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Chapter Text

Snow pressed relentlessly against the towers of Velaris, coating every parapet and battlement in a dazzling, suffocating white. From her chambers, Princess Evelyne pressed her forehead to the frost-laced glass and traced the blurred horizon where the sky met the snow in a ghostly haze. Below her twisted tower, the courtyard stirred with tiny figures braving the storm—servants darting between the stone buildings, horses stamping impatiently in their stalls, soldiers marching along the walls, cloaks stiffened by ice. Even from this height, the castle felt like a cage, immense and unyielding, each corridor and hall a reminder of rules she could never escape.

Evelyne wrapped her arms around herself, not for warmth but for comfort. The hearth burned brightly behind her, yet no fire could thaw the loneliness that clung to her bones. The castle’s grandeur, meant to inspire awe, only emphasised her confinement. Ornate tapestries depicting victories and alliances lined the walls, shining in the flickering torchlight, mocking her in a sense. Glittering chandeliers hung overhead, dripping with crystal prisms that caught the weak sunlight filtering through frost-streaked windows. Every object, every decoration, every careful order of furniture whispered a single truth: she belonged to the crown, not to herself.

Her thoughts drifted to the villages surrounding Velaris. From her window, she could see the dark lines of smoke curling from distant chimneys, the low roofs buried under snow, and the faint movement of people trudging through icy streets. The kingdom was vast and strong on paper, but she knew the truth in her heart. Beyond the castle’s fortified walls, life was harder, harsher. Tales of starving villagers and frozen crops floated up to her ears from passing servants and traders. The wealth and opulence of Velaris were confined to these stone walls; outside, the people scraped by, their loyalty bought promises that the royal family rarely fulfilled.

That her family rarely fulfilled.

She thought again of her father, King Edric, whose presence once filled every hall with authority and fear. Lately, his absence—or perhaps the shadow of his weakening—had become impossible to ignore. Servants spoke in hushed tones when they thought no one was listening, and she had glimpsed his pale hands and strained shoulders in the hallways when she passed like a secret untold. She did not need confirmation; she already knew something was wrong. A slow, gnawing fear had settled in her chest, a shadow that followed her through each room and along every empty corridor.

Evelyne pressed her forehead to the cold glass, imagining life beyond the castle walls. In her dreams, she ran through forests untouched by stone, snow crunching beneath her bare feet, wind tearing through her hair. She imagined villages where people laughed and danced despite the cold, where children slid down hills and no one measured every movement against a protocol of etiquette. She imagined freedom—not the gilded kind that came with jewels and displays, but true freedom, where no one could command her movements, dictate her words, or trade her for alliances.

The quiet of her room did nothing to soothe her. Even the sound of the wind outside seemed oppressive, clawing at the castle walls as if trying to force her into submission. She had grown accustomed to obedience, to the small rituals of court life, but today the monotony was suffocating. She imagined throwing off her gowns and running through the snow, reckless and unbound, if only for a moment. She could almost hear the scolding voices of her mother and the stern servants echoing behind her, but for a heartbeat, she imagined she did not care.

She did; she sometimes cared more than being alive.

The castle itself seemed alive with control. Every stone, every archway, every tower was designed to impress and intimidate, to ensure that all who dwelled here—whether noble, servant, or princess—knew their place. Yet in the quiet corners, in the wind-lashed courtyards and snow-blown alleyways, Evelyne imagined the spaces that were hers alone, fleeting moments of imagined rebellion where she could breathe. She thought of climbing to the highest turret, feeling the wind batter against her face, looking down at the world and imagining it hers to claim.

Her mind wandered, as it often did, to the servants and soldiers she passed in the corridors. She knew many of them by name, yet she could never truly speak to them. They bowed, whispered, obeyed, and disappeared; that was their job. She wondered what it would be like to live among them, unguarded and unobserved, to hear their stories of survival, hardship, and hope. A pang of guilt struck her as she realized how much of her sheltered life had left her unprepared for the reality of the world outside these walls.

She shivered, though not entirely from the cold. Fear and longing mingled in her chest, an ache that refused to be sated. She wondered what awaited her in the days to come. Her father’s illness, whispered rumours among the servants, the constant discussions of alliances and marriages—everything seemed to close around her like the walls of a tomb. And yet, deep within her, a small ember of defiance glimmered. Perhaps one day, she would find a way to break free of these walls. Perhaps one day, she would carve a life of her own choosing from the rigid structure of duty and expectation.

Her father’s illness – the King’s illness – was no longer a secret, though no one had dared tell her outright. She could see it though, in the faces of those at court, whispers following her from hall to hall. Servants spoke in hurried tones, glances exchanged over heavy curtains and yet the King himself remained as stern and distant as ever, his coughs hidden behind a mask of authority and a reign of an iron fist.

Evelyne’s fingers traced the frost on the glass, imagining that if she pressed hard enough, she could reach through the walls and feel the beating heart of her father’s kingdom, but it was not warmth she found there, only shadows.

“A princess with her nose pressed to the window again,” said a voice from behind, dry and elegant, tinged with amusement.

Evelyne turned to see her mother’s lady’s maid – Clara – standing in the doorway, a gown a river of sapphire silk that gleamed even in the dim winter light resting over her arm. Clara’s eyes, sharp and calculating, softened just enough to reveal a hint of maternal concern, “You stare too long child,” she continued. “The cold will not forgive you”.

“I am not cold,” Evelyne insisted quickly, pulling back from the glass nevertheless, “I am merely considering matters of the kingdom”.

Clara arched a brow. “At one and twenty, my dear, there is little you may consider that will alter the kingdom’s fate. You are not yet married, nor do you command any armies. Your place is to learn grace, obedience, and patience. You know this”.

Evelyne’s lips pressed into a thin line, in half frustration and half anxiety. She did know this, every woman before her had known this too. Patience had been drilled into her since childhood, like a beating stone and yet the idea that she should simply sit and wait for her life to be decided for her was suffocating. She had read books of knights and kingdoms, of distant lands where young women shaped their own destinies. It was barbaric, and she would never say it allowed but despite it all, she couldn’t help but wonder how it was so impossible for her to do the same.

Clara’s voice softened when she didn’t respond, though it retained its edge. “I wish only to protect you, Evelyne, as does the Queen. Soon, the King will arrange your marriage, and you must be ready. Your duty is not to yourself, but to this kingdom, and to your family. You must remember that”.

Evelyne closed her eyes briefly, the weight of expectation settling like a chain across her chest. She had accepted it, in theory, that her life would be arranged for her—just as her mother’s had been arranged, just as her father’s had been bound by duty and yet, beneath the veneer of submission, her heart thrashed against the bars of her gilded cage.

Outside, the storm raged on, snow whipping against the stone, ice forming along the edges of the towers, and the wind howling like a living thing. Evelyne pressed herself closer to the window, imagining herself running through the drifts, laughing into the teeth of the storm, feeling the world open beneath her feet. Her father’s cough echoed faintly through the corridors, a reminder that time was not hers to waste. She closed her eyes, breathing in the crisp winter air through the frosted panes, and allowed herself to imagine a life beyond Velaris, a life where freedom was not a distant hope but a living, breathing reality.

For now, she remained at the window, trapped by duty, family, and expectation, yet alive with the dangerous flicker of hope. For now, she would dream, and in her dreaming, she would taste the impossible. And perhaps, when the time came, she would find a way to claim it.

Chapter Text

The corridors of Velaris Castle stretched long and cold, the chill of winter creeping through the stone as though it sought to freeze not just the body, but the spirit. Evelyne tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders, the heavy fabric doing little to fend off the draft. Servants scurried past her with trays of food and bundles of firewood, their soft whispers and clattering footsteps echoing in the vast halls.

Outside the Queen’s chambers was colder than the hearth-lit rooms, but warmer than the frozen towers. Snow pressed against the outer walls, casting grey light into the hallways, and every stone seemed to hold a memory of order, protocol, and unyielding duty. Evelyne’s footsteps echoed softly as she approached, her gloves tight around her fingers, her mind already whirling with thoughts she could not voice.

She had hoped, briefly, that a morning in the library or a solitary walk through the empty corridors would grant her some freedom, a pause from the relentless pressures of her position. But as she rounded the corner into her mother’s solar, the warmth of the room seemed almost stifling, and her hopes dissolved.

When she entered, Queen Isolde was seated at her writing desk, poised and composed, her onyx hair pulled into a tight braid, her posture impeccable, the fur-lined gown she wore a cascade of white and silver. The firelight danced across her sharp features, highlighting the perfection she cultivated in every movement, every glance. She looked up as Evelyne entered, her eyes narrowing with a mixture of appraisal and calculation that she had learned to fear.

“Evelyne,” her mother said, her voice smooth, almost icy, yet carrying a weight that demanded attention. “You are late.”

“I – I was walking,” Evelyne replied, her voice hesitant. “I thought—”

“You thought,” Isolde cut her off, placing a slender finger on the arm of her chair, “that the castle would wait for your whims? That the courtiers and the nobles would not notice your absence?” She let the words hang in the air, each syllable deliberate, as if carving the cold stone of the room itself.

Evelyne’s stomach twisted. She had known this conversation would come. Every day she was reminded that her life was not her own, and yet each reminder was sharper than the last. “Mother, I only meant to get some air,” she said softly.

Isolde rose, gliding across the room with the grace of a predator, stopping before her daughter. “Air,” she echoed, her voice lower now, almost a hiss. “Daughter,” she said then without preamble, her voice even but carrying an unmistakable weight. “If the air is now had, we must speak of your future.”

Evelyne bowed her head briefly, trying to summon the usual obedience that had served her so well in the past. “I am listening, Mother,” she replied, forcing politeness into her tone, though her stomach twisted with the familiar irritation.

Isolde’s eyes were sharp, assessing, as though she could read Evelyne’s thoughts before they were even spoken. “It is time you understood the weight of your position. You are a princess of Velaris. Your actions, your choices, your words… they are never yours alone. One day soon, you will be expected to marry”.

Evelyne’s heart fluttered with both frustration and dread. “I know,” she said quietly, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. “I have always known”.

The Queen stood, moving with the grace of a woman who had spent her life commanding attention. “Understanding is not enough,” she said. “You must accept. You must act wisely, and with care. The eyes of the kingdom, of the court, of your family… they are always upon you”.

