Outside the throne room, the air crackled with tension. The nobles who had witnessed Evelyne's defiance whispered furiously in the corridors, their finely gloved hands trembling more from uncertainty than outrage.
Some called her mad.
Others called her dangerous.
But most, quietly, began to call her right.
Inside her waiting carriage, Evelyne sat motionless. Her hands rested on her lap, but her mind raced like a thousand war drums.
Julian climbed in beside her, slamming the door shut behind him.
"You just challenged the Queen," he said flatly.
"She needed to be reminded that she's not untouchable."
"She won't forget," he muttered. "And she won't forgive."
Evelyne looked out the window. "Good."
That evening, in the safe room below Ashthorn Manor, Evelyne stood before her inner circle. The table before them was no longer just a desk of strategy it was the nerve center of a growing revolution.
Maps. Letters. Secret correspondence from across the kingdom.
Maren pushed a scroll toward her. "The Duke of Ermere sent word. He's withholding his taxes until the Queen addresses the court corruption."
Rowan grinned. "That's going to cause a stir."
Julian added, "It's not just nobles anymore. The city's merchants are quietly organizing. Word on the streets is that people think you're the real heir to justice."
Evelyne let out a breath, half laugh, half ache. "I'm not their heir."
Rowan tilted his head. "No. But you're the one who walked out of the fire. And that's what they follow."
She met their eyes one by one.
"Then it's time we do more than speak truth," she said. "It's time we show them power."
By midnight, the third wave of letters had been dispatched unsigned but unmistakably hers. Each contained records of past crimes: executions ordered without trial, forged documents, and betrayals paid in gold.
This time, copies were delivered not just to noble houses, but to guilds, schools, temples, and public forums.
The kingdom would wake to scandal.
But also to something more dangerous:
Awareness.
And once people began to see the cracks, they'd start to question everything they once called whole.
Far away, in the palace, Queen Viora stood before a mirror in her private chambers. Her reflection stared back not as a monarch, but as a woman losing her grip.
"She's unraveling everything," the Queen whispered.
Her advisor behind her spoke hesitantly. "Shall we order her arrest?"
"No," Viora said coldly. "We do not turn martyrs into queens."
"Then what shall we do?"
She turned, eyes hard. "We remind Evelyne Ashthorn that she may play at revolution…"
"…but I was born of war."