Chapter Twenty-Two
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
If there was one thing Ilaria could count on, it was that no matter what chaos reigned in Rhovar, the kingdom would never miss a service.
Whether it be war or exhaustion, sickness or siege, the sun would rise, the cathedral doors would open, and the people would come.
The princess lay alone in the confessional garden, her hands folded over her stomach as she lay in the sun-warmed grass. The sky was a flawless blue with drifting clouds, the wind soft and sweet as it threaded through her hair.
There were no scorch marks here. No fire-blackened stone, blood, or corpses to be gathered. There was only a starling perched upon the garden wall, eyeing Ilaria with idle suspicion.
It was almost pretty enough to forget why she was here. To forget all the horrors that had taken place the prior morning.
Gently, she touched her fingers to her cheeks, still getting used to how the thick ridges of her scars felt beneath her fingertips.
The confessional garden had always struck her as strange. A garden in name, but a room in form—walled on all sides by pale stone and carved balustrades. There was no roof; the garden looked only to the sky so that one might speak directly to the Divine.
They never spoke back, but perhaps that should’ve made it easier.
Ilaria’s palms itched against the fabric of her gown.
Would it feel good, she wondered, to give the Divine her secrets? To tell the truth of what kept her up at night, sick with guilt?
She stirred at the sound of a door creaking somewhere in the main church.
The garden belonged to the Noriclats before service, set aside for the royal family’s private devotion.
But now the rest of the kingdom was arriving, their boots squeaking on tile while the familiar hush of their pre-service chatter played like music in the background.
The sound of her people pressed against Ilaria like a second skin, and she sat up, knowing there would be no confessions today.
Her movement was abrupt enough to startle the starling from the wall. It left with a single flap of wings and a shrill cry of disapproval.
Ilaria didn’t blame it.
Next time, she promised. I’ll tell you everything, next time.
She’d said the same thing the last time she’d been here, and the time before that.
She made her way back to the cathedral, the change in the air immediate.
Cold clung to the stone walls, casting a perpetual chill that defied all seasons.
Colored panes of glass stretched high, and the light that filtered through was fractured and soft, casting deep amethyst and garnet pools across the patterned floor.
Yet even between it and the candles, she’d always found the space so dark, tinged with shadows in every corner.
The cathedral was built for splendor. Its bones stood impossibly tall, carved eyes peering down from alcoves with gilded irises.
The floor was laid in a pattern of black and white diamonds, polished to a mirror sheen so that one might look down and still see the Eye of the Divine looming above, forever watching.
Ilaria had loved this place once. It’d taken several hundred years to build, and every sculpture had a story. But today, reverence felt wrong for such a space. It was strange the floor was still so polished. Stranger still that the statues continued to stare upon them, their expressions unchanged.
After all that had happened, shouldn’t something have changed?
Wasn’t anyone else’s skin crawling as they remembered Varen’s body reshaping itself? Could they not hear the echoes of his agony?
Shakily, Ilaria found her family waiting near the pulpit, half-silhouetted against the flickering wall of candlelight. Her mother stood straight-backed in dove-gray silk, her father in his robes. Ahead, Ilaria caught sight of Solange Beaumont standing beside her own mother, Edevane.
The knight-commander held herself like a blade—tall, gleaming, and lethal.
Her shoulders were squared beneath a deep crimson doublet fastened high at the collar, the steel buttons marching in a perfect line down her front.
Her cropped hair shone under the cathedral’s glow, as bright as flax, and the woman’s eyes were nearly as unnerving as the king’s, a glacial blue that cut across the room to scan every face.
Though swords were not to be drawn in sacred halls, Edevane and her company wore them at their hips regardless. A cloak draped from one shoulder, held in place with a silver pin shaped like a howling wolf’s head—the Beaumont crest, worn with pride.
Where Solange stood with discipline, Edevane stood with certainty, all who came close falling quiet in her presence.
Nicolas Beaumont, of course, was nowhere in sight. Bile burned the back of her throat as she remembered the echo of his cries through the cathedral. The blood pouring from his severed hand …
“There you are, my love.” Queen Sybil brushed back a stray curl near Ilaria’s temple as she approached. “I have something for you.” In her other hand, she held a piece of pale fabric folded between her fingers.
A veil.
“Your wounds are still raw. We don’t want others worrying for you.”
Ilaria accepted the fabric with numb fingers. The veil was nearly weightless, but as she drew it over her cheek, it settled like iron.
Light filtered through the fabric, dulling her world to a soft blur. She could still see her mother and the carved angels watching from above, but everything felt farther away. As if she’d been placed behind glass.
Sybil smiled, the tension easing from her eyes. “That’s better, isn’t it? Let’s give it some more time to heal.”
Ilaria gave no answer as the king motioned for the doors to be opened. A moment later, the hush of the cathedral settled over them like fog.
The archbishop approached the altar, robed in crimson and white and holding a staff tight in his grip. It was taller than he was and topped with a single great eye. He raised it, and the congregation fell silent.
