Chapter 50 #2
“The sites,” Ravik answered. “Each massacre took place on ground once bound to ancient power. And this sigil reappears—always on a single body. Each time, the Celestial Assembly arrives soon after, armed with a convenient explanation. Heresy. Rebellion. And the world accepts it—because no one dares ask what truly lies beneath.”
“And you’ve held this for all this time?” Evelyne cut in.
Alaric rested his hands on the back of a nearby chair. “Tell the truth plainly. Start with Calveran.”
Ravik’s gaze flicked between them, then toward the king. Rhaedor gave a single nod.
“Everyone. Leave,” he bellowed.
The command cracked through the chamber. Healers froze, servants stilled, then all at once the room emptied, the sweep of footsteps and the slam of the doors leaving only silence.
Ravik took a slow inhale and adjusted himself on the pillows.
“When the Dvorenic family died,” he began, “if magic wasn’t used, what was the Celestial Assembly doing there?”
He paused like it cost him.
“The same thing happened during the fire five years ago.” His voice dipped lower. “I was involved because… my wife died there.”
The words landed hard. Evelyne blinked, her spine taut. Alaric gazed at her, biting inside of his cheek.
Rhaedor’s head snapped toward him. “Your wife died in a ritual murder?”
Ravik nodded once. For an instant—just an instant—the iron mask cracked, and hurt flickered in his eyes.
Evelyne’s chest tightened. She remembered her: a quiet, kind woman who always had a gentle word for the servants, a softness that had seemed impossible beside Ravik’s hard edges. Her heart hurt with the memory.
Ravik shifted, one hand pressing lightly to his side.
“It looked like fire,” he said. “At first. But one of the victims had a symbol burned onto his lips.” His voice dropped lower.
“I didn’t know what it meant. Not then. But when I read about the massacre in Zharesh years later, and saw the same mark… I began looking into it.”
He paused, gaze sharp now, as if weighing each word. “And after what happened last year… I stopped doubting.”
Her father looked pale—more than she had ever seen him.
“Why was I never told of this?” he demanded, his tone edged and raw. “I was aware of your independent inquiry—but no one informed me of the other killings.”
Ravik gave a faint, almost apologetic smile. “Because, sometimes, Your Majesty… the crown is safer in ignorance.”
That silence again. This time heavier.
Alaric broke it. “Why did you pull the guard from Kelvar’s Cross?”
Ravik shook his head, grimacing. “That’s what the report said. I knew someone would intercept it and exploit the gap. I left the trail deliberately. Today’s attempt was my plan to catch them before the wedding.”
Rhaedor’s eyes narrowed. “You let the enemy think they can slip into the castle, so they’d take the bait and walk straight into your trap.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Evelyne couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The man she had known for twenty-six years—her father—barely flinched at the revelation of how close she had come to death.
She stepped closer. “Then explain the letter. The one from the Celestial Assembly. Dated one week after Dasmon’s death. It was in your possession. It spoke about permission for executing some kind of purification.”
Ravik’s eyes met hers. “They granted me permission to investigate the site after the massacre. I tracked down a gang of men armed with daggers and tattoos. We interrogated each of them. Then we carried out their executions.”
“How did you find them?” she pressed.
“I have spies, Princess.”
Alaric propped one elbow against his hand, fingers drifting to his chin. “And the woman? The one you met. Who took a message into the hidden crypt beneath Orvath’s chapel.”
“She’s mine,” Ravik replied. “A courier. That message was one I intercepted earlier in the week. It was about today’s attack.”
Evelyne’s jaw tightened. “Why didn't you warn us?”
“The best way to catch a knife,” Ravik explained, “is to let the hand holding it strike first. We were ready. We had containment. And as you can see—” his gaze moved between them, “—the royal family is alive.”
Her father exhaled, a long, weary sound.
“Is the wedding in danger?” he asked, and though his voice was calm, Evelyne could hear the iron tension underneath it.
“You can never consider yourself one hundred percent safe, Your Majesty,” Ravik replied. “But based on the intercepted communications, there is no indication of an attack planned during the wedding itself.”
