Chapter 59
Control. Calm. Focus.
Her fingers tightened on her father’s arm.
He must have felt it, because without a word, he covered her hand with his.
The corridor stretched ahead, too bright, too wide, the echo of their steps hollow and final.
Stained glass fractured the light into blue, gold, and red across the polished stone.
She tried not to look at the red, but her stomach clenched anyway. It painted her skirts and shoes.
Step.
Another.
Every one scraped the marrow of memory raw.
The walk felt both too long and too short.
With every stride, she had the sinking sense that she was crossing into something final.
That whatever waited on the other side would seal the door behind her.
Would keep her from resolving what remained unfinished, from saying what still needed to be said, from doing what she hadn't yet dared.
It felt like running out of time.
Rhaedor paused just before the entrance to the grand ballroom, turning to look at her once more. Stones were scattered at the foot of the door.
“Are you ready, my dear?” he asked quietly.
No. No, I’m not.
Evelyne’s shoulder gave the faintest twitch. She adjusted the fall of her sleeve, buying herself a second before answering.
But her chin lifted on command. “Yes.”
He hesitated, then leaned closer. “Remember, my dear… this is for the kingdom. For the peace and prosperity of our people.”
Evelyne wanted to laugh.
For the kingdom.
The lump in her throat had been there since dawn, immovable, lodged somewhere between memory and duty.
“I know,” she whispered. Only two words, and already she feared that if she let any more loose, the whole fragile stage would splinter.
The doors creaked open like the mouth of a crypt.
Control.
But the mantra was fraying.
Light spilled in—too golden, like it didn’t belong in this world. The grand ceremonial hall stretched out before her, all soaring arches and chandeliers, silver-veined marble and candlelight.
She should have felt majestic and holy. Instead, she braced herself for a scream. For crimson pooling at her feet. The scent hit her all at once. Lilies meant to say purity, rebirth, and blessed union. But to her, it smelled like death. She nearly gagged.
Please let it not end in red. Please, please…
Her father led her forward. His steps were careful. Hers… less so. The fabric of her gown whispered around her ankles, and the train dragged behind her like a reluctant shadow.
The hall unfolded before her like a stage.
In the front row, Thalen sat upright as a sapling, hands clenched in his lap, eyes wide.
Beside him, Ysara seemed composed, but Evelyne caught the way her fingers twisted the edge of her handkerchief.
Vesena stood off to the side, straight-backed and still, but her gaze was sharp. Watching for threats. Watching her.
Isildeth’s lower lip trembled once before she caught it between her teeth. Cedric’s arms were crossed, jaw tight.
A spike of cold climbed her spine. She couldn’t feel her hands. Couldn’t feel her face. Her heart pounded, fast and out of rhythm, but her legs kept moving.
They had to.
She focused on the floor, counting the steps.
One.
Two.
Guests stood taut as bowstrings, silence felt more like a trap than ceremony; counter-archers lined the balconies with bows half-drawn; medics waited in alcoves with baskets at their feet.
Evelyne’s eyes swept the crowd of nobles, searching each shadow, as though expecting a dagger to flash from the crowd.
The throne room was meant to impress, but it looked more like a dungeon. Everyone was trapped inside, guilty by proximity, locked in by verdict.
Her ribcage locked. She couldn’t get air in. Not enough, never enough.
But no one noticed. Her mask was flawless.
And then she saw him. Through the lace threaded in crimson. The light caught the red just so, casting its hue across his face. For a moment, it looked as though blood had been brushed over his skin.
He waited at the far end of the hall, beside the ancient anvil. Breathing. He was dressed in the deep royal blue, his hair was neatly combed back, yet a stray lock had fallen onto his forehead. His beard had been trimmed into stubble.
The colors were too bright. The glint of a sword at a guard’s hip made her flinch. Her lashes fluttered once, twice, as if to clear away the hallucination that hadn’t yet arrived.
She wanted to run.
But she kept walking.
Alaric’s lips curved ever so slightly. She felt the eyes of hundreds upon her, but she chose to focus just on him.
As they reached the dais, Rhaedor’s grip on Evelyne’s arm tightened with an almost imperceptible reluctance before he finally released her hand, placing it into Alaric’s waiting grasp. She felt the warmth of his fingers immediately.
Calm.
He led her toward the sacred anvil. Its surface caught the flickering light of the tall ceremonial candles, casting long shadows across the marble floor. Evelyne’s eyes landed at the figure standing at the altar.
That… was not Keeper Halwen.
Standing before her now instead was The High Preceptor of Orvath.
His grey robes were immaculate, his features stoic. He regarded them with the kind of expression that suggested everything he saw fell short of his expectations.
This was wrong. All wrong.
Why was he here?
Evelyne’s pulse spiked, she was breathing hard and fast, her ribs pressed against her corset.
She briefly scanned the crowd for Halwen, but he wasn’t there. And that alone told her everything she needed to know. They had replaced her goddess with a god who did not care for women’s thoughts.
Something bad was about to happen. She knew that.
Alaric angled his head, concern flickering in his expression. She met his stare and managed a small, deliberate smile.
He drew her gently forward, closing the distance until they stood face to face.
Her hands settled in his and his thumbs began to trace slow circles against her gloves.
She glanced around the hall, taking in the scene with the detached clarity of someone watching their own life from a distance.
Her father joined Thalen and Ysara in the front row.
She met Alaric’s eyes once more, her grip firming subtly around his. Together, they faced the Preceptor. He regarded them with the distant coolness of a man who neither approved nor cared. With a slight rustle, he unfurled the long strip of paper before him and cleared his throat.
