Chapter 48
Alaric hadn’t expected the anger to burn this cold. He was used to a feeling of injustice at incompetence, at the occasional egregious misuse of metaphor—but this? This sat low in his chest, cold and furious.
Because it was the first time, he had seen Evelyne look afraid. Not annoyed. Not composed in that way she wielded silence like a scalpel.
Afraid.
And gods help him; she still walked out ahead of them. Chin high, shoulders squared. Straight through the guards who could’ve arrested them all on the spot.
He wanted to find whoever had written that list and burn their name out of history. And he didn’t know if that made him irrational or dangerous, but it didn’t matter.
They didn’t speak. Just four shadows moving through stone. As if they hadn’t just broken into a tomb full of secrets. As if Evelyne’s name hadn’t been the last one left unmarked on a death ledger.
They regrouped in her private study. The room was small, almost humble by royal standards.
One tall window let in a curtain of setting sun.
There was a sturdy writing desk beneath it, stacked neatly with papers, quills lined like daggers.
A round table in the center. Two armchairs, high-backed and worn at the edges.
Cedric made a beeline for the desk and dropped into the chair. Vesena stayed by the door. Evelyne took one of the armchairs.
Alaric lingered in the doorway longer than he meant.
Watching her. She sat with her hands on her lap, fingers folded carefully, like she was holding herself together one knuckle at a time.
The shadows carved hollows beneath her eyes, and the light made her look almost too still, as if one more piece of truth might turn her to stone.
He finally moved and sank into the armchair opposite hers and put the scroll they took from the chamber to the table.
Evelyne’s voice broke the silence, low and flat.
“I don’t know what to do.”
Alaric’s hands clenched around the arms of the chair before he even registered the motion.
“We will confront him,” he said. “The High Preceptor. We will go to him now.”
Her head snapped toward him with sharp precision.
“To the High Preceptor?”
“Yes,” Alaric replied, “the High Preceptor’s hands are closer to the fire than he admits.
The Celestial Assembly was once Orvath’s own branch.
The symbols carved into bodies, the verses in that book we found, the tunnels beneath their chapels.
And the Assembly? They bury it neatly, as if tragedy were just another rite to be catalogued. ”
Her jaw tightened. “But it’s Ravik. He wasn’t at the wedding, yet somehow, he held the Assembly’s letter in his hands. The sigil turns up in his reports. He buries other murders beneath convenient accidents. And every time he’s there. Close to erase the trail before anyone else even sees it.”
Alaric tilted his head. “Or he erases them to keep you alive.”
She stared at him, incredulous. “You think this is protection?”
“I think,” he pondered, “that Ravik doesn’t care about innocence or guilt in the way most people do. It’s… ruthless. But it’s not malice.”
“You’re giving him too much credit.”
“And you’re giving the High Preceptor too little.”
They held each other’s gaze.
Alaric didn’t answer right away, fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. She could be onto something. The man had all but accused Varantia of orchestrating the Maroon Slaughter.
Alaric’s jaw tightened. Of course, Ravik “suspected” them. That was the move, wasn’t it? When someone starts tugging on the thread too close to your own secrets, you accuse the person who suspects your guilt.
He leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Or maybe we’re both right,” he said at last. “Maybe it isn’t one or the other.
I think they’re both in this. You overheard them speaking, which means they both know something.
The question is whether they’re still aligned.
Maybe they were working together before, but now… not anymore.”
She didn’t speak right away. Her eyes had gone distant again, flickering behind a mask of stillness so practiced it would be easy to miss the tremor beneath.
“What broke between them, then?” she pondered. “Was it the method? The choice of who gets sacrificed? Or the reason behind it all?”
Alaric leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“Now we have another perfect opportunity for mass, ritual murder,” Alaric added. “And they justified the lack of logical security by saying all personnel are being redirected to the castle for the wedding.”
He met Evelyne’s eyes. “They’re making a corridor. Pulling guards just enough to let someone in—and ensure no one gets in their way.”
Cedric shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “But we also found a cave. The sigil was there. On the wall. Blood-red. Same symbol Princess saw a year ago. And we saw magic. Used on purpose.”
