Chapter 8
The Great Cloister Courtyard had always been a place of serene performance. Stone columns carved with gentle spirals, ivy trained to curve perfectly, and wisteria hanging in suspended bloom.
She shivered, remembering the way his touch lingered. He hadn’t even meant it as a threat. That was the worst part. It was thoughtless.
And she’d snapped. Because when she got defensive, it usually meant she felt cornered. And feeling cornered was the same as being out of control.
She exhaled through her nose, pressing her thumb to the bridge of her nose. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Not about what he said. Not even about what he meant. But she couldn’t explain it to him—couldn’t tell him that this wasn’t about tradition, not really.
How was she supposed to admit that she didn’t flinch because of custom, but because she couldn’t bear the thought of being touched? How was she supposed to tell him that the woman he was going to marry was afraid of something that simple?
That his future empress was broken.
She couldn’t.
Broken things weren’t allowed in Edrathen.
“Try not to stab anyone,” Isildeth interrupted her thoughts, low enough that only Evelyne could hear.
So she locked it down. Folded the thought tight and put it away.
Another sealed box in the back of her mind. One among many.
“I promise nothing,” she murmured. “Not if someone starts with ‘Such a shame about last veil.’”
Isildeth made a sound that might have been a cough or a stifled laugh, and then peeled off with the other attendants. Evelyne walked into the cloister proper, where ladies of the court sat in a half-circle around a stone table.
Her new veil lay in the center.
The tradition of the Veiling was a symbol of hope and fortune, woven by the hands of Edrathen’s noblewomen into the fabric that would shield the bride’s face as she stepped into a new life.
As one of the practices of the Flame of Rhyssa, the ceremony was allowed solely because it was bound to religion.
One of the few art-connected rites that survived to this day.
Each stitch, a blessing, but as Evelyne watched them, she felt none of it. No hope. No warmth. Only the scratch of thread and the weight of suspicion.
When Evelyne approached closer, the sound of whispering cut off with almost comical precision. Hands paused mid-stitch. A few exchanged fleeting glances before bowing their heads in perfect unison.
It had been this way for the better part of a year. Every gathering, every meticulously arranged soirée. She would arrive, punctual as always, only to feel the shift the moment her heels touched the floor. The unmistakable turn of heads that said: She’s here.
At first, it stung. She wasn’t immune to cold shoulders or the way women who once curtsied with delight now barely dipped their chins. It made her feel like a thread out of place in an otherwise perfect tapestry.
She never understood it.
Except—of course—she did.
In court, reputation was currency, and position was power. And what better way to increase your share than by stripping someone else of theirs? Evelyne couldn’t play on the male fields of war or council. But in the parlor, she was expected to stake her place. And keep it.
Later she realized that they were more uncomfortable with her presence than she was with their scrutiny. And when that particular problem had the nerve to stand in her way, Evelyne did what Edrathen women had always done best—she turned fury into poise.
Because fury, when properly aged and preserved, fermented into a very elegant kind of boredom.
So she began showing up more often, voicing her opinions with a calm assurance that made certain men blink twice and certain women press their lips together as if holding back sour wine.
Nothing unsettled men more than a woman who knew exactly where she stood. And Evelyne had never been confused about her place.
“Your Highness,” greeted Lady Elenora, a slender woman with freckles scattered across her beige skin and a waterfall of red hair pinned neatly atop her head. Her pale green dress clung delicately to her frame. “What a pleasure to see you joining us this afternoon.”
They resumed their work, of course, but the conversation did not return. The space between them, however, still hummed with the words she hadn’t heard. Evelyne didn’t need to. She knew exactly what whispers looked like when silenced too abruptly.
She swallowed the thought and smiled, as one does in a civilized kingdom. Funny, how art was scrutinized, parsed for meaning like scripture. And yet all of them were actors on a polished stage.
Lady Elenora cleared her throat. “A delicate pattern, Your Highness. The stitches are symbolic. Doves for peace. Violets for humility. The silver knotwork means endurance.”
Evelyne smiled softly and inclined her head.
“Have you met him yet, Your Highness?” Lady Corinne asked lightly, the needle flashing between her fingers.
“Yes, we’ve spoken.”
“And?” She pressed, eager.
Of course they were curious.
“I can only speak to my own experience,” she said finally, her tone light but precise. “On the first meeting, the prince struck me as well-spoken… and very much aware of the weight of his position.”
