Chapter 11
There were nights when even the mirror seemed tired of pretending.
Evelyne sat before it, hands resting lightly on the edge of the vanity, her nightgown still clinging to skin warm from the bath.
Isildeth had left only moments ago, the scent of lavender water lingering after the quiet rhythm of her nightly ritual.
She wasn’t admiring her reflection. She simply was, sitting there like a ghost who hadn’t figured out where to go yet.
Her hair hung loose over her shoulders, thick and frizzy from steam, untouched by pins.
It made her look softer. As if she dared herself to believe she could be more than composure and duty.
But it was a vain effort.
Especially when your last wedding ended in red.
The words never left her mouth, but they pressed against her teeth.
What if it happened again?
What if she packed every inch of herself into polished boxes and parchment-thin smiles—only for it to all collapse again? What if she had to drag herself back home, scraping blood and shame off her heels, rebuilding her composure brick by trembling brick?
Her fingers shook, and this time she allowed herself to smooth her nightgown.
The chamber felt emptier than usual. She let her gaze wander before she noticed the absences. Books smuggled by Isildeth that had always lined the shelves, canvases that had once leaned against the far wall. They were already packing her belongings for departure.
It felt so final. As though she was being erased from this place before she had even left.
She pressed her lips together, willing the thought away. Self-pity was useless. Other women lost more than books and paint—some lost their homes entirely, or their children. She had no right to sit here mourning furniture and walls.
Her gaze drifted to the small wrapping on her bedside table. The engagement gift. Unopened.
It had been a long time since she’d lost her footing in public. The worst part wasn’t even the fear. It was the shame that followed. That her body remembered things she’d tried so hard to forget. She thought she was past this. But today proved otherwise.
Blood. Sigil. Touch.
She could feel it again—the ripple in her chest, the weight behind her ribs, the way her pulse picked up with no visible cause. But—
In and out. In and out. The breath of a trained performer.
And the conversation between High Preceptor and Ravik… she had heard it out of context. A fragment. Nothing more. That was how rumors were born—out of half-truths and overheard shadows.
Nothing was happening.
Of course not.
She tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling. Too many things were shifting at once. It was no wonder her body had rebelled and her mind made conclusion where there was nothing to chase. The case was closed. She couldn't let it fall apart again.
She looked down and reached slowly for the package, tracing the edges with her fingertips before unwrapping the fabric.
Inside, she had expected to find jewelry, some gleaming heirloom meant to display wealth or status. But instead, her breath caught as her eyes landed on something unexpected.
A book.
She ran her fingers over the emerald cover, her heart pounding in an unfamiliar way. The title, The Songs of Sunlight and Moondust, was etched in elegant gold script, the leather cover worn with age.
Evelyne stood abruptly, her fingers tightening around the worn edges of the book as she flipped through its pages. It was not just any book. It was a collection of fairy tales and legends from the land her mother had come from. Banned in Edrathen.
She traced the inked illustration on the first page—a silver wolf standing atop the crest of a waterfall, his head raised to the sky where two moons shone brightly.
Evelyne could almost hear her mother's voice, recounting the tale of the Moonlit Court, a hidden kingdom where spirits wove their magic into the fabric of the world.
There were stories of dragons who could shift into human form and fall in love with queens, of people who spoke the language of birds, of forgotten gods whose names were etched in the constellations.
She had believed in them once.
Not in the stories themselves, but in what they represented. She clung to them, convinced that if she searched hard enough, a hidden world might reveal itself. A place where her mother still lived between the pages.
She had grown up since then. Learned to fold wonder into silence, to press fantasy beneath duty. Like all things magical, she buried it beneath the past.
How had he known?
Evelyne blinked hard, her lip quivering once before she caught it between her teeth. She would not cry. Not for something as foolish as a childhood story—no matter how tenderly remembered.
But the damage had already been done. A thread pulled loose, too quietly to stop.
She exhaled and hid the book under her windowsill. No need to provoke the consequences. Her fingers tapped once, twice, on the wood. A grounding rhythm. A borrowed heartbeat.
This time would be different.
It had to be.
But she could not shake the quiet thought, curling at the edges of her mind like mist:
What if red is the only color that has ever suited her?