She blinked. Then again, slower.
“What?” The word barely left her mouth. “Magic?”
“Yes,” Alaric said gently, watching her reaction. “One of them—he just… waved his hand. And the fire died. Just like that. Gone. They also mentioned a man named Thandros. I think they are working for him. He may be a leader or their spy in the castle.”
Evelyne shook her head. “That’s—no. That’s madness,” she murmured.
She shook her head. Her world had been built on silence, on order, on clean distinctions between what was and what was forbidden. And now, it was unraveling. Fast, and without permission.
It was one thing to read about forgotten things in banned books and another to watch them breathe. He saw that now.
“Ravik,” Evelyne declared. “It has to be him. He has the access. The authority. Everything passes through his hands.”
Vesena took a few steps toward them. “So we’re looking at two possibilities. One: Ravik and the Assembly are using this so-called cleansing to quietly remove anyone who is suspected of magic.”
“Or two,” Cedric continued, his voice colder now, “Celestial Assembly is orchestrating all of it. A cult buried behind Orvath’s name. Magic, weaponized under the pretense of faith.”
Alaric looked at Evelyne.
“And the worst question,” he wondered. “Does your father know?”
Evelyne had gone still.
Like someone measuring their breath because it might come out as a confession. She wasn’t looking at any of them now, just at some fixed point beyond the study window, where sunlight painted the glass with the soft indifference of the gods.
Alaric reached for the parchment and unfurled it across the table. A list of names stared back at him, neat as scripture. At first glance, it seemed ordinary. But then—
He leaned closer, frowning. “Strange…”
“What is it?” Evelyne asked, her voice distant.
“The ink. Look here.” He tapped a finger along the columns. “Every letter is identical. Even trained scribes leave differences in their strokes. But these—every ‘a,’ every ‘s’—they’re perfect copies.”
Evelyne’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Alaric admitted, a thrill and dread mixing in his chest. “But ink this precise doesn’t come from hand. It could be magical. I’d need to examine it further to be certain.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Ravik already knows what we’re doing,” Vesena said. “He is giving us room, because he’s confident we won’t reach far enough to touch him.”
Cedric let out a low groan. “Ah yes, the classic ‘villain' lets you struggle just enough to feel clever before he ruins everything’ maneuver.”
“But he’s right,” Evelyne remarked, ignoring the sarcasm. “We won’t reach him—not if we keep playing around in the shadows.”
Alaric leaned forward slightly. “So what are you suggesting?”
“Provocation,” she said. “We push him. There’s a review tomorrow. An official military parade. Everyone important will be in attendance.”
She rose from her seat in one fluid motion. “That’s where we do it.”
Alaric nodded, but his brow furrowed. “Do what?”
“I’ll handle it.”
That was the moment.
The moment he felt something snap. The leash of patience. The unspoken agreement that they’d keep dancing around the edges of this war and each other.
“No.”
He was standing before he realized it. She turned; her eyes locked onto him like she didn’t understand what was happening. Maybe neither of them did.
It wasn’t a game for him. Hadn’t been for a while.
He had come here chasing shadows. Hoping to find truths buried in symbols and sealed archives. But this wasn't a theory. Not abstraction. This was blood and grief and a woman still standing in the ruins of what should’ve been a life.
His truth could wait.
Hers was already burning.
She deserved more than a curious prince poking through history for answers. Intentions didn’t absolve anything. Not if they blurred into excuses. His fingers drummed twice on his knee before curling into a fist.
“I need to tell you something,” he said.
She frowned immediately. He knew that look. She was preparing for disappointment.
He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “The symbol. The one with the three lines in a circle.”
Her expression didn’t change, but he felt the temperature in the room drop by a full degree.
“I think I know what it is,” he admitted.
Evelyne’s whole body stilled. And then, slowly, she stepped back.
“You what?”
“I think it can be a Circle of Binding. I just thought about it a few days ago. And you were on a mission of ignoring me for whatever reason—”
She turned from him, jaw clenched so tight it could’ve been carved from stone.
“So, your solution was to lie.”
“I said nothing,” he corrected. “That’s not the same thing.”
