Chapter 58 #2
Ysara smiled again, smaller this time. “In this world, women do not often get to choose their power. But we can choose each other. And we should. Especially now.”
Evelyne’s gloved fingers tightened slightly around Ysara’s. The warmth between them was thin, but it was there. And maybe, just maybe, it had always been.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last, the words low and clear. “For pushing you away.”
Ysara’s eyes softened. She gave Evelyne’s hands a reassuring squeeze. “What was, was,” she murmured. “We can’t change the past. But I hope you won’t forget this place.” Her voice caught just slightly, but she kept it steady. “I won’t forget you.”
Evelyne looked at her. “I won’t forget either,” she promised.
The moment was a small one. Private. Tucked away between layers of embroidery and expectation. All the years she’d kept Ysara at a distance flashed through her like a slow ache.
And for a heartbeat, she was furious. For wasting something that might have been gentle. For overlooking a thread of love that had always been offered, never demanded.
Another knock interrupted them, softer than before but just as final. The door eased open as Ysara released Evelyne’s palms, and there stood her father in full ceremonial silver, a crimson sash across his chest like a blade of duty. Beside him, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet, was Thalen.
He didn’t wait for formality.
“Evie!” her brother burst forward, something clutched tightly in one small, nervous fist. “I brought you a ribbon. For luck.”
Behind him, Ysara made a valiant attempt to shoo him back with a whisper of, “We talked about not interrupting—” but it was hopeless. Thalen’s excitement was a storm, and Evelyne didn’t mind being caught in it.
The ribbon—silver and slightly crumpled—was probably stolen from a dressing gown or drawer he wasn’t supposed to open. But he held it out like it was a crown.
“For your wrist,” he added, a bit more shyly now. “And because I’ve decided Prince Alaric is worthy.”
A strangled laugh escaped Evelyne before she could school it into something regal. Rhaedor’s lip quirked at one corner.
Thalen puffed up proudly, straightening the collar of his little formal coat with all the gravitas of a seasoned diplomat. “When I grow up,” he declared, “I’m going to marry someone as pretty as you.”
And that—well, that was her undoing.
Protocol be damned.
Evelyne bent, cradling him into a hug before anyone could stop her.
The tight corset bit into her ribs, her sleeves pulled at the seams, but she didn’t care.
Thalen’s arms wrapped around her neck with the kind of desperate sincerity only children could manage, and her composure cracked like thin ice beneath warm hands.
His small body trembled slightly against hers, and she realized too late that it wasn’t his comfort he was seeking—it was hers.
The contact hit her like a wave. The scent of soap in his hair.
The innocent, stubborn trust. She squeezed back, her cheek pressed to his temple, and for a moment, the world shrank to this—him.
Her little brother. Her one true anchor.
When she let go, her throat felt raw, like she'd swallowed every unspoken word and locked it behind her teeth. Her chest ached where his arms had been. He blinked up at her with shiny eyes.
“Go on,” she urged. “Don’t keep the procession waiting.”
Ysara smiled, placing a guiding hand on Thalen’s back. “Come, brave sir. Time to escort me down the steps.”
He nodded solemnly, chest still puffed like a tiny soldier, and gave Evelyne one last look. She watched them go; the small pair framed in red and gold light spilling through the doors. And then—quiet again.
Her father stayed. For a moment, he just looked at Evelyne with eyes wide open. His lips pressing together as if holding back a flood of emotions.
“My dear daughter…” he murmured, stepping forward and placing a hand on her shoulder.
Evelyne turned slightly to meet his gaze, and for a moment, she caught something unguarded in his eyes—a quiet tenderness rarely seen in him, and certainly absent the last time they stood one year ago in similar circumstances.
“You look absolutely radiant,” he whispered. “Just like your mother did on our wedding day.”
She swallowed the lump rising in her throat. That’s not why I wore this dress. “Thank you, Father.”
Vesena stepped forward, silent and steady, her palm outstretched. Resting there—a delicate silver chain, its pendant a single, gleaming pearl.
The king took it with quiet reverence. “She would have wanted you to wear this today,” he remarked. “Allow me.”
Evelyne bowed her head with the obedience expected of her. The clasp clicked shut behind her neck. The metal was cold, heavier than it had any right to be. Like a memory. When she turned back around, her fingers found the pearl—too perfect, too smooth. She hated that she couldn’t feel its edge.
Her father watched her. Something flickered in his gaze—regret, perhaps. Or pride. She couldn't tell anymore.
Without a word, he reached behind her head and drew the shorter part of the veil forward. The red fabric floated down, settling over her face like a crimson breath.
For a heartbeat, she couldn’t see him clearly. That, at least, was a mercy.
“Now,” he said, tone brisk again, “let’s get you to the ceremony.”