Evelyne’s fingers traced the edge of the desk. “And what if I do not wish what is expected of me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her mother’s gaze flickered, and for a heartbeat, Evelyne thought she saw something beneath the cold veneer—perhaps a trace of sympathy. But it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. “You will wish nothing,” Isolde said firmly. “You will obey. Do not mistake kindness for weakness. The King is… ill. The realm watches us, and every decision, every misstep, will fall upon your shoulders as if they were your own sins.”

Evelyne’s chest tightened at the mention of her father. She knew he was unwell, more so than anyone let on, and the thought of his decline terrified her—not just for him, but for the future that waited once he was gone. “I – I understand,” she murmured, though her heart felt like it was breaking against the walls of the castle.

Isolde’s eyes softened, only slightly, and she reached out to touch Evelyne’s cheek. “You will learn, as I did. Duty is a heavy thing. Do not misunderstand me, my child. I love you. More than you may believe. But love is not enough in this life. Survival, duty, strategy… these are the measures that define us. You are my daughter, and you will carry the weight of the crown in ways your father cannot forgive if you falter. Love… affection… those are luxuries. Privileges that few can afford, least of all, us”.

Evelyne swallowed, the taste bitter on her tongue. She had always known her mother loved her in the ways a queen could, yet there was always distance, a careful measure of control. She remembered quiet moments when her mother had brushed a stray curl from her cheek or whispered a fleeting encouragement before a public appearance. But those moments were rare, and often overshadowed by instruction, expectation, and correction.

“You speak of duty,” Evelyne said, daringly, “but you do not speak of life.” Her voice trembled with emotion. “I am alive, Mother. I want more than this.”

Isolde’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she took a step closer. “I speak of life, Evelyne. I speak of the only life that will keep you and your family safe, that will keep Velaris strong. A princess’s choices are never made for herself alone. You will learn that the crown requires sacrifices, many of them unseen”.

Evelyne let out a small, bitter laugh. “Unseen,” she repeated. “And what about what I see? What I feel? Does that mean nothing?”

Her mother’s eyes darkened, not with anger, but with a weight that made Evelyne’s stomach tighten. “It means everything, child. But it does not mean your wishes will be met. You are not the master of your fate, not entirely. There are rules, alliances, and lives that depend on your obedience”.

Evelyne pressed her lips together, stifling the urge to argue further. She had learned long ago that defiance against her mother often led to subtle punishments: a sharp word in public, a reprimand whispered in the corridors, or simply the withdrawal of affection that was already carefully rationed. Yet inside, her blood boiled. The idea that she could never choose, that her life could be dictated by tradition and expectation alone, felt like a weight pressing on her chest.

“You sound so certain,” Evelyne said finally, her voice trembling with both awe and resentment. “So certain that this is the only way. How do you bear it? How do you carry a life that is not your own?”

Isolde’s eyes softened for a heartbeat, and Evelyne glimpsed the shadow of the young woman she had once been—hopeful, passionate, untamed. “Because I had no choice,” she admitted, quietly. “Because the crown left me no other path. And because I learned, slowly, that there is a strength in acceptance. Do not think it weakness to obey. There is power, hidden power, in knowing when to bend without breaking”.

Evelyne’s hands clenched at her sides, frustration mingling with a strange admiration. She had always longed for her mother’s approval, yet she resented the very qualities that kept Isolde strong. “I wish,” she whispered, “that I could have both. That I could bend without breaking… and still choose for myself”.

The Queen’s gaze lingered on her, and for a moment the air between them softened. “One day, you may find a way,” she said, her voice almost wistful. “But for now, you must learn the lessons of your station. You must observe, listen, and obey. The world outside this castle is harsh, Evelyne, and it does not forgive mistakes. You must be ready”.

Evelyne nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Yes, Mother,” she said softly, though the words felt hollow. Obedience came easily to her, but acceptance was another matter entirely.

As she left the chambers, the chill of the corridor wrapped around her like a cloak. Outside, the wind rattled against the outer walls, and the snow drifted against the great stone towers. She ran her gloved fingers along the cold carvings in the hallway, imagining herself slipping into the storm, running across the frozen fields, and feeling the wind tear through her hair. She longed for freedom, for choice, for the ability to live a life she could call her own.

But for now, she would obey. She would bow, she would smile, she would play the part of the dutiful princess. And in her heart, she would nurse the ember of rebellion that refused to be extinguished. One day, she promised herself, she would find a way to claim even a fragment of the life she longed for—beyond duty, beyond expectation, beyond Velaris itself.

The halls of Velaris were quieter than usual that morning. Winter’s grip had tightened overnight, and the wind howled through the towers with a relentless insistence, rattling the iron shutters and drawing the smoke from chimneys in jagged curls into the grey sky. Evelyne moved through the corridors with cautious steps, her ears attuned to every creak and murmur. Something had shifted in the castle, a subtle tension she could feel in the stone under her feet, in the servants’ hurried whispers, and in the cautious glances of her mother’s ladies-in-waiting.

She had learned long ago to listen, not merely to words but to the silences between them. That morning, as she rounded a corner near the kitchens, she caught fragments of conversation that stopped her heart for a moment.

“…his father’s strength… not what it was… must be careful…”

“…he barely rises from bed… yet demands reports… the Prince will soon take over…”

Evelyne froze behind a marble pillar, her breath shallow. The servants were whispering in hushed tones, wary of the eyes that might be watching them. She pressed her hand to the cold stone, steadying herself, her mind racing. Her father… her father’s health, what had she seen in his face during the last council meeting? The pallor of his skin, the tightness in his jaw, the subtle tremor in his hand as he signed documents… she had brushed it off, tried to convince herself it was fatigue.

But now… now she could not.

She moved closer, letting her eyes catch the corner of the kitchen door. Two maids exchanged glances, speaking in hurried, nervous tones. Evelyne strained to hear, though every word seemed dangerous, as though the walls themselves might report her eavesdropping.

“…he’s sleeping more… fewer meals… the Queen worries… but cannot speak openly…”

“…the Prince is expected back soon… will he be ready if something happens?”

The words hit her like ice water. Her chest tightened. Rhysand would return, yes, but she had only seen him in fleeting letters and rare visits during his training. And her father… her father, the King, her towering figure of authority… frailty in his body meant fragility in the kingdom itself. She shivered, not from the cold but from the fear gnawing at her chest.

She stepped back, retreating silently to her own chambers. The warmth of the fire was a small comfort, but her thoughts raced. Could the servants be exaggerating? Or had they seen truths too dangerous to voice openly? Evelyne had always sensed that the castle was a place where truth was measured and filtered, where only the safest words were spoken aloud. Yet the worry in their voices, the care with which they whispered, betrayed what they dared not say to the King himself.

She walked to her window, gazing out at the snow-covered courtyards below. The village beyond was dotted with smoke rising from chimneys, villagers moving through the white landscape in fur-lined cloaks. Life continued outside the castle walls, indifferent to the subtle shifts of power within. Yet for Evelyne, the world inside these stone towers was all she knew, and now it seemed even smaller, more precarious, fragile.

A knock at her door pulled her from her thoughts. “Princess Evelyne?” The voice was tentative, belonging to one of the younger maids who attended her daily.

“Yes,” Evelyne called softly, her mind still racing.

“Your breakfast, milady… and… some servants were worried you might be lonely this morning,” the maid said, placing a tray on the small table by the hearth. Her eyes flicked toward Evelyne with concern, unspoken words lingering between them.

“Thank you,” Evelyne murmured, but her appetite was gone. She barely touched the bread and warm broth, her thoughts returning again to her father. The servants’ words had planted a seed of unease that she could not shake.

She wandered through her chambers, her fingers brushing over the tapestries depicting the history of Velaris: kings and queens, battles won and lost, alliances forged and broken. The weight of legacy pressed on her more heavily than ever. One day, she would marry, one day she would be expected to act with the same calm authority, the same strategic mind, the same implacable resolve. And yet, even imagining herself in that role, she felt unprepared, afraid, constrained.

The door creaked slightly, and a shadow fell across the room. Evelyne turned, half-expecting a servant, but the room was empty. Perhaps it was the wind, or her own nerves. But the thought lingered: the castle felt alive in ways that were both protective and threatening, every shadow a potential messenger of secrets.

She paced, her mind returning to her mother’s words from earlier that day: duty above all. Yet Evelyne now realized that duty was entwined with fear, with caution, with the constant, quiet calculations of survival. Her father’s illness, whispered in the servants’ tones but never confirmed, made every lesson, every warning, every demand from her mother heavier, more urgent.

Evelyne’s gaze drifted to the horizon, where the grey light of winter met the dark silhouette of the forest beyond. She wanted to run. She wanted to feel unbound in the snow, to escape the walls that hemmed her in and the responsibilities she could not yet fulfil. She wanted freedom, yet she knew that freedom might be as dangerous as it was alluring. Beyond the castle gates, the world was unpredictable, wild, and possibly lethal—but the thought of staying confined, trapped in stone and duty, felt equally suffocating.

Her fingers lingered on the windowsill, cold and rough beneath her touch. She thought of the servants’ whispers again, of her father’s frailty, of her mother’s cautious guidance. Each thought was a step closer to the truth she could not yet face openly: that the world she had known, the secure, ordered life inside Velaris’s walls, might be shifting, breaking apart even as the snow fell silently outside.

And in that quiet, frost-laden morning, Evelyne decided, though she did not yet know the form it would take. She would watch, she would listen, she would learn. She would prepare herself—not just for the duties of a princess, but for the dangers, the fears, and the secrets that would inevitably shape her future.

Chapter Text

The crisp winter air bit at Evelyne’s cheeks as she peered from the highest tower window, her eyes straining toward the distant horizon. Snow blanketed the fields outside Velaris, and the sun – pale and cold – glinted off the white expanse. She had spent the morning wandering the halls, restless and uneasy, the servants’ whispers from the previous day still echoing in her mind. Her father’s illness, the hushed words about his frailty, and the weight of her mother’s warnings had left a knot in her chest she could not untie.

Then, through the snow-laden distance, a flicker of movement caught her eye. At first, she thought it a trick of the sunlight on the frozen fields, but the galloping of horses soon made her pulse quicken. A small cloud of dust and snow followed a group of riders as they approached the castle gates. One figure led, tall and commanding even atop his steed, his dark cloak whipping in the wind. Her heart gave a jump – Rhysand.

The Crown Prince, her brother, her protector, and yet somehow distant and unapproachable in his absence, was returning from the military camp.

