The gala ended with forced smiles and trembling hands. No one danced after that final exchange. No one dared.
By morning, the news had spread.
The Queen had called her a traitor.
Evelyne had called her a coward.
And neither had flinched.
Back at Ashthorn Manor, Evelyne peeled off the remnants of her performance the gown, the jewels, the thin veil of civility and threw them aside. She stood before the mirror not as a lady, not as a rebel, but as something in between.
Julian burst into her chambers, still in his formal coat.
"You provoked the Queen in her own court."
Evelyne didn't turn. "And she let me leave."
"That won't happen again."
"Good," she said. "Then we're finally past illusions."
He stared at her. "You're not afraid of her, are you?"
"I used to be," she whispered. "But then I died. And when you die, fear dies with you."
Elsewhere, Queen Viora met with her spy network in the vaults beneath the palace. The walls dripped with secrets the kind that ended lineages or started wars.
One of the spies, cloaked in black, dropped a folder onto the table.
"Ashthorn's inner circle. Their movements. Their messages. The prince's shift in loyalty."
The Queen flipped through the contents with dispassionate grace. Then her hand stopped.
A letter.
Written not by Evelyne, but by her mother long thought lost to madness.
"You didn't tell me her mother wrote to the Temple."
"We thought it irrelevant, Your Majesty."
Viora's eyes glowed with something colder than rage.
"It's not irrelevant," she said. "It's a threat buried in blood."
She stood slowly.
"If Evelyne inherited more than ambition, then she may not be playing this game."
"She may be remembering it."
Later that day, Evelyne received a small, wax-sealed letter.
No sender.
Just a phrase:
"The blood in your veins is older than the throne she sits on."
Evelyne held the parchment tightly, a chill running down her spine.
She remembered the temple. The nights her mother whispered stories that felt too ancient to be fairy tales. About queens who came before queens. About fire that didn't burn, but judged.
She looked up at the sky, where crows circled.
"I am not just vengeance," she whispered.
"I am legacy. And you're afraid of what I'll remember next."