unremarkable enough to be wanted.
“I was an embarrassment they kept indoors” Evelyne’s voice trembled. “And I knew—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed. “I knew if I wanted to be worth anything, I had to be perfect.”
Silence stretched.
“So, you practiced,” Isildeth continued gently. “You folded yourself into something they could marry off again.”
“Seven years later Calveran came calling.” Evelyne’s voice sharpened. “Because the granaries ran dry and suddenly a cursed girl with wide hips looked more appealing than famine.”
She pressed her hands flat against her stomach and trotted back to the bed. “And my father said yes,” she whispered, sitting carefully.
Isildeth sat beside her. “You never gave yourself permission to be angry.”
“What would it change?”
“Nothing,” Isildeth whispered. “And everything.”
Evelyne let herself fold forward, elbows on her knees, eyes burning.
“Strength is not never needing help,” Isildeth explained. “It’s not turning into marble just to prove you can’t be hurt.”
Evelyne wrapped her arms around her body. Her fingers found the edge of her sleeve and pressed until the fabric wrinkled beneath her grip.
Isildeth’s voice lowered, threaded with something tender and raw. “It’s a risk. And I think the bravest thing you could do right now… is let yourself be seen.”
Evelyne’s throat tightened. Seen. The word landed like a stone dropped into deep water, rippling through years she had spent trying to disappear gracefully.
Isildeth hesitated. “You practiced, learned, and fought. Just because you’re not a warrior doesn’t mean you’re not a force. Moonlight and steel are both the color silver.”
Evelyne’s chest rose with a shallow breath. “I don’t know if I can.”
“You can,” Isildeth said, her voice gentling but firm. “It’s your decision if you do—but something kept you going all this time. Whatever it is, don’t let it go to waste.”
Evelyne blinked hard. It scraped against memories she’d packed away too neatly: the smell of smoke from the infirmary, the sound of servants whispering, her father’s quiet pity disguised as restraint. She had rebuilt herself on obedience and poise because it was safer than falling apart.
“I kept thinking about how every woman in Edrathen—” she began, the thought crumbling before it finished.
“Stop,” Isildeth interrupted gently. “Don’t think about all of us. I’d die of overwhelm if I were in your place.”
Evelyne’s gaze drifted past her, toward the window where dawn had begun to swallow the gardens. The reflection of her own face in the glass looked unfamiliar—older, worn, and quietly furious at the years lost to survival.
“Think,” Isildeth murmured, “that you’re doing this for one person. The rest will fall into place. And it’ll make everything easier to bear.”
Evelyne’s breath trembled. “For who?”
Isildeth smiled then and reached out, brushing a braid from Evelyne’s shoulder. Her fingers lingered there for a breath.
“For the girl they taught to disappear.”
Evelyne wanted to laugh and sob at once, to tell Isildeth she didn’t remember how to be that girl anymore, that she’d buried her under marble and titles years ago.
But her nod came in pieces—disjointed, uncertain, like her body was trying to relearn the motion of saying yes to herself.
Isildeth placed a warm hand on Evelyne’s arm. “I’ll prepare your bath,” she said. “And after breakfast, we’ll use the drawing room.”
Evelyne looked up. Her eyes met Isildeth’s, and for a second, something tugged low in her chest. Familiar and sharp.
“Thank you, Isildeth.”
It came out hoarse.
Isildeth smiled and reached out to touch Evelyne’s cheek. Just for a moment. Her hand was warm and safe. Then she stood up and left, the door closing softly behind her. Evelyne didn’t collapse. She stayed where she was, shaking hands wrapped around her ribs, chest still tight.
She stayed like that for a long time—half-upright, half-remembering, as if any movement might shatter whatever part of her was still holding.
She was used to being tired. But this… this was something else.
She felt wrung out. As though her body had been held in a fist too long and was only now starting to unfold.
But Evelyne let it press in, let it touch every place she’d been taught to make small. Then, slowly, she lifted one hand and pressed it against her own sternum, where the fear always curled first. Her pulse beat there—fragile, persistent.
Proof she was still here.