Chapter 78
Alaric sat cross-legged on the stone floor of his guest chamber, surrounded by half-packed trunks and books in varying states of abuse—dog-eared, margin-scribbled, ribbon-marked.
He hadn’t thought he’d be leaving Edrathen under these circumstances. He’d imagined packing like this once. Arms full of answers, mind alight with discovery, Evelyne at his side, her curiosity awakened.
He had wanted the truth. But not like this. Not with so many names left in blood.
Not with hers still waiting.
His fingers hovered over the scroll Cedric had stolen for him. Then he unrolled it slowly, the parchment whispering.
Evelyne's name was still there. Uncrossed and waiting.
Just below Dasmon’s.
Just above another.
Aerenne Valis.
He hadn’t seen that name before. It was crossed out now. She had died at night in the ruins of the Ivory Bastion.
Alaric’s stomach turned. She died in Evelyne’s place. Speaking prophecy in the dark with sigil carved on her mouth. She had stepped out of her death and spoken words that should have belonged to Evelyne.
He saw the pattern now. Rituals happened always during the full moon, when the magic was strongest. The setting was always in some Old Bones. Bodies were sacrificed, because magic demanded payment. And the most potent price was life.
Each ritual was meant to channel the energy into one person—the vessel. The one who would receive the prophecy and survive long enough to speak it. The one who wore the Circle of Binding on their lips.
And then… another name on the scroll would be crossed out.
Alaric looked at Evelyne's name again then folded the parchment with deliberate care. He slipped it into the inner lining of his coat—close to the heart, where secrets went to fester or survive.
The door creaked, then slammed open behind him.
Cedric stepped through, his shoulders taut, the fire in his expression hadn’t dimmed since the ritual.
“The carriages are ready,” he announced.
It was the kind of statement that should’ve meant motion, escape, forward momentum. But it landed like a sentence.
Alaric gave a slow nod.
Cedric had been like this for days: pared down to essentials, no room for anything that didn’t directly serve the mission or the grief. His usual wit had gone dormant, buried under ash and bone.
Alaric understood. He felt the same.
But what he didn’t say—what he hadn’t dared to speak aloud—was worse.
Evelyne.
Everything in him kept circling back to her. Not just the way she’d looked in the aftermath, but the power that had coiled around her like it belonged there. He had once called her a storm in disguise. He hadn’t known how literal that was.
He thought of the signs: the lunar eclipse at her birth, the fever that should have ended her life, the massacre she survived. The sigils. The silence. The way she hated magic because something in her recognized it not as myth, but mirror.
He used to think the prophecy was about someone to find. But now it was clear. It was her.
She didn’t just live among the old stories—she anchored them.
She didn’t know.
But he did.
“Of course,” he muttered under his breath. “Of course it had to be you.”
She wasn’t the key to the secret. She was the secret.
An Echo.
Esharion’s Echo.
He pressed his hand briefly to the place where the parchment lay against his chest, then stood up.
“I found something.”
Cedric rolled his eyes. “It is not the time—”
“I think she’s one of them,” Alaric pressed on, turning to face him. “Evelyne. The Drowned Flame.”
Cedric raised a brow.
“Tell me you didn’t see it,” Alaric pressed.
“I saw a woman who has been grieving all her life,” Cedric retorted.
“It may not be a coincidence,” Alaris explained. “And she may be the last thread left on the loom.”
And he—the idiot that he was—had begun to tie himself to it.
He didn't feel excited. He rather wanted to believe that the prophecy was wrong. Or maybe he was wrong in his interpretation. He didn’t want her to be the Drowned Flame. Or the Echo of a Fallen God. Or whatever else the scholars would name her if magic truly did rise again.
He just wanted her to be alright.
“I want her guarded the entire ride,” Alaric ordered.
Cedric didn’t move. “Guarded,” he repeated. “From you?”
Alaric straightened. “What?”
Cedric’s mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You heard me.”