“Let all those who walk the Lighted Path be gathered now,” he said. “The Divine sees each soul. Each wound. Each burden. They know what we face, and ask only that we remain faithful. That we continue to walk forward in their Light.”
Ilaria sat with her hands folded in her lap, distracted by the veil that billowed with her every breath.
She tried to listen as the archbishop droned on, speaking of devotion and of the sacrifice required when one could no longer see the path ahead. She heard every word, yet they rang hollow in her chest.
Faith was expected. To doubt was blasphemy.
Ilaria knew every rule and expectation. Each morning she crossed the threshold of this cathedral, hoping—as they all did—for a better world. For years she had bent herself to devotion, offering prayer and penance without complaint.
So why had nothing changed?
How, after all they’d just endured, did this man expect them to bow their heads and believe his words?
She stared up at the angels carved into the stone columns, anger burning her throat. And barely louder than breath, someone asked, “Where are they?”
Heads lifted, swiveling toward her. It took Ilaria a moment to realize the voice had come from her.
Her father’s hand wrapped sharply around her wrist. “Ilaria,” he warned, but the question was already out.
“Every day, we pray to them,” she said. “They ask for everything. Our mornings, our love, our praise. We’ve built our lives around behaving as they desire.
We pray to them before each meal, and before our heads touch the pillow.
We wear their colors and decorate ourselves in their likeness, but for what? Where are they?”
Even she was shocked by the words that poured out of her, and suddenly she was glad to be veiled. Glad that no one could see her skin flushing, and for the confidence it gave her to speak freely.
“It’s not our place to question the Divine,” the archbishop said, his voice edged with tension. He looked to the king as if for help. “Faith is not a transaction.”
“Why not?” Light, she could barely breathe beneath the veil. “If I’m to build my entire existence around serving them, should I not expect something in return?”
The king rose to his feet before she could say anything more.
“My daughter is afraid,” he said, his voice echoing. “We all are, but we are not without hope.”
She turned toward him. The veil softened the edges of his face, but not the fury upon it.
“I had hoped to announce this after the sermon,” he said, addressing his people, “but perhaps it is fitting to speak of it now, before the Divine Ruler and all who have kept their faith.”
Ilaria tensed, her skin growing hot.
“An alliance has been struck. My daughter will marry Prince Asterion of Frienen, and through their union, our kingdoms will be united. Together, we will bring Frienen fully onto the Lighted Path. And in return”—he looked pointedly at Ilaria—“our armies will double. We have the Divine to thank for our unity.”
Ilaria held her stomach tight, feeling sick as a soft muttering of approval moved through the cathedral, several voices gossiping about the Frienen. Others maneuvered their fingers into the shape of the Divine Eye and pressed it between their brows in reverence, relieved by the news.
Ilaria sank deeper into her seat, glad their faces were partially obscured.
“Rhovar will stand stronger than ever,” said the king. “And we will defeat these demons.”
That was all it took. A few words, delivered with weight and certainty, and the tide shifted. The congregation was settling again, all while Ilaria burned inside.
Were they truly so set in their ways that they would not try anything else? Was it that much easier to stay true to the path they’d always known than to stretch their beliefs?
The archbishop cleared his throat. His voice took on a rhythm again, slipping back into the comfortable cadence of the sermon as the congregation settled. Ilaria lowered her gaze, the silk veil brushing her lashes.
She counted the candles, the windows. Counted the steps it would take to reach the door. And by the time the man had raised his staff for the final blessing, she was the first to rise.
She turned without waiting for dismissal, skirts whispering across the tile. But she hadn’t gone more than a few paces before her father caught her by the wrist.
“You and I aren’t finished.”
He turned, catching the sharp eyes of Edevane. “Commander Beaumont, a word?”
Ilaria didn’t share Aurelie’s tension with the Beaumonts. She knew there was history between them, spurred by old rivalries and a broken engagement between Edevane and Varen. It had little to do with her, yet she still shrank beneath the weight of the knight-commander’s stare.
Ilaria had never known what to make of Lady Edevane. She was a devout woman, and if the stories were true, a proper brute on the battlefield. She was respected, well-spoken, and as unsettling as a hawk eyeing her prey.
Her gaze swept toward the royal family and landed squarely on the queen before she dipped in a low, precise bow.
“Your Majesties,” she said. “Is there something I can assist with?”
The king’s grip on Ilaria tightened. “It’s time my daughter witnessed our foe’s atrocities with her own eyes.”
Sybil’s face paled. “Edric, you can’t—”
“Form a hunt immediately,” he continued. “Strike while the demons are still weak, and take my daughter with you.”
Ilaria’s chest seized, feeling as though she’d fallen into a wintry lake.
“I want her hidden,” the king clarified, “and guarded at all times. If things get dangerous, you’re to abandon everything and get home safely. Can you do that?”
His stare could have crushed stone, and yet Edevane looked as though she’d been handed a blessing. She smiled, and Ilaria’s entire body tensed as she answered, “I’ll see to the princess personally.”