Chapter 18
The hearth remained cold. So did the half-eaten supper Vesena had left on the tray. Evelyne had claimed fatigue to avoid the dinner, which wasn’t a lie.
She exhaled, sinking deeper into the chair as a dull ache began to pulse low in her abdomen, spreading slow and familiar.
It wasn’t new; the pain came and went as it pleased, a private rhythm she had learned to endure.
Lately, she had been fortunate—lighter episodes, fewer nights spent doubled over.
But tonight, it caught up to her. The throb sharpened, and she pressed a hand against her stomach, stifling a quiet groan.
Isildeth hadn’t needed to ask. She had recognized it the moment Evelyne refused supper.
Without a word, she had warmed a few smooth river stones, wrapped them in linen, and placed them on Evelyne’s lap.
The heat now seeped slowly through the fabric, dulling the edge of the pain, grounding her in something she could at least hold.
But what she really needed was silence. Or distance.
Or a very well-placed wall between herself and Prince Alaric of Varantia.
For one unreasonable second, she resented him for arriving now, like a storm tide at the wrong moon.
But as clever as he was, he couldn’t possibly know what lived beneath the surface.
The ache in her stomach deepened, pulsing with every thought she couldn’t voice.
She gripped the armrest, her knuckles white against the dark wood.
She wanted to rage, to shatter the stillness of this perfect, obedient life she’d been trained to perform.
Instead, she sat—helpless, polite, composed—as always.
Her own body betrayed her too, twisting on its own rhythm, punishing her for every mask she’d worn. Sleep, memories and her own kin had turned against her.
She drew a slow breath, jaw tight.
She needed her journal. She needed ink and the steady comfort of structure—dates, times, impressions, what she’d seen, what she thought she’d seen. Anything to turn the storm in her mind into something she could fold neatly into a page. Maybe then it would make sense. Maybe then it would mean less.
“Do you think I offended him?” Evelyne asked after a moment, her voice low, half a sigh.
Isildeth didn’t look up from straightening the sheets. “I think he’ll survive. Men of Varantia rarely faint from being told no.”
“I said what needed saying,” Evelyne murmured.
Vesena extinguished another candle. “If anything, it likely intrigued him more.”
Evelyne’s lips curved into a brief smirk—one that faltered as a sharp pang tightened her stomach. She drew a shallow breath.
A soft knock at the chamber door disrupted the quiet stillness of the evening. Vesena glanced toward her, awaiting instruction. Evelyne exhaled, smoothing the fabric of her nightgown before sitting up properly against the chair.
“Come in,” she called.
The door creaked open, and her father stepped inside.
He wore his usual dark robes, the silver embroidery at the cuffs catching the low candlelight with a muted shimmer.
For a moment, he stood there in silence, taking her in with that same unreadable expression he always wore—part calculation, part something she could never quite name.
Isildeth and Vesena lowered their heads respectfully before silently retreating from the chamber.
Evelyne studied him carefully. It was not often that her father visited her chambers at this hour. He was a man of routine, if he was here now, it was with purpose.
“May I sit?” he asked.
Evelyne inclined her head. “Of course.”
The warmth of the hidden stones pressed against her abdomen; she angled her body so the folds of her robe concealed them.
Rhaedor pulled the chair nearby and lowered himself into it.
“I heard about your walk with Prince Alaric.”
Evelyne’s fingers curled slightly against the silk of her robe. She had expected as much.
“I trust you already know everything,” she said carefully.
The corner of his mouth lifted—just slightly, barely there. “I know what the prince told me at supper.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And what was that?”
“That you are… formidable.”
Evelyne held his gaze, searching for the meaning beneath his words. “I only expect respect, Father. He does not understand that.”
He hesitated for a brief moment before reaching into the folds of his dark robe. When his hand emerged, it held a small package, wrapped in soft, well-worn cloth. He turned it over in his palm once before extending it to her.
“I may not have been the best father for a young woman,” he said, his voice steady. “But I have always tried to be the best I knew how to be.”
Evelyne swallowed, momentarily taken aback by his words. She took the package with careful hands, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a delicate silver necklace. A small pearl pendant rested in the center, catching the dim candlelight.
She inhaled sharply. She knew this necklace.
“This was—”
“Your mother’s.” Rhaedor’s voice was quieter now, softer. “She wore it often. You used to reach for it as a child when she held you.”
Evelyne ran her fingertips over the cool surface of the pearl. She had searched for this necklace once, when she was young. No one had spoken of it, and eventually, she’d let herself believe it had been buried with her mother.
“She was different,” her father continued, his gaze distant as if looking back through time. “She had troubles before you came along, before the people truly accepted her. But in the end, they loved her.”