Alaric narrowed his eyes. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
“All right,” Cedric said, stepping further into the room and shutting the door with deliberate quiet. “The blood moon was three days ago.”
Alaric clenched his jaw.
“The prophecy warned her,” Cedric continued. “Not to trust anyone standing next to her.”
Cedric’s gaze was unflinching. “You were standing next to her.”
“A lot of people were.”
“Don’t insult me,” Cedric took a step forward. “You know exactly what this is. You’ve been two steps ahead the entire time. You’ve lied to her, by letting her think this was about strategy when it’s always been personal. Obvious, Alaric. Even she sees it.”
Alaric crossed his arms against his chest. “And now you’re a prophecy expert?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“What are you talking about?” Alaric snapped. “You think I planned this? You think I wanted any of this to happen?”
Cedric didn’t flinch. “I think you don’t know where the line is anymore. Between discovering the truth and controlling it.”
There was a pause. For a moment, all Alaric could hear was the tick of the mantel clock and the low thrum of his own pulse.
“I’m tired of covering your ass,” Cedric snarled. “I don’t like it. Why don’t you just tell her?”
“Why do you care so much?”
Something flickered across Cedric’s expression—old and unshakable.
“Because I promised her brother I’d protect her,” he shot back. Then, without hesitation, “And you too.”
Cedric’s eyes, always sharp, always ready with a cutting line or dry quip, were flat now. And tired.
Alaric’s throat worked, but no sound came.
Cedric was right.
He took a breath, slow and sharp, forcing air into lungs that suddenly felt too tight.
His gaze drifted to the desk near the window, its surface cluttered with scrolls, ink pots, and books left half-open.
But his eyes went straight to the object near the corner—a folded piece of vellum, delicately inked. A map from Thalen.
Alaric moved toward it now. He rested his hand over the edge of the map, fingers brushing the parchment.
“Sorry,” Cedric muttered. “I didn’t mean to—” His voice caught, as he brushed his palm along his face. “After what happened…I haven’t exactly been calm.”
“No,” Alaric shook his head. “I deserved it. You’re right. I may not have contributed to the chaos, but I didn’t stop it either.”
Cedric exhaled, putting his hands in his pockets and looking towards the window. “You really think she’s the Drowned Flame?”
Alaric didn’t answer right away. He followed his gaze, where dust motes flickering like hanging ash.
“She could be,” he pondered. “Too many things point to her. And too many don’t. That’s how it always goes with prophecy—truth twisted in metaphor, threat disguised as fate.” He glanced back at Cedric. “But this one wants her dead. That alone tells me she’s important.”
Another beat passed. They didn’t fill it. Somewhere in the castle, boots echoed against marble. Somewhere outside, a raven cawed.
“Maybe she is the Drowned Flame,” he murmured. “Maybe not. But that’s not what matters.”
Cedric raised a brow. “It isn’t?”
“Not for me.”
Cedric looked straight at him. “For her, it might be.”
Alaric paused, then nodded—slower this time. “If the wrong ears catch wind of it, they’ll do more than ask questions. They’ll break her to find answers.”
Cedric studied him for a long beat, unreadable as ever. Then he gave a single, sharp nod. “So tell her. When we get her home. When it’s safe.”
Alaric met his eyes. “I will.”
Cedric looked at him for a long moment, then dipped his head once in agreement. “I’ll make sure you do.”
Alaric didn’t flinch from it. He’d take it.
“We’re good?” he asked.
Cedric smirked. “So far.”
Alaric smiled back, then turned toward the desk.
He crossed the room, fingers brushing the edge of the map as he reached for the ink and quill.
The door creaked softly as Cedric stepped out.
His retreating footsteps echoed once, then faded, followed by the dull click of the latch sliding into place.
Only then did Alaric lower himself into the chair. He uncorked the ink, steadied the quill between his fingers, and bent over the map, scribbling in her bottom left corner…
Recorded in the Castle of Vellesmere, Year 1319 A.S.
By the hand of King Thalen the Brave