Lady Corinne’s needle dipped and rose in neat, precise motions.
She was taller than Evelyne, pear-shaped, with glossy dark brown hair pinned in an elegant coil.
Her eyes matched her hair in shade, set in honey-toned skin.
“Is it true,” she began, light as spun sugar, “that the Varantian court allows music during regular dinners?”
A few heads tilted toward Evelyne, waiting.
“It does,” she agreed. “I read that the musicians are placed behind silk screens so the sound blends. I think it’s quite elegant.”
Lady Elenora glanced up. “And have you found the prince to be as you expected?”
“I had no expectations,” Evelyne replied smoothly.
“That’s wise,” murmured Corinne. “One hears so many things. Handsome, of course, but…” She let the word hang.
“But?” Evelyne prompted.
“Mm.” Lady Malren didn’t look up from her stitch.
She was short, with ink-black hair parted sharply down the middle and pinned up, fair skin like polished ivory, and striking green eyes set above a slightly tilted nose.
“They say the Soleranos line… has always been curious about forbidden histories.”
“Curiosity is hardly a crime,” Evelyne reached for her teacup. “In fact, in certain courts, it’s a sign of intelligence.” She let her eyes sweep the group, resting just a fraction longer on the most talkative pair. “Which is why I’m confident Prince Alaric will prove himself a valuable ally.”
Lady Malren’s attention shifted briefly to Elenora, who arched a brow.
“I heard,” Lady Ariste chimed in, lowering her voice as though sharing state secrets, “that in Rhuhn’Fjel, women are permitted to speak in council chambers.
” Her rounded pink cheeks gave her an air of innocence that contrasted sharply with the sharp curiosity in her blue eyes.
Her almond-toned skin caught the sunlight as she leaned in.
Evelyne looked up at her. They had once been close—closest among the court, in fact.
Long afternoons spent studying side by side, whispering over forbidden books, meeting for tea under the pretense of etiquette practice.
But after Evelyne’s illness, the visits had grown infrequent.
And after Dasmon’s death, they’d stopped altogether.
Evelyne assumed it hadn’t been Ariste’s choice.
More likely, her parents had made it for her.
“Their women even walk unescorted through markets,” Lady Elenora added, her needle flashing. “In public.”
“How reckless,” Lady Malren murmured.
Evelyne kept her smile fixed. “I suppose that is one way of seeing it. Though sometimes a gilded wall is still a wall.”
Lady Malren’s expression faltered, uncomprehending. “Ah, but walls keep out the rain, Your Highness. We are blessed not to feel it. More from the south are trying to marry into Edrathen. We have it better here.”
Ariste gave a delicate laugh. “Well, we do. Safe borders, quiet streets. None of that unrest you hear about in the provinces.”
Several nodded. Evelyne kept her face neutral, though in her head she could see the map—the places where unrest simmered because “order” had stripped people bare. They had no idea. And they didn’t want to.
“And of course,” Malren added, “we’re careful about bloodlines.”
Evelyne turned to her. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
“Oh, you know,” Malren replied. “The Varantian Royal Family may marry whoever they please. Until recently, at least. Emperor Emrys married a seamstress from Myceanos, didn’t he?”
“Indeed,” Evelyne echoed, her tone smooth. “And now Empress Aurevia is among the most beloved figures in the realm. Some would call that a beautiful tradition—the ruler choosing not just a match, but a partner. In heart and rulership both.”
Malren’s smile thinned. “Oh, certainly. But still, she isn’t of royal blood.”
Evelyne drew a slow breath. “I must remind you,” she declared with perfect calm, “that my mother, too, was from a foreign land.”
A brief silence descended, brittle and sharp.
“Well—naturally, Your Highness,” Malren offered after a beat. “But she came from a ruling family. In some way.”
Evelyne’s smile didn’t move. Her mother’s family had ruled nothing by the time the ink dried on the treaties. In fact, they had been accused of heresy. Of carrying the “old ways” in their blood. Her father had been sent to bring Orvath’s order to Lysitha and returned with a bride.
Evelyne’s eyes meet Malren’s with unshaken precision. “I advise you to speak with the highest respect about my future husband. And my family. Or excuse yourself from my table.”
The woman’s rehearsed expression faltered enough to reveal the flicker beneath: surprise, then irritation. She set down the veil with the care of someone not used to being corrected, especially not in front of her audience.