She unclenched her jaw just long enough to answer him.
“She brought something fresh to this place.”
“She did. Too much at times.”
They shared a look. It was rare for him to speak of her mother so openly, rare for them to share such a moment.
“Keep it,” he said at last, nodding toward the necklace in her palm. “It should be yours.”
Evelyne closed her fingers around the delicate chain, holding it to her chest. “Thank you.”
When he looked away, she allowed herself a slow, quiet exhale.
“You’ve always carried yourself with more sense than most twice your age,” he murmured. “And I know you’ll rule well by his side.”
She smiled faintly. “That’s assuming he lets me rule at all considering our lack of…agreement.”
“He must, the treaty is unambiguous,” his expression grew more pensive. “But I know you’ll miss your mother there. More than you already do.”
A lump formed in Evelyne’s throat. She swallowed past it, blinking down at the necklace in her hands. “She left too soon.”
“She did.” His voice was quieter now. “Too soon to teach you how to handle a wayward man.”
“You think that’s what I need most?”
The king smirked, the expression rare. “I think it wouldn’t hurt.”
Her fingers tightened imperceptibly against the necklace. “And what would she have told me?”
His gaze drifted somewhere distant, as if he could see her mother standing there between them. “She’d say people accept hard truths more readily when they arrive at them themselves.”
Evelyne raised an eyebrow. “That sounds… manipulative.”
“It’s wisdom,” he corrected, the corner of his mouth twitching. “She had a way of making people believe they came to the right conclusion all on their own.”
She paused a heartbeat too long before replying, as if weighing her words, though really she was waiting for the pain to ease.
“That she did.”
“It will not always be a battle of wit and will,” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “There will be days when words are not enough. When silence will speak louder than anything you could say.”
“And what would you suggest I do on those days?”
“Listen. To him, to yourself. Even to what is left unsaid.”
“Did you listen to her?”
His expression turned wistful. “Not always. But when I did, I never regretted it.”
Evelyne hummed thoughtfully, rolling the delicate chain between her fingers. “I wish I could have learned from her.”
The king exhaled, his gaze steady as he studied his daughter. “You have more of her in you than you know.”
She forced a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes but passed inspection.
Her mind drifted, just for a moment, to her mother—Lady Serenya of Lysitha, land of fertile vineyards and turquoise shores, where the earth trembled and mountains sometimes split with fire.
Her mother had been a daughter of beauty and danger, with olive skin kissed by sun, dark hair like ink, and eyes that held storms. Evelyne, by comparison to most, was unmistakably Rhaedor’s child.
Finally, the king sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “You should sleep. You have much ahead of you.”
Evelyne nodded. “Thank you.”
He lingered, standing near the door, as if reluctant to leave just yet. He tilted his head slightly. “I have a feeling that everything will be fine,” he said at last. “And remember, yield where you must, but never lose your shape.”
Her gaze remained composed, but her fingers pressed against the fabric at her waist, seeking the heat beneath.
“Rest well, Evelyne.”
And with that, he turned and stepped through the door. It closed softly behind him, the click making the candlelight tremble.
Only then, when the silence settled, did she let herself wince and exhale. Her gaze drifted to the closed journal on the desk. She reached for the necklace, pressing it into her palm until the metal warmed against her skin—a small thread of belief left for her to carry forward.
The circle, and its waiting lines, remained.
***
She stood once more in the chapel at Calveran.
Everything was wrong, as it always was. The frozen glass bled light where there should have been shadow.
Her veil dragged behind her like a snare, soaked through with red.
It clung to her feet, to the stones, to her hands.
Seeped up her skirts, soaking the embroidered hem, the silver shoes Isildeth had buckled that morning.
She moved forward anyway. She always did. The silence was too thick to speak through. She knew what waited at the altar.
Dasmon, pale and still, mouth split wide by that cruel, carved sigil.
Only this time, when she lifted her gaze, it wasn’t him.
It was Alaric.
His palms at his sides, fingers stained with ink. A bright silver thread was looped around his throat like a ribbon pulled too tight. Above him, the chapel ceiling cracked open to reveal two moons.
Her scream fractured the dream.
She bolted upright with a cry. Her nightgown clung to her back; she fell asleep on her desk. Her heart thundered in her chest. Louder, harder, like it might break through her ribs if she didn’t force it still.
She stumbled out of the chair, half-blind with dread, hands reaching for something—anything—to anchor her.
Her fingers closed around the book. Alaric’s gift. The worn leather cover bit into her palms. Evelyne dropped to the floor beneath the window and curled in on herself, clutching it tightly as she rocked once, then again. She pressed her forehead to her knees. Her breath came in shallow gulps.
Inhale. Exhale.
Mom.