Evelyne’s breath caught. She had not seen him in months, not since the last letters that arrived sporadically, filled with tales of drills, secrets, and small victories over the harsh discipline of the camp. Rhysand, who had always seemed larger than life in the stories of the castle, appeared now as a man, hardened by training, battle, and responsibility. And behind him rode two men she did not know – or at least, not intimately.

The first, closer to her brother, carried himself with the confidence of someone accustomed to command, yet there was warmth in his face, a subtle humour in the glint of his eyes. This must be Sir Cassian, she realised, the childhood friend she had often heard her brother mention in passing. Raised in the castle by the ‘kindness’ of a maid, he had been by Rhysand’s side through boyhood and training, earning his place as a respected knight. There was loyalty in his posture, the kind that spoke of long years of shared trials and battles.

The second man was different. He rode slightly apart, his dark cloak drawn tightly against the wind, face shadowed beneath the brim of his hood. Evelyne could not see him clearly, but there was a quiet intensity in his stance, a watchfulness that set her nerves on edge. He carried himself as if he belonged in the shadows, unseen yet always observing. She felt an inexplicable unease as her gaze met his for the briefest moment. There was something in his dark eyes that made her shiver.

The gates of Velaris opened with a creak, and the riders approached the courtyard, their horses stamping and snorting. Servants and guards scurried to their posts, faces flushed from the cold, voices rising in a mixture of relief and excitement. Rhysand dismounted smoothly, his cloak falling back to reveal the broad shoulders and lean frame of a man in his prime. He moved with ease, commanding attention even in the bustle of the castle.

Evelyne stepped back from the window, her heart racing as she watched him stride toward the keep. She wanted to call out, to run to him, yet something held her frozen – part awe, part fear, part longing she did not fully understand.

It was Sir Cassian who reached the steps first, bowing low to the assembled guards and attendants, before moving to help Rhysand with his cloak. The sight of their easy camaraderie, the way Rhysand relaxed slightly in Cassian’s presence, tugged at Evelyne’s chest. She could see the bond formed in years of shared hardship; trust forged in the discipline and danger.

And then her gaze returned to the man in shadows – Azriel, as she would later learn. He had dismounted quietly, eyes sweeping the courtyard, observing everything and everyone. When his gaze met hers again, Evelyne felt a strange mixture of irritation and curiosity. She had never been spoken to by him, never truly noticed him, yet there was a weight in that silent look that unsettled her.

As the Prince approached the steps of the keep, Evelyne’s mother appeared at the main doorway, regal and composed despite the cold and the wind. The Queen’s eyes softened for the briefest moment as they met Rhysand’s, though the flicker of concern quickly returned. Evelyne, from her hidden vantage point, could see the careful balance of love and duty in her mother’s gaze – a mirror of her own inner conflict.

Rhysand lifted his head, scanning the courtyard, and then his eyes caught sight of her in the tower. For a moment, he paused, and a small, fleeting smile touched his lips. Evelyne’s heart leapt. She wondered if he had noticed her, or if it was the wind and snow playing tricks on her mind.

The arrival ceremony was brief and formal, with bows, curtsies, and murmurs of approval from the gathered nobles. Rhysand greeted the guards with a mix of charm and authority, laughing lightly at a jest from Sir Cassian, who rolled his eyes in amusement. Behind them, the stranger – Azriel – remained distant, silent, yet his presence was unmistakable, a shadow at the edges of the celebration.

Evelyne felt a twinge of jealousy and resentment. Who was this man, intruding silently into her view, commanding attention without a word? She did not trust him, and yet she could not look away.

As the formalities concluded, the Prince led his companions through the grand hall, banners fluttering, the scent of polished wood and burning logs filling the air. Servants and nobles fell back, murmuring among themselves. Evelyne followed at a distance, as he disappeared, curious, anxious, and strangely exhilarated. Her brother was home. The castle felt suddenly smaller, yet larger in possibilities she dared not yet imagine.

It wasn’t until later that she saw him. The corridors outside the royal solar were quiet that afternoon, sunlight spilling in through the tall windows and painting the floors in long, golden strips. Evelyne stood at one of them, her hand pressed lightly against the glass, watching the world beyond – the snow melting from the ramparts, the distant shimmer of the river winding away from Velaris’s walls.

The sound of the door opening made her turn. For a moment, she didn’t breathe.

Rhysand stood in the threshold, his cloak still dusted with snow, the faintest smudge of travel dirt on his cheek. He looked the same and yet older somehow, the months spent away from the capital leaving their mark. His hair was longer, his expression more serious, though when his eyes found hers, the old warmth returned instantly.

“Evelyne,” he said, his voice half a laugh, half a sigh of relief.

She didn’t hesitate. She ran to him, the silk hem of her gown whispering over the floor, and when she reached him, she threw her arms around his neck. Rhysand let out a soft grunt at the force of it before wrapping his arms around her, lifting her slightly off her feet as he held her close.

“You should’ve written,” she murmured against his shoulder, her voice catching.

He grinned faintly. “You’d rather I wrote poetry from the battlefield?”

“I’d rather you came home sooner”.

He chuckled lowly, resting his chin atop her head for a moment. “You sound like Mother. I missed you too, sister mine”.

When he set her down, Evelyne drew back to look at him properly, taking in the new lines of tiredness around his eyes, the small cut near his temple that hadn’t quite healed. “You look awful,” she said, though her voice was tender.

He grinned, boyish and familiar. “And you look as though you’ve spent every waking hour worrying about me”.

“Perhaps I have,” she said, only half-joking. “You disappear for months, send two letters that say nothing, and then you arrive unannounced looking like you’ve wrestled a bear”.

“Not a bear,” Rhysand said, his tone light but his gaze momentarily distant. “Bandits near the northern road. They were dealt with”.

Evelyne frowned, her hand brushing the edge of his sleeve. “You shouldn’t be sent out like that. You’re the Crown Prince”.

“Which is exactly why I must go,” he replied gently. “Our father insists I learn what it means to lead men before I lead the realm.” He hesitated, then added, “And perhaps he isn’t wrong”.

Her chest tightened. There it was again – that quiet weariness that had begun to shadow both her brother and their mother lately, as though they all felt the slow crumble of the kingdom but none dared name it.

“Tell me,” she said softly, “are things truly so bad beyond Velaris’s walls?”

Rhysand glanced toward the window, his jaw tensing for a heartbeat. “They are… complicated,” he admitted at last. “But we’ll manage. We always do”.

Evelyne searched his face, unconvinced, but she let it go. For now.

“You’ve grown,” he said finally, with that teasing smile of his. “Taller, maybe. Sharper around the edges”.

“And you look like you’ve aged ten years”.

He barked a laugh, “Again, sounding like Mother”.

“She worries about you,” Evelyne said, though her tone carried its own shadow. “We all do”.

Rhysand slumped into a chair, staring into the flames, “She worries about everything. The kingdom. Father. You”.

The last word lingered. Evelyne dropped her gaze. “Well, Father isn’t well”.

“I know”. His voice was low now, stripped of jest. “I’ve been kept up to date. They say he hides it well, but not for long”.

She swallowed. “Do you think he’ll –“

“No,” Rhysand said, cutting her off too quickly. The, softer, “I don’t know. But the court is already circling like wolves. If he falters, they’ll tear each other apart for the crown before the pyre burns cold”.

Evelyne shivered. The fire crackled, but it offered no warmth. “You‘ll be king one day”.

He gave a hollow smile. “One day. But not yet. And I’d rather face another army than our mother’s council”.

Evelyne’s lips twitched, “You’re still afraid of her”.

“I’ve fought men twice my size,” Rhysand said, raising an eyebrow. “But our mother? She could bring down a general with a single look”.

For the first time in months, Evelyne laughed – a quiet, genuine sound that broke something tight in her chest.

They fell into an easier rhythm then trading stories in the golden light. She told him about the winter feasts, the endless lessons, the suffocating etiquette that filled her days. He told her of the northern passes, of the snow that never stopped falling, of soldiers who’d followed him even when hope had frozen.

“You speak as if you love it,” she said, frowning.

He shrugged. “I loved what it meant to serve, to protect what's ours”.

Evelyn's expression turned distant. “And what’s ours, Rhysand? The snow stone walls? The throne? Or the people who starve beneath them?”

He looked at her sharply, as though hearing something he hadn't expected. “You've grown braver, too”.

“I've had little else to do,” she murmured.

They sat in silence after that. The snow outside have begun again – soft, steady flakes, drifting against the glass. Evelyne stood walking to the window. “Do you ever wish you could leave it all? Just…go?”

Rhysand’s voice was quiet. “Every day. But our wishes don't matter, do they? Not when they wear crowns”.

She turned to him, her heart twisting at the truth of it. “No,” she said softly. “Not when they wear crowns”.

Rhysand’s expression softened. “Don’t let the court crush that spark of yours, Evie. It’s one of the few good things left in this place”.

The nickname nearly undid her. She swallowed hard, managing a smile. “You always say things like that when you’re about to leave again”.

“Not this time,” he promised, resting a hand briefly against her cheek. “Not yet”.

And for the first time in a long while, Evelyne believed him.

Chapter Text

Morning crept over Velaris like a shy guest, pale and slow, the light brushing the frost that clung to the castle’s stone walls. Evelyne awoke to the crackle of the hearth and the muted murmur of servants tending to the fires. Her chamber was heavy with the scent of burning cedar and lavender, the cold air still biting at her fingers despite the warmth of the furs around her shoulders.

She rose and moved to the window, gazing out at the courtyard below. The world outside was silent, the ground blanketed in white. Beyond the battlements, the forest stretched dark and endless, a crown of black against the silver morning. It was beautiful, and it was suffocating.

The castle was alive again. Since her brother’s return, there was a new energy within its walls – servants hurrying as though the air itself demanded haste, voices carrying through corridors that had long been too quiet. Evelyne watched from her high window as the soldiers gathered in the practice yard, their swords catching glints of light as they moved. Her brother’s laughter rose above the clamour, rich and easy, and she smiled faintly despite herself.

Then she saw him.

He stood apart from the others, half in shadow beneath an archway. The morning sun touched the sharp line of his jaw, and the pale scar that cut through the stubble there caught the light. He wasn’t sparring, wasn’t laughing, wasn’t moving at all. He simply watched. The others looked at him now and again, with a kind of quiet respect tinged by unease.

Azriel. That was the name she had heard murmured among the guards. Sir Azriel of Rosehall, her brother’s man.