Evelyne studied him for a long moment. As furious as she still was, she had to admit it: the man didn’t wear that uniform for decoration.
The strategy was sound. Ruthless. Effective.
Alaric, however, looked markedly less impressed.
“I asked you to tell me if the princess was in danger,” he pressed, voice low but sharp. “That wasn’t a suggestion. That was an order.”
Ravik met his gaze with an unfazed calm. “No offense, Your Highness, but I serve the Tresselyn family. And the Princess,” he added, glancing toward Evelyne, “was safe. I made certain of it. My men and I watched her.”
There was a pause.
“As she poked into prohibited places.”
Evelyne face fell as her father’s expression shifted in that slow, inevitable way that meant lectures were brewing.
“You’re wrong, Grand Marshal. I am offended,” Alaric’s voice went colder, blade-sharp. “My fiancée’s life is not a battlefield for your private experiments. You left a pass open for intruders to cross. That’s fine. But you didn’t stop them before the parade. Why?”
Ravik spoke without hurry. “People had to see that we caught them.”
Alaric’s laugh was a small, dangerous thing. “You did it for public image.”
“I did it for the crown.”
Evelyne turned toward her father, searching his face. His expression barely shifted, but she knew him well enough to see the tension gathering at the corner of his mouth.
Alaric’s voice cut across the room, low and lethal.
“Then know this—if it were my court, it would earn execution. Because you didn’t just gamble with soldiers, Marshal. You gambled with the future Empress. And Varantia will remember this.”
Ravik didn’t flinch. If anything, his mouth curved into something that might have once been a smile. Years ago, before the war wore it away.
“Then maybe,” he said, calm and cutting, “you are your grandfather’s offspring.”
Alaric simply raised an eyebrow, unimpressed and unbothered.
“Explain the list,” Alaric continued. “The one with her name. Hundreds of names, all crossed out. Except one. Evelyne Tresselyn.”
Ravik blinked. Slowly. And then, to Evelyne’s surprise, frowned—not with the sharpness of defense, but with genuine confusion.
“Where did you find it?” he asked.
“In your little chamber of treasures,” Alaric said smoothly.
“It is Edrathen’s treasury,” Rhaedor cut in, pinching the bridge of his nose. “A vault of legacy and record. And you, Prince, should not have had access to it.”
Evelyne had enough. Treasury? Legacy? As if that explained away a ledger with her name still inked in black. Ravik had used her as bait for assassins, and now her father summarized the existence of a vault of dangerous relics as if it were nothing. It was unbelievable.
“I know the list,” Ravik admitted. “I found it on one of the Heretics we captured a year ago. It listed one victim from each incident—the Maroon Slaughter, Zharesh, the… fire in Kelvar’s Cross.
We believe those people had the same sigil on their lips.
” He paused. “But Evelyne wasn’t on it. It ended with Dasmon Dvorenic. ”
“No,” she protested. “We saw it, my name was there. At the bottom.”
Ravik’s mouth thinned. “Then someone altered it after it left my hands.”
Alaric muttered, more to himself than anyone, “Maybe it’s magic.”
The silence that followed was instant.
“Son,” Rhaedor snapped, his tone dangerous. “I’m warning you.”
But Alaric didn’t back down. “We saw someone extinguish flames with nothing but a whisper. If they can snuff out fire with their hand, then what’s a name on parchment? Maybe Dasmon’s name appeared the same way. Maybe the list updates itself.”
“Enough,” Rhaedor thundered sharply. “No more talk of symbols. We do not speak of sorcery in this court. The Justicar will handle this. You will both focus on the wedding. The ceremony is in a few days. Our kingdom will not be ruled by paranoia.”
“But it must be considered,” Alaric pressed. “The fact remains—those involved are practitioners of magic. Banned or not, it’s still happening.”
Rhaedor’s eyes narrowed. “Where is this list?”
Alaric paused. Just for a moment. “My servant has it.”
“Then you will hand it over to the Lord Justiciar,” Rhaedor ordered. “It will be logged as evidence and investigated properly.”
Evelyne watched the muscle in Alaric’s jaw tighten. He took a deep breath but eventually nodded.