Malren had been at court longer than Evelyne. Groomed in the quiet corners of influence, practiced in weaponized politeness, but longevity did not grant her license to forget herself.
And lately, she has been forgetting often. Testing boundaries. Veiling insults behind compliments and watching to see who followed. The younger ladies always did.
The veil reached the far end of the circle, where Lady Malren accepted it with theatrical care.
Revenge is coming.
“Do you intend to sew your own veil again this time, Your Highness?” she asked, voice like vinegar left in silver.
Elenora stilled. Lady Corinne sucked in a breath. Ariste went pale, eyes darting toward the exits as if Evelyne might turn violent in taffeta.
“Aren’t we brave today, Lady Malren,” Evelyne remarked. “I hadn’t realized tradition now required commentary with every stitch.”
Malren’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “I only meant that tradition matters. For those of us still invested in preserving what’s left of this kingdom’s dignity.”
Evelyne turned to her slowly, gaze composed, voice quiet. “Yes. Fear often wears the mask of dignity, doesn’t it?”
“You must understand, of course. After such… loss, it’s only natural to be cautious. It’s not good to invite bad omens.”
Especially where the bad omen meant Evelyne herself.
“Of course. Though I’ve always found misfortune prefers silence. The more we name it, the more real we make it.”
The matron's eyes narrowed, lips tightening—but Evelyne continued.
“We all serve where we’re most comfortable. I only hope our words carry as much grace as our intentions.”
Lady Malren passed the veil along without a word.
When the veil completed its round and returned to her, Evelyne didn’t hesitate.
She folded it once, neatly, the silver birds and stitched prayers vanishing beneath her fingers.
She was supposed to agree—to the silver thread, to the pattern, to the tradition that made every royal veil look the same. It was only embroidery, after all.
But she couldn’t.
Because this was the same veil she had worn the day Dasmon died. The same thread. The same color. The same lie of purity and grace that had soaked red before the vows were even spoken.
Something hot pressed against her ribs, sharp and breathless. She straightened, fingers still on the folded silk.
“I’ve decided I don’t like this color of embroidery,” she said.
The silence that followed was exquisite. A spool of thread slipped from someone’s hand and hit the stone floor with a metallic clatter.
For a split second, the scent of lilies and blood flooded her senses. A bright smear on white silk. The carved silence in Dasmon’s mouth. Red spilling across the altar like an offering that had gone too far.
She rolled her shoulders, and it was gone—but not really.
The ladies hesitated—once, twice—as if struggling to decide whether they had just witnessed madness or possession.
Evelyne blinked once. Then again. Her lashes felt heavy, her vision just a little too sharp around the edges. She swallowed, but it caught halfway down, lodging behind her ribs. Her fingers eased from the teacup, but her hand trembled faintly as she reached for her napkin.
“Wearing silver didn’t protect the union last time,” she continued. “I think I’ll try red.”
As she spoke, her breath curled in the air. Faint and pale, as if drawn from a frostbitten morning.
But it wasn’t cold.
She blinked. For a moment, her focus narrowed on that small, strange puff of breath. It looked like a cold mist, but on her lips it felt warm.
That’s… odd, she thought, watching it fade.
Her mind reached instinctively for an explanation—draft or nerves. Anything ordinary. Logical.
But none of it quite fit.
She gave the smallest shake of her head, and stood up.
“You may start over,” Evelyne announced. “I also expect my future husband’s crest to be represented.”
She left it at that. Calm certainty wrapped in crimson suggestion. She hadn’t planned it. It had simply arrived, fully formed, from some deep, defiant place she didn’t yet have the name for.
Still, she turned and walked out, each step in rhythm with the scandal blooming in her wake. She sensed their judgment. Of course she did. But if they had already decided she was uncomfortable—why not be? She had outgrown the script. Today, she’d torn a page from it.
And she was, quite frankly, rather proud of herself.
Behind her, Isildeth followed at a polite distance, posture just a touch more rigid than usual. Part shadow, part chaperone, all judgment.
“I think you might have gone too far, milady.”
“The veil is tradition,” she replied calmly, watching the sunlight slant golden through the narrow windows. “But tradition says nothing about color. They wanted a performance. I gave them one.”
“Red, Your Highness?”
“A color for love, memory, blood, Edrathen. Let them wonder which.”