“You play with words, Alaric.”
“I play with truth,” he objected, taking one small step closer. “I omitted it—because you know the world we live in. I value the truth, but I value survival too. If I’d said outright that this was all magic, the Assembly would’ve taken us both before the sentence left my mouth.”
She went still again. Her breathing was shallow.
“There are things hidden in Edrathen,” he began. “In plain sight. Things even you’ve been taught to misread. The sigil. Dasmon’s murder. The Sundering. It’s all connected. You saw it just a few minutes ago. Everything is there. In religion, tradition, folklore, art.”
She scoffed wrapping her arms around herself. “That’s impossible.”
“Is it?” he challenged. “If you don’t want to believe me, believe your own mind. You know what you saw, you know what’s going on. Deflection for survival will not work anymore.”
She looked at him like she wanted to slap him. Or walk away. Or both.
“This isn’t your scene,” she said, low and bitter. “This isn’t a scholarly expedition. These are people.”
“That’s exactly why I want you to see it,” he snapped. “The whole picture. You think I came here just to smile and bow and secure an alliance?”
Evelyne glared at him.
“I came here because my grandfather warned me that your kingdom is sitting on a powder keg of forgotten blood and buried gods. And you—” he took a breath, steadying the shake in his chest, “—you just happened to be standing on top of it.”
“I was wrong in many ways,” he continued, more quietly now. “But this is a difficult matter, very delicate. And I made the decision to keep it for myself. I am still not sure if this is the Circle of Binding.”
Her brow furrowed, wary now. “What is that, exactly?”
“A circle like that,” Alaric explained, voice low, “was used during ancient rituals to focus magic. To gather power. Not just to cast something—but to force it. Amplify it. Think of it like… a funnel, one that made a weak flame into a wildfire. They were used in the last days of the Last War.”
“Before the Sundering?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “The final campaign started by Kaer’Vosh. The spell known as the Void Tear—it was meant to restore magic by fusing the mortal plane with arcane breath. Instead, it obliterated the capital. Left a crater. That’s where it began.”
Evelyne said nothing, but her expression darkened.
“I don’t believe magic is gone,” he continued. “Not entirely. But I believed it couldn’t be used that way anymore. That no one would try.”
Her mouth was a tight line. He rubbed his neck.
“I should have told you,” he admitted. “You have every right to be furious.”
She averted her gaze, jaw tightening. Then, in a restrained murmur: “You believe that was used on Dasmon?”
“I believe someone attempted it—or wished to make it appear so. And if that kind of power is being invoked once more… I needed to know what remains in your memory. What you witnessed.”
She gave no immediate reply. Her focus rested on the floor, though her mind was far from it.
“I still have questions,” she added, lifting her chin slightly. “Too many. And I don’t know where they all lead. But I know there’s more. I feel it.”
Her brow tightened.
Evelyne turned and walked toward the window, her steps quiet against the stone. She didn’t speak again, only stood there, gazing out as if the night beyond might answer her.
Alaric exchanged a glance with Cedric—then with Vesena.
“We need a plan,” he noted.
Evelyne nodded once, not turning. “I agree.”
She looked over her shoulder without turning her body. “If you have something that can help us, Alaric—don’t withhold it again.”
He gulped.
She stepped away from the window and crossed the room. She stopped in front of him and stared straight into his soul. “Because if you do… I won’t forget it twice.”
He stared back into her blue eyes transformed by the sunset, burning with the low, steady glow of dark gold. Like embers submerged in water.
“I won’t,” he promised. And he meant it.
She gave a small nod, and this time, when she met his eyes, something had shifted. “Good. Because the truth you’re chasing?” Her voice stayed level, but he didn’t miss the edge beneath it. “I want it too. All of it.”
It surprised him how much relief came with those words. A door she had previously kept locked out of habit, fear, or necessity, was ajar now.
“All right,” he said after a moment. “We’ll follow your lead.”
Her eyes stayed on him, longer than before.
And underneath it all, buried just enough to be almost missed, was the question neither of them would speak aloud. Why her name had been there. Why it hadn’t yet been crossed out. And how much time they really had before someone tried to finish what had been started.