The royal court bloomed with celebration again.
Under the pretense of peace, Queen Viora had summoned all noble houses for a feast an annual display of unity. Laughter echoed through the halls, goblets overflowed with wine, and masks of civility were worn more carefully than ever.
But beneath the music, something far older stirred.
Evelyne stood at the top of the marble staircase, her gown deep violet and black mourning colors, woven with silk defiance. Every jewel she wore had once belonged to a woman who was silenced.
She wore them like armor.
Below her, the Queen watched with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"She's grown bold," the Queen murmured to her handmaid.
"More than bold, Your Grace," the maid replied. "She's hunting."
Evelyne descended the stairs slowly, every step deliberate.
She didn't smile. She didn't bow.
She didn't need to.
The crowd parted without command.
As she moved toward the central hall, lords and ladies dipped their heads or turned away.
Only one figure stood waiting in the center.
Lucien.
He looked regal as ever. Cloaked in navy and silver, his crown gleaming, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed unease.
"You came," he said.
"I was invited," Evelyne answered. "And I never refuse an invitation to a battlefield."
His lips twitched into something between a smile and a wince.
"We used to dance at these things."
"We used to be many things."
Lucien stepped closer, his voice low.
"Are we enemies now, Evelyne?"
She met his gaze without flinching.
"We were never truly anything else."
Before he could speak again, a voice rang out across the hall:
"Lady Evelyne Ashthorn your presence is requested."
It was the Queen's steward.
Evelyne inclined her head to Lucien, her expression unreadable.
"Duty calls."
The Queen's private garden was silent too silent.
The flowers were in bloom, but Evelyne noticed immediately that none of the blooms bore thorns.
"Symbolic," she muttered.
Queen Viora stood beside the silver bench, her gown shimmering like spun gold.
"You've made yourself very difficult to ignore," she said.
"That was the point," Evelyne answered.
"You're upsetting balance. Pushing too hard."
"I'm not pushing," Evelyne said. "I'm reminding everyone that they failed to bury me properly."
The Queen turned to face her fully. "This… vendetta of yours. How far are you willing to take it?"
Evelyne's reply came without hesitation.
"To the throne. Or the grave."
Queen Viora smiled, and for the first time, Evelyne saw something respect. Or maybe recognition.
"You should've been born a Queen."
Evelyne tilted her head.
"I was. You just forgot to give me a crown."
And as the bells chimed for the next toast, and firelight glinted through the stained glass, two women stood surrounded by roses each one silently preparing to strike.