Something about him unsettled her. Perhaps it was his stillness – so unlike the posturing knights who filled her days with chatter and self-importance. He had the kind of silence that didn’t come from shyness, but from calculation. She told herself she only lingered at the window because curiosity was harmless. Yet when his gaze lifted suddenly and met hers across the courtyard, Evelyne startled, stepping back as though caught in some forbidden act.

A knock sounded at her chamber door, soft but insistent.

“Your Highness,” came the voice of her lady-in-waiting. “The Queen requests your presence”.

Of course she did.

Evelyne exhaled, pressing her palms against her skirts before answering. “Tell Her Majesty I’ll be there shortly”.

Her mother never waited well.

The audience chamber was warm and close, the fire burning high in the grate and the air rich with the scent of myrrh and roses. Queen Isolde sat by the tall window, her posture flawless, every inch of her gown perfectly arranged. There was no softness in her beauty – only precision, like glass.

Evelyne curtseyed. “You sent for me, Mother”.

The Queen’s eyes – cool, steel-grey – barely flicked toward her. “Sit, Evelyne. There is a matter that must be addressed.”

Evelyne obeyed, sitting gracefully opposite her mother, though every part of her tensed at the tone. Isolde spoke like a woman about to hand down a sentence.

“It has come to my attention,” the Queen began, “that you have taken to wandering”.

“I walk the gardens,” Evelyne said quickly. “And the courtyard, sometimes –”

“The city,” Isolde interrupted, voice smooth as polished marble. “The lower markets. The river road. You are too visible, too trusting”.

Evelyne’s throat tightened. “I am not careless, Mother. I –”

“Careless is not the same as foolish,” the Queen said coldly. “You forget that you are no longer a child who can slip from her nurse’s eye. You are a princess of Velaris. And our family’s position is not what it once was”.

Evelyne frowned. “Because of Father’s –” She stopped herself, but her mother’s expression flickered all the same.

Isolde’s hand stilled on the armrest. “Because your father must not be seen as weak,” she said. “Which means you must not be seen as vulnerable”.

Her words were a warning cloaked in reason, and Evelyne knew better than to argue.

“You will have a new guard,” the Queen said at last, “Chosen by your brother”.

Evelyne blinked. “A new guard, why? I already have protection”.

“You will have him,” the Queen said, her tone brooking no refusal. “The King insists upon it”.

Before Evelyne could reply, the door opened.

And he entered.

The man from the courtyard. Azriel.

He bowed low, his movements controlled, deliberate. “Your Majesty”.

“Sir Azriel of Rosehall,” the Queen said, regarding him with cool approval. “I understand the Prince has already discussed this with you, but so we are all clear, you will serve as my daughter’s protector. She is not to go anywhere without you”.

Azriel lifted his head. His gaze found Evelyne’s, and she felt again that strange, unnerving steadiness – like he saw everything she was trying to hide.

“Do you accept this duty?” Isolde asked.

“I do,” he said simply. His voice was deep, even, with the faintest roughness of a man accustomed to command.

“Then go,” said the Queen. “And see that she is not late for supper again”.

Evelyne bit the inside of her cheek to stop her retort. She rose, gave a curt nod, and turned sharply toward the door. Azriel followed at a respectful distance, his boots silent on the stone.

They walked down the corridor in silence, the air heavy with unspoken irritation. Evelyne’s steps quickened, but still she heard him behind her – steady, measured, relentless. Finally, she stopped, turning to face him, chin high.

“You needn’t walk so close,” she said, her voice cool. “I am quite capable of walking without tripping over danger”.

Azriel looked at her, unruffled. “My orders are to guard you, Princess. Not to take your word for your safety”.

Her mouth fell open, “You speak boldly for someone who serves the Crown”.

“I speak plainly,” he replied. “Boldness would be questioning my orders. I merely follow them”.

Evelyne could hardly believe his tone. He wasn’t insolent, but he wasn’t afraid either. “I see my brother’s company has rubbed arrogance into its knights,” she said sharply.

For a moment, something flickered behind his expression – amusement, perhaps – but it was gone before she could name it. He bowed slightly. “Arrogance is a poor shield, Your Highness. I prefer caution”.

And with that, he stepped back, waiting for her to continue her walk.

Evelyne turned on her heel, muttering under her breath as she strode away. The man was insufferable. Impossible. Entirely too sure of himself.

And yet, for the rest of the day, she could not shake the strange awareness of him.

He was always there – at a polite distance, but never out of reach. In the library, she caught sight of him standing at the door. In the gardens, he lingered just far enough to be unobtrusive, but she knew his eyes followed her every step. He said nothing, asked for nothing, expected nothing.

By evening, her irritation had dulled into something she refused to name.

When night fell, she sat by her window once more, the world outside silvered by moonlight. Below, the courtyard lay still except for a few torches burning by the gates. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him again – moving along the wall, his torchlight swaying like a golden star in the dark.

Even from afar, she recognized his stride. Calm. Watchful. Alone.

She told herself it was comforting, that someone so capable watched over her. Yet as the hours slipped by and she found herself unable to look away from that steady light, Evelyne realized something she would not admit even to herself.

It was not comfort she felt.

It was something far more dangerous.

Chapter Text

The grand hall of Velaris glittered like a fallen star, candles and torches casting a golden haze over every polished surface. Long oak tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, steaming pies, and crystal goblets of spiced wine. Laughter rang out from the noblemen, rich and careless, while ladies in silken gowns whispered, eyes darting, fans fluttering in measured disdain. The warmth of the room could not reach the cold ache that had settled deep in her chest.

Evelyne sat at the high table, her posture perfect, her smile composed, and her mind miles away. The weight of her crown felt heavier tonight — a delicate circlet of gold that marked her not as free, but as owned.

Her father sat at the head of the table, eyes sunken yet burning with pride as courtiers toasted the return of his son. King Edric’s illness was becoming harder to disguise — the deep lines etched into his face, the pallor beneath his beard — but his voice carried like thunder. “To my son, Crown Prince Rhysand of Velaris — the pride of our kingdom and the sword of our line!”

The hall erupted in cheers, goblets raised high.

Rhysand stood to acknowledge them, tall and broad, his face lit with the easy charm of a man who commanded loyalty as naturally as breathing. He had the same dark hair as his sister, though his eyes, like their father’s, burned with something fiercer — a dangerous blend of ambition and protectiveness.

And beside him, ever a shadow, stood Sir Azriel.

Evelyne’s gaze found him before she realized it had. He was dressed in deep black and silver, simple compared to the finery around him, but the scars along his jaw caught the candlelight, glinting like faintly drawn lines of steel. He stood at attention a few paces behind the Prince — neither guest nor servant, but something between.

He looked out over the crowd, watchful, distant. His expression betrayed nothing, though Evelyne thought she caught a flicker of discomfort when one of the noble ladies whispered behind her fan, eyes darting toward him.

“An impressive creature, is he not?” murmured her mother’s voice, cutting through Evelyne’s reverie. Queen Isolde’s tone was low, poised, but sharp-edged. “The soldier who saved your brother’s life. A pity that scars do not fade with rank”.

Evelyne swallowed a retort, forcing her expression into polite indifference. “He seems loyal, at least,” she murmured.

Her mother’s lips curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Loyalty, my dear, can be both a blessing and a chain. Remember that”.

The music swelled as servants entered with trays of venison and spiced wine. Courtiers rose to dance, silk rustling like whispers. Rhysand was quickly surrounded by nobles vying for his attention — lords praising his victories, ladies fluttering like moths to his light.

Evelyne’s place felt suddenly small, confined. Her father’s presence loomed, her mother’s voice a constant measure of expectation. She lifted her goblet but found the taste of wine bitter.

Across the room, Sir Azriel moved. Not toward her — not even in her direction — yet her eyes followed him all the same. He was checking the exits, his gaze assessing, controlled. He looked more like a wolf penned among hounds than a knight among nobles.

Cassian — Rhysand’s lifelong friend and sworn protector — appeared at Azriel’s side, laughing easily as he handed him a goblet. The contrast between them struck Evelyne. Cassian was warmth and wit, his easy grin disarming. Azriel, by comparison, was carved from silence.

“Your brother is at ease among his men,” Isolde said, her tone cutting through Evelyne’s thoughts once again. “You might do well to learn the same ease among your suitors”.

Evelyne turned, startled. “My suitors?”

The Queen didn’t glance at her. “There are several noble houses present tonight whose alliances might benefit Velaris. You would do well to smile, child. It costs you nothing”.

Evelyne bit back a bitter laugh. It costs everything, she wanted to say. Her heart, her freedom, her sense of self. But she simply nodded, staring down into her wine as though it might reveal some hidden escape.

Later, as the hall began to blur into drunken laughter and flickering light, Rhysand approached the high table, his grin lazy and unguarded. “Sister,” he greeted warmly, leaning to kiss her brow. “It is good to be home”.

Evelyne smiled, genuine for once. “It’s good to have you back, brother”.

Behind him, Cassian and Azriel lingered, silent. Cassian’s grin was easy, his gaze bright with familiarity — but Azriel’s eyes met hers for a heartbeat too long.

It wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t admiration. It was… assessment.

And that, somehow, burned hotter than any gaze of desire could.

When she finally looked away, she felt the ghost of it lingering on her skin, as if his stare had marked her somehow.

The King called for music again, and the first dance began. Rhysand took his place beside the Queen, as custom demanded, while noblemen and ladies paired off around them. Evelyne declined her first offer to dance. And the second. By the third, whispers had started — the kind that curled through the air like smoke.

“She’ll need to learn to play her part soon,” one lady murmured behind her fan.

Evelyne smiled thinly. “Perhaps I am simply waiting for a better partner”.

Her gaze flicked — against her will — toward the shadowed edge of the hall where Azriel stood, arms folded, watching.

And though she told herself it was anger that made her heart skip — anger that this silent, low-born knight thought himself above conversation, above courtesy — she could not quite convince herself of it.

By the time the King rose to toast his own health, the hall seemed to shrink around Evelyne. Laughter rang hollow in her ears, silver goblets clinked with hollow cheer, and every polished surface reflected the gilded prison she had been born into. She tried to focus on the food, the conversation, anything other than the ever-present shadow at the edge of her vision.

Azriel remained there, a constant sentinel. He did not move unless the situation required it, and yet she could feel his attention like a weight pressing lightly on her back. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and furious at herself for caring.

Evelyne let her eyes roam over the room, feigning interest in the nobles around her. Her glance briefly landed on a young lord, tall and handsome, whose attention had evidently settled on her. He offered a bow, a smile that seemed practiced and too smooth, and she felt a flicker of amusement. For a moment, she allowed herself the tiniest indulgence: she returned his smile, polite, measured, proper—the perfect princess.