“Of course,” Alaric uttered through clenched teeth.
“I’m pleased that we are in agreement,” Rhaedor said, his tone carrying the unmistakable weight of closure.
Her voice cracked, but she didn’t let it collapse. “What about the rest?”
“As I said,” Ravik answered, his tone clipped, “you’ll focus on the marriage. People need hope to hold on to, and your union is just that.”
Evelyne’s chest flared with heat. “But we have to find out who really did it. We can’t just accept—”
“Evelyne.” Her father’s voice slammed through the infirmary. “I will not have a trial of my most trusted man with you as a witness. This must be handled with protocol.”
Her chin lifted. “You mean behind closed doors.”
His eyes darkened, the fury in them barely leashed. “I am warning you.”
“And I don’t care! Father, the person who killed Damson is still out there. We—”
“That’s enough,” Rhaedor thundered, his hand striking the armrest of his chair. “You do not rule this country. I do. Remember. Your. Place.”
Alaric took a step forward, is fists clenched.
Evelyne’s mouth tightened, nostrils flaring. Each unsaid word clawed at her ribs, desperate for release. When she clenched her fist, she discovered the faint tremor running through it.
Ravik, visibly exhausted, sighed and rested against the pillows. “I have nothing to hide. If the cost of safety is letting you all think I’m the villain in the dark—so be it. I would make the same call again.”
“The High Preceptor?” Rhaedor asked, not bothering to veil the steel in his tone. “Was he involved?”
Ravik didn’t hesitate. “He questioned my methods—frequently. He was wary of how I moved the guard.”
Alaric narrowed his eyes. “So he knew what you were doing.”
“Yes.” Ravik winced slightly. “When I first suspected a hidden passage beneath the chapel, I confronted him. He allowed me to post my men there.”
Alaric tilted his head. “So the Assembly’s hands are probably clean.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Ravik muttered. “But as far as the Preceptor himself—he gave me room to operate.”
Rhaedor’s voice was flat. “Are your men inside the enemy’s ranks?”
“Yes. Some,” Ravik admitted. “But the enemy is clever. They don’t use names. No one ever knows the full design. All we’ve ever had is the symbol. And only one name came up—Thandros.”
Evelyne’s eyes flicked to her father. He didn’t react visibly, but she could see it—the faint furrow at the center of his brow. He was calculating. But he wasn’t reconsidering the wedding.
This alliance had cost too much, taken too long, required too many sacrifices to unmake it now. He wasn’t going to call it off because of shadows and maybes.
No. Rhaedor was already shifting into strategy.
“We remove the Celestial Assembly from the castle. And we question the High Preceptor.”
There was a pause. It was a declaration that could fracture the continent. And he didn’t even blink.
“If they agree,” Alaric said quietly. “They’ll know we suspect them. And if they’re guilty... it won’t end quietly.”
Ravik nodded from the bed, wincing slightly. “We’ve danced in circles long enough. The longer they believe themselves above scrutiny, the deeper they root.”
Evelyne’s knuckles ached. “It will attract attention,” she noted. “From the court. From the continent. It will be seen as an act of aggression.”
Rhaedor ignored her.
And it hurt.
The guests would dine, toast and dance beneath chandeliers.
Unaware that the castle beneath their feet was bleeding secrets into its stones.
Unaware that the truth had teeth and was already chewing through the edges of their silver-trimmed bliss.
And she would stand at the altar. Crowned in pearls.
Wrapped in silk. Dressed like a bride, with a blade still pressed to her back.
There was nothing left to say. But there was plenty left to do.
Ravik watched her, silent, breath still shallow. Whatever he’d once been—monster or martyr—he had stepped in front of a blade for her.
“Thank you,” Evelyne said simply. “For saving my life.”
Ravik inclined his head.
Before turning to the door, Evelyne let her gaze shift to Alaric. She allowed herself a small smile. He caught it at once, the corners of his own mouth softening as he gave her a single nod, his eyes gentled in a way that made her pulse catch.
Then she slipped out alone.
Isildeth was waiting just outside, hands folded.
“Please send a message to Ysara,” Evelyne requested. “I want to speak to her.”