Murmurs faded to nothing. The hall stilled. The ceremony began.
Focus.
“We are gathered here beneath the gaze of Orvath, Keeper of Order, to witness the union of two sovereign realms, bound not by conquest, but by choice. In the eyes of gods and men, this vow shall be spoken and sealed.”
He turned to Alaric. Nothing happened.
“Prince Alaric of Varantia, son of Empress Aurevia and Emperor Emrys, do you swear before the gods and your people to take this woman as your wife? To stand beside her as sovereign, to guide and uphold the legacy of your houses, and to rule in unity? Do you vow to protect her, as you protect the throne and the people entrusted to your care? To ensure that together, you reign with justice, strength, and resolve, as husband and wife, until the gods call you home?”
A beat of stillness passed. Evelyne angled her head toward Alaric, who met her stare without wavering. Still no scream.
“I swear it,” he declared, looking her directly in the eyes, his thumb continued that slow, grounding stroke across her knuckles.
“With my name, my crown, and my blood, I take Evelyne of Edrathen as my wife. I vow to stand beside her in rulership, to uphold our lands and our people as one. I will protect, respect, and reign with her, unshaken by storm or war, for as long as breath remains in my chest, and beyond.”
She hadn’t expected to feel anything. But his words, or rather the way he spoke them, found something raw and waiting inside her. Something that didn’t want to be alone anymore.
The priest turned to her. His face soured even more.
“And you, Evelyne of Edrathen, daughter of King Rhaedor and Lady Serenya,” he intoned, “do you swear before the gods and your people that you will take this man as your husband? To be his partner, his equal, his light in the darkness? Do you swear to share his burdens, triumphs, and trials, to stand by his side as a woman who chooses him above expectation? Do you swear to love him, to know him, to let trust and loyalty bind you in ways that go beyond the law?”
They were not the traditional Edrathen vow. No, these were gentler. Softer. Words that might have lived in poems.
This was Varantia’s vow.
Alaric’s fingers shifted against hers. She turned her gaze back to him. With a final breath, she swallowed and steadied her voice.
“I swear it,” she whispered, brushing her finger once against his.
“With my name, my honor, and my heart, I take Prince Alaric of Varantia as my husband. I vow to walk beside him, not behind. To be his strength as he is mine. To learn him, as he learns me. I will stand at his side in all that we build together, for as long as the stars shine above.”
There was a pause as the High Preceptor’s gaze moved lazily from Alaric to Evelyne. Then he exhaled.
“Then by the will of the Orvath’s Doctrine and the decree of the law, I bind you as husband and wife. Let your union be unshaken, your rule be just, and your bond be everlasting.”
Still no blood.
The Preceptor turned to Alaric with a mild abhorrence.
“You may kiss your bride,” he drawled.
He spoke without meeting either of their eyes, his attention sliding past Evelyne as though she were already erased from the room.
She had imagined this moment once, quietly, in the privacy of her mind. Standing before the goddess of hearth and home. She had pictured Halwen’s steady hand and soft smile, the almost imperceptible nod he gave her when she did well during lessons.
But instead, she got Orvath's vessel. Dressed in judgment and draped in ceremonial frost.
Even the gods felt absent.
The sound around her blurred, folding into an indistinct hum against the pounding of Evelyne’s heartbeat.
And then—his eyes.
His gaze saw her. His hands rose gently, lifting her veil. Her breath caught as the fabric passed her cheeks. His forehead dipped toward hers, not quite touching. Close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath.
“Breathe,” he whispered.
Evelyne blinked up at him, her lungs struggling to obey. But his voice was constant. She swallowed, forced in a trembling breath. Another. She tried not to dwell on the thought that every inhale could be her last, tried not to tense at the silence, waiting for it to shatter with a scream.
All she felt was him—his presence like warmth after a long nivalen.
“May I?” he murmured.
She couldn’t speak so she just nodded. Her heart pounded so fiercely she could feel it against her ribs, a rapid staccato she couldn’t control.
Alaric leaned in, cradled her face and kissed her.
It was soft and impossibly gentle. A brush of lips. Just warmth and the faintest ghost of something she didn’t understand.
It should have been nothing.
And yet, the moment his mouth met hers, something shifted—deep and ancient. A flicker of heat bloomed in her chest, curling around her ribs like smoke rising from embers long thought cold.
The world did not move. The sky did not shake. But there was a pull, as quiet and undeniable as echo. A thread, invisible and warm, stretching from the hollow of her throat to somewhere behind his ribs. She squeezed her eyelids, waiting for the reality to collapse.
And then it ended.
He drew back, slowly. Her eyes fluttered open and she noticed his eyes on her, unguarded.
The applause that followed was meant to be restrained, but as they turned to face the gathered crowd, the hall erupted into thunderous applause, like a release of held breath.
Apparently, in the case of a royal wedding, even Edrathen could forget its own rules.
Her father included. Or perhaps it was simply relief that no one had died.
For now.
Alaric was quicker to recover. He straightened, his expression slipping into something princely. Evelyne forced herself to do the same.
His palm brushed against hers, their fingers weaving together with careful intent. Slowly, he raised her gloved hand and pressed his lips to it.
Almost unwillingly, Evelyne turned back, drawn by something denser than curiosity. The High Preceptor remained where he was, unmoving, his stare fixed and narrow, waiting.
When their eyes met, a weight sank deep in her stomach.
Without a word, he pivoted and departed.
And she stood frozen, her fingers still tangled with Alaric’s, wondering if they had made a terrible mistake.