Almost immediately, she sensed it: Azriel’s gaze. Hard, precise, impossible to ignore. She stiffened, forcing herself to finish the polite conversation with the young lord, but her words came sharper than intended. The noble’s smile faltered, just slightly, as if he too noticed the tension radiating from the silent knight across the room.

A blush of satisfaction crept into Evelyne’s chest. So, he noticed. Good. Let him see.

She let her laughter carry across the hall, louder than necessary, her skirts swishing as she moved with careful grace. She felt Azriel’s eyes follow her, a hot, insistent awareness pressing at the back of her neck. She tried not to think about it, tried to focus on the whispers and politicking around her, but her attention kept snapping back.

Her father’s voice boomed above the hum of the hall. “A toast!” he declared, lifting his goblet. “To Velaris, to loyalty, to strength, and to the order of this family”.

Evelyne’s stomach tightened. Loyalty. Strength. Order. Words she had been told to embody since she could walk. And yet she felt none of them. She felt caged, and maddeningly, aware of someone watching her every move.

As the guests drank, she noticed Azriel subtly shift, moving closer to the perimeter of the hall, his gaze never leaving her. He did not step forward, did not intrude, and yet she felt a magnetic pull between them, something neither of them would name. Her pulse quickened with irritation, embarrassment, and… something dangerously like anticipation.

The ball dragged on, the music swelling, servants gliding through with trays of desserts and wine. Evelyne found herself slipping from one conversation to another, deliberately lingering near Azriel’s line of sight, testing him. His expression remained unreadable, though she caught the barest hint of a furrow in his brow. That small, almost imperceptible movement made her chest tighten with frustration and a heat she could not name.

When the last of the desserts had been carried away, and the laughter had faded into polite murmurs, Evelyne finally excused herself. She could not stand the gilded cage any longer. She left the hall, her skirts swishing softly, slipping into the quieter corridors of the castle.

The castle gardens were quiet, the cold of winter turning each breath into a puff of mist that hung in the air like a secret. Evelyne moved slowly along the frost-lined paths, her skirts whispering against the frozen stone. She needed space, air, and a reprieve from the stifling weight of the castle. The warmth of the hall had been suffocating, and the laughter and chatter hollow. The sight of her father, his face drawn and pale in candlelight, had tightened the knot of unease in her chest. She longed for freedom, for the ability to move unseen, to breathe without obligation pressing down on her like a stone.

As she rounded a hedge, a flicker of movement caught her eye. She froze instinctively, pressing herself against the cold, damp stone of the garden wall. Two figures stood near the fountain at the centre of the garden, the moonlight glinting off the water and illuminating their faces.

Rhysand. And a young woman she did not know.

Evelyne’s heart gave an almost painful lurch. She had seen Feyre fleetingly in the halls, always polite, always quiet, never speaking out of turn. But here, in the moonlit garden, Feyre seemed transformed. She laughed softly at something Rhysand had whispered, a laugh that tinkled like wind through silver leaves. Evelyne’s chest tightened, a knot of jealousy and longing forming in her stomach. She had never known her brother cared for someone, but to see it now, so private, so real, was almost unbearable.

She took a careful step closer, wanting – needing – to see, though her mind screamed that she should turn away. Rhysand’s hand brushed against Feyre’s, fleeting but intimate, and Evelyne’s pulse quickened. She knew the risk of being seen, the consequences of overhearing such a private moment, yet she could not tear her eyes away.

“…I would find a way, Feyre, if it were possible…” Rhysand’s voice was barely above a whisper, but the words struck her like a blow.

Feyre shook her head, her gaze steady and soft. “I know, my prince. But we must accept what cannot be changed”.

Evelyne’s stomach twisted. She understood too well the cruel tyranny of duty. Her own life was dictated by expectations she had never asked for, choices made on her behalf, freedoms denied. Yet here was her brother, daring to hope, daring to love, despite the constraints imposed upon him. Part of her admired him; another part seethed with envy.

A rustle behind her made her freeze. Her breath caught in her throat, heart hammering. For a terrifying moment, she imagined Azriel stepping from the shadows, his dark eyes narrowing in reproach. But it was only the wind, swirling frost along the garden paths. She allowed herself a small, trembling exhale, pressing a hand to her chest as she watched.

Rhysand reached for Feyre’s hand again, his thumb brushing hers, and Evelyne’s chest constricted. She wanted to feel that freedom, that courage, that intimacy for herself. She wanted to be the one daring, the one choosing, the one seeing and being seen without consequence. Instead, she remained hidden, silent, and achingly aware of her own confinement.

A branch snapped beneath her heel, and Evelyne froze, praying the noise had gone unnoticed. Rhysand’s head turned sharply, and she held her breath, willing herself to be unseen. Feyre squeezed his hand, grounding him, and the moment passed, leaving Evelyne’s stomach knotted with tension.

The two of them began to move back toward the castle, hands still entwined. Evelyne’s lips parted, a shiver of longing and envy coursing through her. She lingered among the hedges, following them at a distance, savouring the stolen glimpses of a life she could never yet claim.

Her thoughts turned inward, spinning with desire and frustration. She envied her brother’s courage, his ability to pursue even a fleeting moment of choice, while her own path was entirely dictated by the whims of duty. She longed for the garden to be her refuge, a place where she could breathe freely, but even here, the world intruded, reminding her that her life was a gilded cage.

As she walked the winding paths back toward her chambers, the frost crunching softly beneath her boots, Evelyne allowed herself a rare smile, bitter and sweet. Perhaps one day she would find a way to step beyond the gilded walls, beyond the weight of expectation and the confines of her title. Perhaps one day, she would carve a life that was entirely her own.

But for now, she pressed her hand to the garden gate, lingering in the chill night air, and watched the moonlight fade across the frost. The castle loomed behind her, silent and imposing, a reminder of all she could not yet touch. And yet, in the quiet of the garden, Evelyne felt something stir within her—a small, defiant spark that whispered she would not remain bound forever.

Chapter Text

The air in Velaris’s castle was as stale as always, thick with the smell of damp stone and smoke from the hearth. Princess Evelyne pressed her cheek to the cold window glass of her chamber, her gaze wandering to the fields beyond the walls where a haze of frost still clung to the grass. Somewhere beyond those gates, life stirred with noise and freedom and colour, while here she sat in another day of embroidery and measured curtsies.

Another day of waiting, another day of being watched, of measured words and careful posture. Even the soft voice of her mother in the corridors could not soothe the restless energy coiling in her chest.

She had grown tired of the same corridors, the same tapestries, the same gilded halls. The castle, for all its beauty, felt like a cage. Her fingers traced the hem of her nightgown as she considered the day ahead. Normally, lessons or embroidery would occupy her hours, but today she hungered for more than instruction. She needed air, movement, and something beyond her father’s looming shadow.

Her maid droned on about silks and stitches, but Evelyne’s ears pricked when two of the younger court girls, huddled in the corner, giggled about sneaking out to the marketplace. Evelyne’s pulse quickened. She turned sharply.

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

The girls froze, then exchanged guilty looks. One of them whispered, “To the town. Just for an hour”.

“The market!” the other girl added, “There is a new stall from the north, and the baker promises fresh rolls. You won’t tell, will you?”

Evelyne hesitated. Markets were noisy, crowded, and undignified – but the pull of freedom, the chance to step beyond the watchful eyes of the castle, won. Evelyne rose from her chair, the embroidery falling forgotten.

“Very well, you’ll take me with you” she said quietly, glancing around the room to ensure she was unobserved. “But we must be careful. No one can see us”.

They gasped. “Your Highness, it isn’t proper –”

“Proper?” Evelyne’s chin lifted, her tone sharp with the authority she wielded when convenient. “Am I a prisoner in my father’s castle? If I wish to walk among my people, I shall”.

The girls gave in quickly, as Evelyne knew they would. Within half an hour, cloaks were draped over gowns, hoods pulled low, and three young women slipped through a servants’ gate, laughing nervously as they hurried down the path into the town. As they ran, the castle loomed behind her, its towers stark against the grey sky, yet each step into the streets felt like breathing for the first time in months.

The marketplace hit Evelyne like a storm. The air was alive with noise—vendors shouting, hammers clanging, pigs squealing in pens. The air smelled of roasting chestnuts, of wet wool, of mud and smoke and sweat. Evelyne’s heart thrilled at it all.

For once, no eyes followed her because of her crown. She was just another cloaked figure among the crowd. She darted from stall to stall, fingers brushing bright ribbons, golden pears, bolts of wool dyed red as blood.

She bit into a hunk of bread one vendor pressed into her hand, the warm crust crackling under her teeth. For a moment she felt like a girl, not a princess. Free.

But her smile faltered when her ears caught the words of a pair of farmers standing by a cart of turnips.

“Another tax this month. Edric bleeds us dry”.

“Aye,” said the other grimly. “And when he dies, the son’ll be no better. A crown’s a crown”.

Evelyne’s stomach tightened. She turned away, tugging her hood lower. Her father’s name, spat like a curse, followed her back into the noise of the crowd.

The court girls pulled her toward a jeweller’s stall, teasing her about which suitor might buy her the brightest necklace. Evelyne tried to laugh with them, though the words stung. She was not even allowed to choose a trinket for herself, let alone a husband.

And that was when a hand seized her wrist.

“Pretty cloak,” a man slurred. He was broad-shouldered, his beard ragged, his eyes bloodshot with drink. “Finer than most round here. What’re you hiding under it, eh?”

Evelyne yanked her arm, but his grip tightened. The court girls shrieked, drawing the eyes of the crowd.

“Release me,” Evelyne said, forcing her voice steady, regal. “Do you know who I am?”

The man’s grin widened. “A lady far from her keep, by the looks of it. Wonder what you’d fetch at the docks”.

Her breath hitched. She shoved at his chest, panic flashing through her. The marketplace blurred—the jeers, the laughter, the crush of bodies closing in.

And then he was gone.

No – he was not gone. He was on the ground, groaning, a boot pressed hard against his chest. Above him loomed a tall, scarred man in a dark surcoat, his hand tight on the hilt of his sword.

Sir Azriel.

The crowd fell silent at the sight of him. His scarred face, the hard set of his jaw, the cold fire in his eyes—he looked less a man than some avenging shade.

