Chapter 55
Evelyne and Alaric rarely had a moment alone after the parade. Their conversations were limited to brief exchanges over meals, always under the watchful gaze of the king or guards.
Alaric was consumed by politics, spending most of his time in counsel with Edrathen’s advisors. Meanwhile, Evelyne’s time was filled with ceremonial preparations as well as other responsibilities.
And now, at last, the night before the wedding had arrived. She had gone to bed early, but sleep would not come. She drifted, then woke again. The bed felt wrong, unfamiliar no matter how she turned. She sighed in frustration and smacked the sheets with her hands.
She needed the lake. The willow. Just once more. If she died tomorrow, she will never see this sight again. If she doesn't die and goes to Varantia, she won't see it either.
A quiet rebellion stirred within her.
She threw off the covers and stepped onto the cold floor then reached for the floor-length periwinkle night robe and wrapped it around herself. Her white nightgown billowed slightly beneath it as she padded barefoot across the room. She hesitated only for a moment before opening a window.
Moonlight spilled into her chamber in silver ribbons, catching the glint of the embroidery on her robe. With a last glance behind her, Evelyne slipped onto the ledge. The wind stung her cheeks as she gripped the thick vine clinging to the outer wall.
Halfway down, she paused to adjust her grip: I am climbing out of a castle window. Like a thief.
What am I doing?
I could fall. Break my neck.
The thought didn’t slow her.
If anything, it made her fingers grip tighter.
Hand over hand, she descended carefully, the rough braid of ivy and stone biting into her palms. The hem of her robe caught once, and for a moment she hung there, suspended between the past she’d been trained for and the future she was now clawing toward.
Below, the courtyard stretched in silver and shadow, empty save for the silent watch of broken statues and stars. When her feet touched the ground, she exhaled.
I must be insane… or alive for the first time.
But the cool night air on her face, the thrill pounding in her chest, whispered something else entirely.
Above her, the almost full moon hung heavy over the castle spires.
The same moon that would witness her wedding tomorrow.
Weddings in Edrathen always took place beneath a full moon, symbolizing clarity, fate, and the guiding light of the heavens.
Yet, as she looked up at it now, she felt no comfort in its glow.
Evelyne strode toward the stables across the east courtyard.
She expected to see stable hands, perhaps a few servants. But as she neared the complex, she was met with nothing but silence. She pushed the ajar doors open. The scent of hay and leather hit her at once.
And then she saw him.
Alaric stood deeper inside, one hand resting on the bridle of his horse. The beast snorted softly, shifting under his touch.
Their eyes met in the dim light.
“Running away, princess?” he asked, voice edged with amusement.
Evelyne tilted her head slightly. “And you?”
Alaric laughed, patting the horse’s neck. “No, not running. I couldn’t sleep so I thought a ride might clear my head.”
“I—” She uttered quickly. “I merely wished to check on the horses.”
“Ah. Of course.”
She pursed her lips. “Are you questioning my dedication to the well-being of my father’s stables, Your Highness?”
His laughter came again, softer this time. “Far be it from me to doubt your sense of duty, princess.”
Evelyne arched a brow, ignoring the sudden warmth creeping up her neck. His hair, slightly tousled from the wind, framed his face in a way that was entirely unfair. He looked nothing like a prince at that moment. He looked free.
She glanced away, collecting herself. “Should you even be riding before your wedding? What if you fall and break your leg?”
“Then you shall have to marry my grandfather instead,” his grin was wicked.
She threw him a look. “Very funny.”
Alaric finally exhaled, his smirk softening. “Shall we go for a ride together? Since we are both so devoted to the care of these horses.”
She hesitated, knowing full well she should refuse. But something about this moment felt different.
And for once, she wanted to step into it.
“Fine,” she said at last.
Alaric grinned, reaching for the reins.
She turned abruptly and went to her horse, placing a saddle upon its back.
“You have very long hair,” he remarked, his voice more thoughtful than teasing. “Beautiful.”
No.
A sudden rush of panic clawed at her throat. She clutched at her hair, trying to gather the long, loose strands, and considered running back inside, abandoning the ride altogether.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he teased. “That I saw you so scandalously with your hair unpinned.”
“Is this funny to you?”
“Is it important to you?”
“Yes.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, after a brief pause, he pulled something from his pocket and held it out to her.
A gold scarf.
Evelyne blinked, caught off guard and reached for the cloth.
Before she could speak, he had already turned away, giving her a moment of quiet.
Her fingers moved quickly, twisting her hair into a braid.
The fabric still held the faint scent of him, warm and steady.
It lingered longer than she expected, grounding her more than she wanted to admit.
She exhaled slowly, steadying her trembling hands.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Alaric turned back to her as though nothing had passed between them.
Evelyne pressed her lips together, heat prickling at the back of her neck.
Gods—her hair. She had fussed over a stray curl when she was about to do something far worse.
A midnight ride. Alone. With a man who was not yet her husband, with no chaperone. If the court ever caught wind of it…
She stole a look at Alaric, occupied with tightening the horse’s bridle.
