Chapter 43 #2
“You know,” Alaric began carefully, “that most people in Aeltheris don’t dream at all. Not anymore.”
Evelyne exhaled slowly. “What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “Only that perhaps what’s happening isn’t random.”
Evelyne’s breath left her in a slow, measured, and cold stream. “I’m aware that dreams are wrong,” she said. “Unnatural.”
His eyes didn’t waver. “No. Not unnatural. Unwanted. There’s a difference.”
She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze fully. “So of course you think it’s by design.”
“I think,” Alaric confessed, carefully, “that people once dreamed often. Freely. And someone decided it was better if they didn’t.”
The words sat too neatly in the silence.
Evelyne’s voice dipped, more cautious now. “Are you saying someone is stealing them?”
“I’m saying,” he said, “that forgetting can be taught. And enforced. And over time, what’s enforced begins to feel like the truth.”
Her jaw tensed. “So, it's the truth we’ve forgotten.”
“It may be.”
The implication tightened her throat.
She looked at him again, eyes searching. “Are you dreaming, Alaric?”
He hesitated. Just for a second. “No.”
She turned her face away, not in shame—but in exhaustion. “Then maybe I am cursed after all.”
“No.” His voice was soft, but firm. “That’s what they want you to think.”
A beat.
“Why?” she asked, not sure which they she meant. The Assembly. The court. Everyone.
“To make you obedient,” he answered.
She didn’t respond at once. The words lodged somewhere between her ribs and her pulse.
“Do you know why art, dreams, and magic are treated like a disease?” Alaric asked.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she listened.
“Because they are all the same,” he said. “They’re a source of creativity and truth. In dreams, we see. Through art, we show. With magic, we change. And that terrifies them. Because anything that can’t be controlled, must be destroyed.”
Her gaze was fixed ahead. He was making too much sense, and she hated him a little for it. Hated that he was reckless enough to say such things aloud.
“You really are the most exhausting conversationalist,” Evelyne sighed, the corner of her mouth lifted.
Alaric grinned. “I do strive for consistency.”
“Try striving for clarity next time.”
“That would ruin the mystique.”
“That’s one word for it.”
He tapped his temple. “The archives will remember me fondly.”
She offered a cool smile, tilting her chin ever so slightly. “Do you always babble like that after exertion?”
They joined Vesena and Thalen near the fence. Her brother was demonstrating a flourished bow that looked vaguely dangerous, and Cedric was muttering under his breath about broken wrists.
“Only when the company inspires it,” he said, brushing his fingers through his damp hair. “And I wasn’t babbling. I was philosophizing. You Edrathen always pretend to value that sort of thing.”
She gave him a flat look. “That’s not philosophizing. That’s a cry for help.”
Thalen let out a victorious shout—he’d apparently managed to tap Cedric’s shin with a wooden stick. Vesena watched, faintly amused. Cedric’s expression was pure betrayal.
Evelyne turned slightly toward the scene, but her attention stayed on Alaric. “Whatever you’re trying to prove,” she said quietly, “I suggest you do it without turning me into a hypothesis.”
Alaric sobered just a fraction. “I’m not,” he assured. “But you’re… not just who they say you are. And I’d rather you see that for yourself than have it defined by everyone else.”
She studied him for a beat, the shadows of the courtyard dancing across his face. Then, dry as ever, “Go drink some water, Alaric.”
The corner of Alaric’s mouth lifted before he pivoted with princely grace and jogged off. She watched him go, fists politely clenched in her gloves, lips pressed tight. In her mind, a list was forming—articulate, blistering, and entirely dedicated to everything wrong with Prince Alaric of Varantia.
Impudent. Arrogant. Self-important. Apparently incapable of finding a shirt that fit properly. And entirely too pleased with himself.
Her internal rant was rudely interrupted by a smaller, more earnest voice.
“Why don’t you like him?” Thalen asked, looking up at her with furrowed brows. “He’s fun.”
Evelyne blinked, caught off guard. She glanced down at her little brother, eyes bright.
“I—” She grimaced, faltering.
So, she straightened her skirts, smoothed her tone, and said with what she hoped was enough restraint, “It’s not that I don’t like him.”
“Then why aren’t you nice to him?”
A fair question. A cruel one. Evelyne looked back toward the barracks where Alaric had vanished, his voice still echoing in her ears, maddeningly amused. Her throat tightened.
Why wasn’t she?
She’d blamed his arrival. His manners. His constant overstepping. And yes, those were valid irritations. But the truth—it shifted under her feet like a stone that wouldn't stay put. Every word he said scraped against her carefully maintained control.
And that was uncomfortable.
“Because that’s what adults do,” she murmured with resignation, her gaze still distant. “They complicate things.”
Thalen frowned, genuinely wounded by the logic of it. “Adults are stupid.”
Evelyne exhaled, a soft laugh catching in her throat like mist. She turned and ruffled his hair gently.
“Yes,” she admitted. “They really are.”
She crouched so they were eye to eye, her skirts pooling around her on the packed dirt. “Thalen,” she said softly, “your mother told me you’ve been having dreams.”
His face pinched. He glanced over his shoulder as though the shadows might be listening.
“It’s all right,” she whispered. “You can tell me. You’re safe.”
He hesitated, then whispered back, “Wolves. And moons. And once the sky was gold.” His brows drew tight. “They weren’t bad dreams. Just… strange.”
She nodded, though her chest tightened. “Strange dreams can still matter.”
“Mom gave me the tea,” he explained. “It’s better now.”
Evelyne nodded again, not reassured at all.
Without warning Thalen leaned closer, cupping his hand around her ear as though sharing the deepest secret.
His breath tickled her skin when he whispered, “I saw the Grand Marshal. By the Halls of Seals—on the way to the Rhyssa chapel, when I went with Mother for the sleeping draught. I think he’s preparing a surprise for the parade tomorrow. ”
Evelyne froze. The air caught sharp in her chest. The Halls of Seals—lined with the portraits of Edrathen’s rulers.
Her hand moved before she could think, cupping Thalen’s cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered, steady as she could manage. “Go on. Find Cedric. Tell him to show you the sword grip again.”
His face lit at the assignment. He tore down the yard, small boots thudding against the ground. Evelyne stayed crouched for a moment longer, breath locked tight. Then she straightened, lifting her gaze. Across the grounds, Vesena was already watching.
For too long, Ravik had lacquered himself in the color of honor, each stroke claimed for the kingdom’s good. Now it was flaking away in jagged strips. If he was haunting the sealed halls, something waited there.
She had let one massacre pass in silence. She would not let a second one harm anyone else.