“Get up,” Azriel growled at the drunk, his voice like gravel. “And if I ever see you touch her again, I will break every bone in your body”.

The man scrambled away, muttering curses. No one else dared meet Azriel’s gaze.

Before Evelyne could catch her breath, Azriel’s hand was on her arm – not gentle, but firm, unyielding. He pulled her from the market with long strides, his presence so commanding that the crowd parted without a word.

“You – you were supposed to be at the castle!” she snapped, yanking her arm free. “What are you doing here?”

Azriel’s jaw tightened. “What am I doing here?” he repeated, incredulous. “I am saving your life, Princess. Do you think I enjoy being called away from court to chase after you because you refuse to follow a single rule?”

Evelyne’s cheeks flamed. “Rule? Rule! You think this is about rules? You think I care about your orders?”

“Do you?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the clamour of the market. “Do you even begin to understand what you are risking? One misstep, one moment of carelessness, and it is not just your life at stake — it is mine, it is everyone who serves you. You have no idea what chaos your recklessness causes. Now, fo you want to be carried back like a child?” Azriel’s voice was low and sharp, his grip like iron. “Or will you walk?”

Heat flared in her cheeks. She wrenched her arm but could not free it. “You presume too much, ser. I am not your prisoner”.

“You are my charge,” he snapped. “And I will not see you dragged through the filth of this town”.

Azriel’s hands curled into fists at his sides, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned and gestured sharply to the servants who had been watching nervously. “Go back to the castle, both of you. And let me make myself clear, if she leaves again, no further than the gates next time”.

The girls scurried off and Evelyne’s glare followed Azriel as he guided her back to the castle, cheeks still flushed with cold and fury. For all his authority, all his warnings, she felt a surge of something unnameable — a mix of irritation, respect, and… confusion. She did not understand him, nor did she want to, yet a small part of her admitted that without his intervention, she might not have returned safely at all.

Back in the stables, Azriel finally released her. The smell of hay and horses filled the tense air. Evelyne spun on him, eyes flashing, “How dare you speak to me so? How dare you humiliate me before all those people, in front of my servants!”

Azriel’s jaw clenched. His voice was steady, but cold as steel. “Do you understand, Princess, that if harm had come to you, my head would be on the block by nightfall?”

Evelyne blinked, startled by the raw edge beneath his control.

“I think you have no notion,” he went on, “of the dangers that wait beyond these walls. You walk among wolves and expect them to bow because you are royal. They will not. They will tear you apart”.

His words cut deeper than she wished to admit. She raised her chin, clinging to pride. “You think me weak. A spoiled child”.

Something flickered in his eyes then—anger, yes, but also something else. Pain. “I think you are braver than you know,” he said quietly. “But bravery without caution is foolishness”.

For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them. His scar caught the torchlight, harsh against the strong line of his jaw. Evelyne’s chest tightened with a strange, unfamiliar ache.

She turned quickly, her cloak swirling behind her. “You will not speak to me so again,” she said, though her voice lacked its earlier bite.

As she strode away, her heart thundered—not with indignation, but with something far more dangerous.

For the first time, she wondered if the man in the shadows might see her more clearly than anyone ever had.

Chapter Text

For three days after the market incident, the castle seemed to hold its breath. Word of the princess’s “illness” — as the Prince and Sir Azriel had quietly claimed — had spread quickly, and servants lowered their eyes when she passed. Evelyne remained mostly confined to her chambers, partly by her mother’s insistence, partly because she could not bear to see him.

Azriel.

The name itself grated in her mind like the edge of a blade. He had humiliated her before her own friends, dragged her through the streets like a child caught misbehaving, and then had the audacity to speak to her as though she were a soldier under his command. A common-born knight daring to raise his voice to a princess.

And yet — she could not stop thinking about that look in his eyes, the flash of fury, yes, but beneath it… something steadier.

She despised herself for wondering what it was.

The morning light fell pale through her window as she sat at her dressing table. “Is he still stationed outside?” she asked her lady-in-waiting, pretending to sound indifferent.

“Yes, Your Highness,” the girl said quietly. “Sir Azriel has not left his post since dawn”.

Evelyne’s chest tightened in some unexplainable way. “Well,” she said briskly, “perhaps he enjoys standing in the cold”.

Still, when she passed the corridor a short while later, her heart betrayed her with a single quick beat. There he was — standing near her door, armour gleaming faintly in the grey light, his face unreadable.

“Good morning, Princess,” he said, bowing stiffly.

She did not look at him as she replied, “Good morning, Sir Azriel”.

The title left her lips like a challenge, sharp and clipped.

He fell into step beside her as she began down the corridor. His presence was quiet but impossible to ignore. He moved like a shadow — never speaking unless necessary, never straying far. The scrape of his boots on the stone floor became the rhythm of her day.

At first, Evelyne tried to outpace him. Then she tried to lose him. Once, she slipped through a servants’ passage to test whether he would follow.

He did.

Without a word.

When she turned to glare at him, he met her eyes with calm restraint. “My duty is to remain at your side, Princess,” he said simply.

“Your duty,” she echoed, venom in her tone. “Do you ever tire of that word?”

He blinked slowly. “No, Your Highness. Duty is what keeps this kingdom from falling apart”.

“Then perhaps that is why it feels like a cage,” she muttered under her breath.

He said nothing, but his jaw tightened.

He followed at her heel as she made her way to the north hall where her mother’s lady-scholar awaited — the lesson chamber that Evelyne despised more than any other room in Velaris. The Queen had decreed that a princess must know every rule of diplomacy, lineage, and proper speech.

It was a gilded prison of politeness.

The door closed behind her with a heavy thud. Azriel took his place just outside, still as a statue. Inside, Evelyne sat straight-backed at the long mahogany table as Lady Hester arranged her scrolls.

“Today,” the tutor said, “we continue with the address for your future consort”.

Evelyne’s fingers tightened around her quill. “Must we?”

“Your mother insists. It will do no good to appear ignorant when the time comes”.

“When the time comes,” Evelyne echoed, her tone brittle. “Meaning when I am traded off like a jewel with a few diplomatic benefits?”

Lady Hester gave her the patient smile of someone long resigned to royal insolence. “It is your privilege to serve through duty, Highness”.

“Privilege,” Evelyne repeated, her mouth curving bitterly.

For two hours, she read aloud from pages that described the obedience of queens, the loyalty of wives, the elegance of submission. Her voice was steady, but her heart thundered. Beyond the chamber door, she could feel Azriel’s shadow. She wondered if he ever heard these lessons — if he understood how her life was built from rules disguised as virtues.

When the final passage was read, Evelyne closed the book too hard. “Does duty ever end, Lady Hester? Or does it swallow us whole?”

The older woman stiffened. “You were born to rule beside a man, not against him, Princess. You will learn peace in obedience”.

Evelyne rose, her pulse hot beneath her skin. “Peace,” she said softly, “is not born from obedience”.

She swept out before the woman could answer.

Azriel straightened when she appeared. Their eyes met — her fury burning bright, his cool and steady.

“Are you well, Princess?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she said sharply. “But I expect that doesn’t matter”.

He didn’t flinch, but his gaze flicked briefly toward the door she had just slammed. “Was it your tutor?”

“She is merely a mirror for the rest of them,” Evelyne snapped. “This castle is full of people who speak softly while tying invisible chains”.

For a moment, his composure wavered. Just barely. “Chains protect as much as they bind”.

She turned to him, eyes narrowing. “Do they? Or do they only protect the ones who hold the keys?”

He had no answer for that.

She brushed past him and strode down the corridor, her steps echoing through the cold hall. He followed at a careful distance.

That silence between them stretched through the morning and into the afternoon. Evelyne had gone to the library to read, hoping to escape his looming presence, but even there, she could feel him — quiet, unmoving, a sentinel by the door.

Finally, she slammed the book shut. “Do you ever breathe, Sir Azriel?”

He looked up, startled. “Pardon?”

“You stand there like a statue,” she said, rising to her feet. “You never speak unless spoken to, never move, never—never live. It’s unnerving”.

His lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Would you prefer I chatter?”

“I would prefer you behave like a person, not a weapon”.

He hesitated. Then, carefully, he said, “A weapon does not question its orders, Princess. It only obeys them”.

Something in his tone gave her pause. He wasn’t being insolent; he was being honest. Too honest. She turned away, unsettled by how human he sounded.

The hours dragged on, but she noticed small things — how he reached to open every door before she did, how he subtly adjusted his stance whenever someone came too near, how his hand rested lightly on his sword when they crossed a crowded hallway.

He did it without thought. Not for show. Not to please her. Simply because he had to.

On the way to supper, she found herself in the royal gallery, where the portraits of her ancestors watched from gilded frames. The painted kings all looked the same — hard-eyed men in crimson and gold, swords drawn, gazes fixed on some imagined horizon.

Azriel waited by the door, as silent as ever.

“You stand like them,” she said after a while, not turning to face him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The men in these portraits,” she said. “All duty. No soul”.

He hesitated, clearly unsure if she expected an answer. “I have no crown, Princess. Only orders”.

“And do those orders ever let you rest?”

His eyes flickered — the smallest trace of something human breaking through. “No”.

It was such a simple word, but it felt like an admission. Evelyne turned, studying him for the first time not as a nuisance, but as a man. The bruising shadow along his jaw, the faint cut across his brow, the posture that spoke of too many battles and too little peace.

She looked away quickly. “Perhaps we are not so different then,” she murmured.

He didn’t respond, but his jaw softened.

Outside, snow began to fall — a slow, silent flurry that softened the sharp edges of the world. Inside, two people stood an arm’s length apart, divided by rank and circumstance, yet bound by something neither could name.

Azriel remained where he always did: a step behind, a shadow in the cold. But for the first time, he saw not just the Princess of Velaris, but the young woman trapped beneath the weight of her title.

And Evelyne — though she would rather bite her tongue than admit it — began to wonder whether the knight who chained her freedom might understand her prison better than anyone else.

That night, Evelyne lingered by her window, staring at the flickering torches below. Snow had begun to fall again, the courtyard bathed in quiet white. She thought of him still standing outside her door, armour catching the light, waiting for nothing but danger.

She told herself it was absurd to feel sorry for him. He was a soldier. It was his life. His choice.

And yet, when she blew out her candle and lay awake, she could not shake the image of him — silent, patient, alone in the cold.

She did not know him. She did not like him. But somehow, she was beginning to see that his silence was not arrogance. It was armour of a different kind.

Chapter Text

Winter clung to Velaris like sorrow that would not melt.

