Chapter 56 #2
He could have said anything in that instant—something clever to fold the moment back into safety—but instead: “You’ll be my wife soon,” he said, his tone small yet steady. “And I want you to know me—not the prince, not the heir. Me.”
He watched her closely, waiting for laughter, disdain, dismissal. What met him instead was what he’d scarcely dared to hope for—something gentler, disarmingly real.
She kept her eyes ahead, her skirts clenched tight in her grasp. Then, drawing a breath sharp enough to ache, she spoke.
“The engagement I had before. With the Dvorenics…”
Alaric nodded once, careful, steady. His stomach pulled taut.
“I was sixteen when they called it off. The letter was polite. Everything is polite when it’s meant to decide I wasn’t worth the gamble.”
Her eyes never turned toward him.
“They said they wanted to protect their son. But what they meant was that I’d become inconvenient. That I wasn’t the version of me they had agreed to bargain for.”
Her mouth tightened. “I didn’t feel pride when the letters returned years later. I’d already learned that apologies don’t mean restoration. It was just a business deal pulled off the shelf, dusted, and presented with polished smiles.”
Finally, she looked at him.
“I wasn’t chosen. I was… convenient again. My father needed it; the court needed it. And I… I agreed. Because I’d already learned how to be what was required.”
Her breath hitched, the tiniest catch, but she pressed on.
“I was a woman in a country that keeps them quiet. So I learned to serve, not to feel. I also performed. For survival.”
Alaric’s jaw worked. The courtly phrasing, the weaponized courtesy—it was exactly the kind of thing he’d seen all his life. And hearing her put words to it, calm and steady, made him want to grind his teeth into dust.
“Stars,” he said at last. “And you think I’m the one pretending.”
Evelyne exhaled long and slow, her shoulders easing as though they had forgotten how to do anything but brace.
“Oh please,” she muttered. “I’m the master of performance.”
Alaric raised both hands. “Oh, I know. You won.”
Her brow arched. “You fell for it though, didn’t you?”
He let his mouth curve, crooked and warm. “I walked straight into it. Face-first.”
“See? My plan worked. You’d never choose a future empress out of her mind,” she quipped, batting her lashes with a too-sweet smile.
He leaned in a fraction, unable to help himself. “Do you know a ruler in the right one?”
That blink of hers—sharp, startled, almost amused—was worth every risk.
“Fair point,” she conceded.
“We have to be a bit mad to rule anything,” he added, stroking his chin.
“Oh gods.” Evelyne pressed her palm to her cheek. “And we have to rule an empire.”
He gasped, one hand to his chest in mock horror. “Can you imagine? The scandal.”
“I am imagining,” she teased, her voice catching on the edge of a giggle. “I’ve been imagining for weeks. And it gets worse every time.”
“I bet it does.”
And then it happened—Evelyne snorted. Actually snorted. Then clapped her hand over her mouth like she’d just betrayed state secrets.
That undid him. Alaric doubled over slightly, laughter spilling out. It was rough and unprincely, and he didn’t care. Beside him, Evelyne wheezed, clutching her stomach, her braid coming loose.
They leaned toward each other, just enough that their shoulders nearly touched. She collapsed into breathless laughter—the kind born of too much silence and pressure.
“We’re going to ruin everything,” Evelyne squealed.
“We already have,” Alaric shot back. “Between the two of us, it’ll be a glorious disaster.”
“I can’t wait,” she quipped, wiping a tear from her cheek.
The laughter ebbed slowly, tapering into a few breathy chuckles. The night air cooled around them, brushing his flushed face like silk dipped in cold water.
“Wow,” he said at last, exhaling like he’d run a race. “That was… oddly cathartic.”
Evelyne tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, still trying to compose herself. “I don’t think I’ve ever tried to laugh at the disaster I was walking into.”
“You should do it more often.”
Her lips quirked, then smoothed into something steadier. “It’s… oddly refreshing.”
Evelyne lifted her face to the stars. He studied her profile and realized that he wanted to keep it—fix the image in memory like a constellation he could follow when the night pressed close.
Because it was a masterpiece, fragile and dazzling, a glimpse of the woman beneath all the armor of silence. And he wanted more of it.
Then Evelyne turned her head toward him, the last traces of laughter still softening her features.
“Tell me something about you,” she said, almost casually. “Something not everyone knows.”
He blinked, caught off guard. She tilted her head toward him, that quiet curiosity back in her eyes.
“Something not everyone knows?” he echoed, rolling the thought around like it might reveal its own answer.
“Alright. I like spiced nuts. Warm ones, preferably sold from a street cart, not served in those gilded bowls at court. I talk to myself when I’m working through a difficult thesis. I pace. A lot.”
Her lips twitched, but she didn’t interrupt.
“I hate figs,” he went on. “The texture, the seeds—utter betrayal disguised as fruit. Cinnamon is worse. Tastes like someone lit a tree on fire and decided it should be edible. And I despise the cold. Your kind of cold, especially.”