“If I had known about this little escape in advance, I would have planned it better,” he admitted. “But I don’t know the area. Do you have a place in mind?”
Evelyne hesitated only for a moment before nodding.
“The lake,” she said finally. “Follow me.”
Without another word, she mounted her horse. Alaric followed, and together they rode into the night air, cool and damp with the scent of earth and grass.
At last, they arrived at The Heart of Vellesmere.
The water shimmered under the moonlight; cool mist curled at their ankles. In the center, an island sat still. A great willow stretched over the lake, its silhouette trailing tendrils into silver water.
Beyond it, rising from the faraway hill, the Ivory Bastion loomed.
By daylight, the fortress looked abandoned, half-swallowed by moss and time. But under the moon, it transformed. Evelyne always had the strange impression that the ruins were still moving.
Alaric dismounted first. He reached for her reins, steadying her horse with one hand.
Then he turned to her and offered his other hand.
Evelyne stared at him for a moment. She hesitated, then placed her hand in his and let him help her down.
As her feet met the ground, she looked up at him, finding his eyes reflecting the same moonlit shimmer of the lake behind them.
His focus flickered down to where their hands remained connected. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Evelyne inhaled sharply and withdrew her hand, folding her fingers tightly against her palm.
Alaric gestured toward the lake.
“A walk?” he offered.
She nodded.
They walked beside each other toward the lake’s edge.
The cool air wrapped around her, yet she felt unbearably warm.
The hush of the night, the gentle rustling of the willow leaves, the rhythmic lap of water against the shore—it all wove around them.
Evelyne welcomed the quiet, though her thoughts were anything but.
She stole a brief look at Alaric’s profile, the moon tracing the sharp planes of his face. Her attention lingered too long.
He angled his head, catching her in the act, a flicker of amusement curving his mouth. “If you mean to admire me, princess, you might try being less obvious about it.”
Evelyne faced forward at once. “I was not admiring you.”
“No?” He hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps I was mistaken.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Alaric chuckled, tucking his hands inside the pockets.
“I’m glad this happened,” he admitted. “This—” he gestured between them, toward the dark stretch of lake and sky, “—not a council meeting, or another stilted dinner where we both pretend, we’re not exhausted or angry or five minutes from snapping.”
He looked at her. “Frankly, I think there should be a lot more of these. It’s easier to talk to you without the ceiling listening.”
Evelyne didn’t answer at once. She waited, watching him from the corner of her eye.
“That said,” he added, more firmly now, “I have to bring you to your senses. Sneaking out of the castle a few days after someone tried to kill you? Not exactly what I’d call cautious. Or wise.”
“I needed air,” she replied evenly.
He didn’t flinch. “Air is also inside the walls.”
She opened her mouth to retort with something cutting, but he raised a hand gently.
“I get it,” Alaric said. “You needed space.
But you're not just Evelyne of Edrathen anymore. You're the empress-to-be. If something had happened to you, I—” The words caught, hung unfinished between them like smoke. He looked away briefly, jaw working. “I’m not going to stand by and stay silent while you get yourself hurt just to prove a point to people who already want you dead, no matter what you do.”
Evelyne remained still. The wind picked up, cold against her cheeks, though her chest was already warm with something else—anger, guilt, something tangled between the two.
“It wasn’t calculated,” she confessed finally, keeping her voice even. “I didn’t slip out to make a statement. I had an impulse. I couldn’t sleep; a lot was on my mind.”
“I believe you. But it was still reckless.”
Evelyne’s lips curved slightly. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
He blinked at her, caught off guard.
“I thought you were rooting for less restraint, more chaos,” she teased.
Alaric laughed—a low, surprised sound that rolled out of him like wind over the surface of the lake. “Alright, fine. You got me,” he said, grinning now. “Yes, I wish you as many wild impulses as your heart can conjure.”
Then the grin faded just enough to leave something honest behind. “Just not the suicidal ones.”
Evelyne smiled again, slower this time. Warmer. She gave a small nod. “That’s reasonable. I’ll be more careful next time.”
That seemed to throw him more than anything else. His brows lifted in quiet surprise.
“Thank you,” he said after a beat, simple and sincere.
She turned back toward the water, watching the silver ripples catch at the willow’s reflection.
Her shoulders eased, as if the weight she carried had slipped for a moment.
It felt dangerously normal. And perhaps worth the risk.
With him, scandal felt less like a noose and more like a choice she could make for herself.
A shiver ran down her spine.
Alaric caught it immediately. “Are you cold?”
She stilled. “No.”
He studied her, long and quiet, as if searching for the truth in her denial. Then he only tilted his head back, gaze lifting toward the stars.
Evelyne followed his line of sight despite herself. Above them, the night stretched wide, threaded with constellations that belonged to no king, no council, no god. Just a sky that had watched every vow and every betrayal, and would outlast both.
She let herself breathe in that silence beside him—not as a princess, not as a bride, but as a woman who, against all reason, did not want the moment to end.
Because it was a beautiful night to feel absolutely nothing but free.