The snow had thinned to slush and ice, but the cold bit harder than ever, sinking into the castle’s old bones. Rumours of the King’s decline were beginning to whisper their way through the corridors — never spoken aloud, but present in every drawn curtain, every soft instruction from the Queen to keep the rooms warm. Fires burned day and night, yet every corner of the great hall still carried a breath of frost. Even laughter — when it came — sounded brittle, like glass waiting to crack.

Evelyne had begun to think she might never feel warmth again.

Every morning, she woke to another letter sealed in crimson wax — proposals, inquiries, alliances dressed up as compliments. The Queen read them all. Evelyne never saw the replies.

The Queen’s solar was dim that morning, the curtains drawn against the pale sun. The scent of lavender oil and parchment clung to the air. Evelyne sat dutifully at her mother’s side while a visiting envoy droned on about alliances and dowries, his words measured and polite but heavy with expectation.

This morning was worse.

She sat beside her mother in the solar, the fire burning low, while Isolde spoke with a visiting envoy — a polished man from the Northern Duchies, his smile as thin as his patience.

“My King sends only respect for His Majesty’s daughter,” he said, bowing stiffly. “And hopes her hand might strengthen what peace we share”.

Her mother inclined her head gracefully. “The King will consider it”.

The envoy’s gaze flicked to Evelyne. “Princess, your country’s winters must make you long for southern warmth”.

Evelyne’s lips curved just enough to be polite. “I am accustomed to the cold, my lord. It teaches resilience”.

His smirk faltered.

Isolde’s hand brushed Evelyne’s arm in silent warning.

When the envoy left, her mother turned on her. “Must you always push? You know how fragile this peace is”.

“Fragile peace is not peace, Mother,” Evelyne said softly. “It’s only fear, dressed in silk”.

The Queen’s expression tightened. “You will speak as a princess, not a philosopher. The King will decide whom you marry, and you will honour that decision”.

“I will honour what is right,” Evelyne murmured.

The slap never came, but the threat of it hung in the silence.

When she finally escaped to the courtyard, she found Rhysand waiting — her brother leaning against the frost-coated railing, his cloak drawn tight. He grinned when he saw her, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“You look like you’ve just been sentenced,” he said.

“Perhaps I have”.

He straightened, his tone sharpening. “Another suitor?”

“From the north this time,” Evelyne said bitterly. “Mother likes his father’s influence. I suspect that’s all that matters”.

Rhysand exhaled, the mist of his breath vanishing into the cold air. “You’re not a pawn, Evelyne”.

“Aren’t I?” she said. “Every letter that arrives is another reminder of how little my opinion matters”.

His expression darkened. “Not while I’m here”.

She wanted to believe him. Truly, she did. But even her brother — charming, loyal, adored by the court — could only shield her from so much.

She joined him at the railing, pulling her cloak tighter. The valley below stretched endless and white — fields shrouded in mist, the distant black line of the forest, the frozen river cutting like a scar through the land.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “And lonely”.

He glanced sideways. “You’ve been quiet lately”.

“It’s Mother” she said bitterly. “She listens to them, Rhysand. She listens as if I were… furniture. A dowry with a pulse”.

Rhysand sighed, leaning on the railing beside her. “I hate it too, you know. The pretending. The smiles. The bowing”.

“You were made for it,” she teased softly. “They love you”.

“I think they love the idea of me,” he replied. “It’s easier to love a symbol than a man”.

She smiled faintly. “You always say things like that when you’re tired”.

“Or honest”. He nudged her shoulder. “And you always brood when you’re scared”.

“I’m not scared”.

He gave her that infuriating older-brother look — patient, knowing. “Then what are you, Evie?”

She hesitated. “Trapped”.

The word came out small, but true.

Rhysand turned to face her fully, his voice low. “Then I’ll find a way to free you. I swear it”.

She met his eyes. “You can’t protect me from everything”.

“Watch me,” he said with a grin that didn’t quite hide the steel beneath it.

She laughed, just a little. “You’ve always been impossible”.

“And you’ve always been stubborn”.

Before she could reply, the clatter of armour sounded behind them. Azriel approached, helm tucked under his arm, his stride purposeful. He bowed briefly to Rhysand, then to her.

“Your Grace, Princess,” he greeted, his tone measured as ever.

Rhysand nodded. “Azriel. You’ve been with the guards all morning?”

“Yes, sire. The King requested that the west gate be reinforced”.

Evelyne turned away, uninterested — or pretending to be. But she could feel Azriel’s presence like a weight. Since that day at the market, he had been dutifully silent — a shadow that lingered at the edge of every room she entered.

Rhysand glanced between them. “Evelyne was just telling me about our friends from the north,” he said carefully.

Azriel’s jaw shifted slightly, but he said nothing.

“I won’t do it,” Rhysand muttered after a pause. “I won’t let them send you off to those men”.

Evelyne looked at him sharply. “Rhysand—”

“I mean it,” he interrupted. “Father listens to me more now, with the Regent’s council forming. If he thinks this will secure peace, I’ll make him see it another way”.

Azriel spoke then, quietly. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but that is not wise”.

Rhysand turned, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Defying the King publicly will weaken your standing,” Azriel said. “If you’re to protect the Princess, do so from within his trust, not by breaking it”.

“So, you suggest I let him decide her fate?” Rhysand snapped.

“I suggest you live long enough to change it,” Azriel replied evenly.

Evelyne’s stomach twisted.

“You always think in tactics,” she said bitterly. “Never hearts”.

Azriel’s gaze flicked to her, unreadable. “Hearts get men killed”.

“And doing nothing gets women caged”.

The air went taut between them. Even Rhysand looked uneasy.

Azriel bowed his head slightly. “With respect, Princess, your safety depends on restraint”.

“Safety,” she echoed coldly. “Another word for obedience”.

Her words hung there — sharp, deliberate. Azriel’s eyes met hers, hard and unflinching, and for the first time she thought she saw anger there. Not at her, perhaps, but at the truth of it.

It was Rhysand who finally broke the silence. “Enough,” he said, his voice low. “Both of you. This isn’t the enemy you’re fighting”.

Evelyne turned away, blinking fast. “No,” she said quietly, “but I’m beginning to wonder who is”.

She left before either of them could speak again.

That night, the castle was restless. The King’s cough echoed faintly through the upper halls, the kind of sound that carried dread with it. Courtiers gathered in corners, whispering of letters and alliances.

Azriel stood outside Evelyne’s door, every muscle held in rigid control. He could still hear her words from earlier — the fury in them, the sharp ache beneath.

You always think in tactics. Never hearts.

It wasn’t untrue. He had learned long ago that hearts were weapons waiting to be used against you. But hers… hers had been forged in a cage, and he had seen what that did to someone.

When the door creaked open, he snapped to attention. Evelyne stood there, her hair unbound, the faintest trace of exhaustion beneath her eyes.

“Do you ever sleep, Sir Azriel?” she asked quietly.

He hesitated. “When duty allows”.

“Then your duty is merciless”.

He didn’t reply. She lingered there for a heartbeat longer, the firelight from her chamber casting gold across her face.

“I heard my brother arguing with Father tonight,” she said finally. “About me”.

Azriel’s throat tightened. “Then he keeps his word”.

“And you still think it unwise?”

“I think it dangerous,” he said. “But sometimes those are the same thing”.

Their eyes met. For the first time, neither looked away.

Then she stepped back and closed the door softly, leaving him alone in the corridor — a silent guard to a girl who burned too brightly for the world she was trapped in.

And though he stood as still as ever, Azriel felt something shift inside him, quiet and unwanted.

For the first time, duty did not feel like enough.

Azriel stood outside the Princess’s chamber long after she had vanished behind its heavy oak door. The torches along the corridor hissed and spat, their light painting restless gold across the polished stone.

He should have moved on. His duty was to guard, not linger.

But the echoes of her voice — sharp, defiant, alive — still burned in his head.

Footsteps broke the stillness.

Rhysand rounded the corner, his cloak hanging open, his hair dishevelled from a long day of council. He halted when he saw Azriel and raised a brow. “You look like a man preparing to duel a door”.

Azriel straightened, bowing slightly. “Your Highness”.

“Relax,” Rhysand said, stepping closer. “If I wanted formality, I’d summon the court”.

He leaned one shoulder against the wall beside Azriel, following his gaze toward the silent door. “You must think she’s reckless. Everyone does”.

Azriel remained still. “I think she’s brave. But bravery without caution can be dangerous”.

“Spoken like a man who’s survived both”.

Azriel’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t answer.

Rhysand studied him for a moment, his expression shifting — the confident prince slipping away, leaving only the weary brother. “You know, when we were children, Evelyne used to climb the south tower to watch the sunrise. Scared the life out of me. She’d stand there barefoot, wind in her hair, convinced she could see the edge of the world”.

He gave a quiet, broken laugh. “I’d shout at her to come down before she fell, and she’d just smile and say, ‘Then you’d have to catch me.’ She’s always been like that. Always reaching for something just out of reach”.

Azriel’s gaze softened. “And you’ve been catching her ever since”.

Rhysand’s smile faded. “I try. But every year she grows a little further beyond my grasp. And soon… Father will decide what she’s worth in alliances and treaties, and she’ll smile through it because she knows she must”.

His voice lowered. “She acts strong, Azriel. Proud. But underneath all that, she’s—”

He broke off, searching for the word.

“—she’s gentle,” he finished at last. “Too gentle for the world she was born into. You see it sometimes, if you look close enough — the way she watches people when she thinks no one notices. The way she flinches when Mother talks about marriage. She carries every emotion like it’s a battle she’s already lost”.

Azriel’s chest tightened. “You’re afraid she’ll break”.

“I’m afraid she’ll hide behind fire until she burns herself away,” Rhysand said quietly. “Or break herself fighting for a freedom this world doesn’t give her”.

The silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken things — the loyalty of one man sworn by oath, and the love of another bound by blood.

Finally, Rhysand straightened. “She’ll fight you, you know. She’ll test you, curse you, make you question why you ever took this post. But don’t take it personally”.

“I don’t,” Azriel said softly.

Rhysand studied him, eyes narrowing slightly. “Good. Because she doesn’t need another guard who’s afraid of her. She needs someone who’ll see her for what she is, not just what she represents”.

Azriel met his gaze evenly. “I serve her, not as a symbol — but as herself”.

Rhysand smiled faintly, half proud, half sorrowful. “Then I chose right”.