Evelyne laughed at that.
“And sometimes,” he added, quieter now, “I tend to talk too much when I’m nervous.”
Their eyes met, and this time neither looked away. A breath stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. He wasn’t sure if they were standing at the edge of war or something far more terrifying. And stars, he wanted to drown into it.
He let the silence hum a beat longer, then angled his head toward her. “And you?”
“Me?” She bit the inside of her cheek, hesitated. “Let’s see… I don’t like coffee, loud noises, and mess.” A small pause. “Water—open water—rivers or lakes are fine. But the sea…” she exhaled softly. “The big seas terrify me.”
Alaric’s brows lifted slightly.
“I like routine,” she continued, her tone gentling, as if louder words might fracture it. “Art. Conversation, too—but more than that, I like simply existing beside someone, doing the things I love.”
He watched her closely. There was something in the way she spoke, something quiet and careful that unsettled him. The pause between them lengthened, heavy with questions he should not ask.
“Did you love him?” he asked suddenly. The words escaped before he could call them back.
Her spine went rigid, a shift so subtle most wouldn’t notice. He did. The reflex to guard, to put the armor back on—it flickered across her like a shadow. He cursed himself silently.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “You don’t want to talk about it. I’ve always been very bad at reading that.”
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she exhaled. “It’s alright,” she assured. Her voice was low, steady, but he could hear the crack beneath. “You deserve to know. And this… I… deserve more than silence now.”
She looked down at her hands. Drew in a deep breath. And then: “No.” A single word, quiet but unshaken. “I didn’t. I had known him since childhood. We were friends.”
Alaric nodded slowly, something unreadable passing through him. He had met Dasmon once—just once. And he remembered thinking: kind eyes. A man who carried himself without hunger for power. “I met him,” Alaric said quietly. “Briefly. He seemed like a good man.”
“He was.”
“What do you remember most from that day?”
Her lips parted, then pressed shut again. He saw the war flicker across her face.
Finally, she whispered: “A blue ribbon.”
He blinked. “I’m not sure I follow.”
Her gaze drifted out to the lake, moonlight slick across its surface like milk. Her throat worked before words emerged.
“The day before the wedding,” she explained, “Dasmon’s sister—Irina—she was five. Bright-eyed, full of questions. She followed me everywhere that morning. Stared at me like I was spun from moonlight.”
A ghost of a smile crossed her lips, gone almost before it formed. “She loved the ribbon I had in my hair. Sky blue, soft silk. So, I gave it to her. Tied it into her little braid myself.”
“She wore it to the ceremony,” Evelyne whispered, her shoulders shook once, barely. “It was the first thing I saw when I stepped into the chapel. Sticking out from beneath her mother’s body.”
Her voice cracked, and for once she didn’t disguise it. Alaric wanted to reach for her. He wanted to let her break against him if she needed to. But he stayed still. Listening was the only gift he had to give.
“Thank you for trusting me with that.”
Evelyne smiled, soft and fleeting. The kind of smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, but said enough.
He glanced at the paling horizon, the faint thread of dawn tugging at the night. “It’s nearly dawn. We should go back.”
She steadied her breath, composure stitching itself back into place. “Yes. We should.”
The ride back was wrapped in silence. When they reached the courtyard, he dismounted, boots hitting stone with a finality he didn’t want. Evelyne followed, precise as always. He stepped forward, then stopped. If he closed the gap, he wasn’t sure he could stop himself from closing all of it.
“I would walk you to your door,” he began, voice lighter than he felt, “but I think I’ve already pushed my luck tonight.”
Her lips curved—small, dangerous, treacherous. “A wise decision. Even luck has its limits.”
He nodded, though his chest tightened. “Yes, I suppose it has. We will see each other at the ceremony, then.”
“I will be the one throwing daggers at you with my eyes.”
“Then I’ll look for the beautiful princess with the deadliest aim.”
That should have been the end—polite words, curtain drawn.
But she didn’t move away. Her fingers tensed, caught in some invisible struggle.
He felt it too—the perilous pull. Her palm rose, wavered in the air, close enough that he could sense its warmth through his shirt.
Every muscle in him inclined toward her, waiting.
But she pulled back. He watched the struggle pass over her face like a shadow. Then came the nod, composed, practiced.
“Goodnight, Alaric,” she breathed.
He wanted to reach for her, to ask what she’d almost said. But he didn’t. Because he could see it—that this was all she could give him tonight. And the last thing he would ever do was take more than she offered.
So he let her go. Watched her retreat step by step into the castle, the distance growing like a slow wound. He stayed where he was, rooted, as though following would shatter the fragile trust she had just allowed him.
He’d thought he was the one offering clarity, but somewhere along the way, she’d taught him what it meant to be truly seen. She wasn’t a bride or a symbol—just Evelyne. The woman who had laughed with him beneath the stars and let him see the places where she hurt.