And then he was gone, leaving Azriel alone in the flickering light — his pulse unsteady, his thoughts far too loud.

For a long time he stood there, listening to the quiet behind the Princess’s door.

Then he drew a breath, and walked away.

Chapter Text

The castle slept beneath a hush of snow. From the highest turret to the shadowed courtyards, everything was still — save for the faint flicker of torches that painted the walls gold and the occasional echo of boots along stone. The world outside was buried in white, yet inside, the air felt heavy, as though the great halls themselves held their breath.

Evelyne could not sleep.

Her chambers were too quiet, too polished, too full of air that smelled faintly of incense and cold stone. Even the fire in her hearth seemed reluctant to burn, hissing softly as though tired of pretending to offer warmth. She turned restlessly beneath her blankets before finally giving up altogether.

Her mother would scold her if she knew she wandered at this hour. Rhysand would sigh. The maids would whisper. But tonight, she didn’t care. There was something suffocating about being a princess in this place — a life mapped and measured, guarded and gilded. A cage, no matter how pretty.

She rose, pulled on her cloak, and paused by the window. Snow spiralled lazily through the dark sky, flakes catching the faint light of the courtyard torches below. Two guards stood at her door — men she didn’t recognise. They were too stiff, too impersonal. Not the quiet, observant figure she’d grown used to seeing in the periphery of her days.

Azriel wasn’t there.

She knew he didn’t spend his whole days stood outside her room like a sentry. He had other duties — the Queen’s safety during counsel, overseeing training rotations for the royal guard, dispatches at the King’s command. Still, Evelyne had noticed that when he was near, the world seemed sharper. More alert. And when he wasn’t… the silence felt different. Uneasy.

She pressed her ear to the door; the guards outside were talking in low voices.

“…shouldn’t she be asleep by now?” one murmured.

“Likely,” said the other. “Not our concern unless she calls for someone”.

They were young. Unseasoned. She almost smiled.

In a rare spark of rebellion, Evelyne slipped her cloak tighter and eased the latch open. The hinges made no sound — she’d oiled them herself weeks ago, another small defiance against the constant scrutiny. She slipped into the corridor.

Neither guard turned.

Her heart quickened. The thrill of being unseen — unbound — pulsed through her as she padded barefoot along the hall, the cold biting her toes through the thin fabric of her slippers. For once, she was alone and unobserved, just Evelyne, not the King’s daughter, not a prize of gold and duty.

The castle was quiet, though the wind howled against the stone walls like a creature in pain. Snow had begun again, blanketing the towers and courtyard in pale light, and the torches along the corridors flickered against the shadowed arches. Evelyne wandered aimlessly, her skirts brushing the cold floor, her hands clasped tightly before her. The warmth of the day’s hearths had faded into memory, leaving her chilled in both body and spirit. She had tried, as always, to occupy herself — reading by candlelight, studying embroidery, even pacing the halls — but the frustration of another day constrained by duty and expectation had become too heavy to bear. She needed air, movement, some semblance of freedom, though she knew she would find none within these walls.

The hall of the great fire loomed ahead, a place she had seldom visited alone. The double doors were slightly ajar, spilling golden light onto the floor. She pushed them open cautiously, her pulse quickening, not knowing what she expected — perhaps solitude, perhaps escape. And there he was, sitting by the fire, half in shadow, the flame light flickering over the sharp angles of his face. Azriel. She had seen him many times since his arrival, always silent, always watching, and yet she knew almost nothing of him. His presence was like a shadow that refused to be ignored, and tonight, in this hall, it pressed on her in a way she could not name.

Azriel sat near the great hearth, one arm resting on the back of a chair, the fire painting his features in shades of bronze and shadow. His uniform coat hung over a nearby chair; his linen shirt was rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms marked faintly with scars — pale reminders of battles she could only imagine. He looked nothing like the silent, disciplined soldier she’d seen at formal events. He looked… real.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, without turning. His voice was low, steady, but she caught the undercurrent — not reproach exactly, but a quiet awareness.

She straightened her shoulders. “Neither should you, I imagine”.

That made him look up. His eyes — a stormy, unreadable grey — met hers briefly before flicking to the open doorway behind her. “There are guards posted at your chambers”.

“Yes,” she said coolly. “Two of them. Talking about whether or not I should be asleep. Very devoted”.

He frowned, rising from his seat. “You slipped past them?”

“Easily,” she said with a faint smile, crossing her arms. “Should I be impressed with your choice of men, Captain?”

For the first time, he almost smiled — not fully, but the corner of his mouth twitched, the expression more exasperated than amused. “They’re new,” he said. “Rotations are short while the King’s guard is stretched thin. I posted them there to ensure your safety, not to test their wit”.

“Well,” she said, sweeping past him toward the fire, “you may need to revise your standards. I could have been anyone sneaking through those halls”.

He stepped closer, his tone turning sharp. “You could have been anyone’s target”.

The words stung more than she expected, though not because of their warning — but because of how earnestly he said them.

“I was not,” she said, lifting her chin. “I am perfectly capable of walking through my own home without fear”.

He gave a short, humourless laugh. “This is not a home, Your Highness. It’s a fortress. And even fortresses have cracks”.

“Spoken like someone who knows where to find them,” she retorted, though her heartbeat was quickening.

“I do,” he said simply. “And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t be here”.

“You’re here,” she replied, her tone sharper than she intended. “Are you always lurking in the corridors, Ser Azriel, or is it just tonight?”

He finally lifted his gaze, and for a moment, she saw the dark intensity there, the watchful calm that unsettled her more than any courtly insult could. “I am where duty requires me,” he said simply. “And tonight, duty is to the Princess”.

Evelyne lifted an eyebrow. “The Princess?” she repeated, amusement flickering despite the tension. “And I suppose that gives you the right to sit here, staring into my fire like some… silent sentinel?”

Azriel’s mouth tightened, the barest flicker of irritation crossing his otherwise impassive face. “I do not stare. I observe”.

She laughed, a short, bitter sound. “Observe, hmm? A noble way of calling it spying, isn’t it?”

“I am sworn to your protection,” he said evenly. “Better you call it what you will than to end up in the snow, or worse because someone underestimated what a shadow can do”.

Her eyes narrowed, and she stepped closer, emboldened by both her curiosity and the rush of defiance that always came with being in this hall alone. “And what do you think I am? Fragile? Fodder for some lord’s amusement?”

He finally lifted his gaze fully, and she caught the edge of something in his eyes — something raw, vigilant, protective, and… maybe something else she couldn’t name. “No,” he said carefully. “You are… clever. Too clever to be treated lightly. Too clever to be left unguarded. I would not trust the world to see your wit without consequence”.

Evelyne blinked, startled by the faint weight of admiration in his tone. “Do you ever speak plainly?” she asked. “Or is every word measured, every glance a test?”

He regarded her for a long moment. “Perhaps you should be glad I measure my words,” he said, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. “Some truths are dangerous, and some questions have no safe answers”.

“Dangerous?” she echoed, stepping closer to the fire, the warmth washing over her chilled fingers. “I am surrounded by danger every day, Ser Azriel. I see it in the halls, in the whispers of courtiers, in Father’s frown. What makes your truths so perilous that I cannot hear them?”

He did not answer immediately. Instead, his gaze drifted to the shadows behind her, as if weighing the risk of the words themselves. “Because they involve things you were never meant to know… and yet, you deserve some measure of understanding”.

Evelyne tilted her head, curiosity pricking through her irritation. “Understanding?” she asked softly. “From you? Why would you care?”

His jaw tightened. “Because I have seen what it is to care and not act. Because I have seen what happens when someone is left to face the world alone. Because… I know what it means to lose someone who matters”.

She felt a shiver run through her at the honesty in his voice. He was not boasting, nor flattering. He was simply… telling her something vital without revealing the whole.

“I… I do not know what you mean,” she said, her voice faltering.

“You will,” he said quietly. “One day, you will”.

The fire crackled, filling the silence, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. She studied him, seeing the faint scar along his temple, a pale line that spoke of some long-forgotten battle, a danger faced and survived. It was the first tangible hint that beneath the quiet, precise demeanor there was a man who had walked through fire — and lived.

The faintest trace of warmth broke the ice between them, fleeting but unmistakable. Evelyne turned back to the fire, the flames reflecting in her eyes. “You must think me reckless”.

“I think you’re… restless,” he said after a pause. “And I can’t blame you”.

She frowned slightly. “You speak as though you understand”.

“I do,” he said quietly. “Too well”.

The honesty in his tone unnerved her. She glanced back at him. “And what would you know of being trapped?”

He hesitated — just a moment — but it was enough. “Enough to recognize the look in your eyes,” he said finally. “The look of someone who wants to run but doesn’t know where”.

Her breath caught. He shouldn’t be able to see her so clearly. No one did.

She turned away quickly, unwilling to let him see the sudden, sharp sting behind her eyes. The fire crackled, filling the silence between them.

“Your guards,” she said finally, as though to fill the space with anything but feeling. “You’ll reprimand them, won’t you?”

“Yes”. His voice was calm, almost too calm. “But not for letting you pass. For thinking they could protect you better than I can”.

The words landed like a blow and a promise all at once. She looked at him sharply, but he was already turning back toward the fire, the line of his jaw set, his eyes unreadable again.

He was a soldier — composed, unshakable, sworn to a crown that chained them both. But beneath all that restraint, she sensed something else: loyalty sharper than any blade, and maybe, just maybe, the beginning of something dangerous neither could name.

After a long moment, he straightened. “Come,” he said quietly. “It’s late”.

She blinked, startled by the gentleness in his tone. “Are you giving me orders now?”

He arched a brow. “Would you prefer I carry you back?”

She glared at him, though her pulse jumped traitorously. “You wouldn’t dare”.

His mouth curved slightly. “Try me”.

It was enough to make her turn on her heel, her cloak swirling behind her as she strode for the door. He followed a few paces behind, silent as shadow.

The corridors were emptier now, the air cold enough to bite. The young guards outside her chamber startled as the pair rounded the corner — one stammering, the other straightening too quickly.

“Captain,” one managed, pale-faced.

Azriel’s expression did not change. “We’ll discuss your vigilance in the morning”. His tone was mild, but the guards paled further.

Evelyne pressed her lips together, a mix of amusement and guilt rising in her chest.

When the door closed behind them, she turned to him. “You needn’t punish them harshly. They only underestimated me”.

“That’s punishment enough,” he said.

“And what of me?”

His gaze held hers. “You,” he said after a moment, “I’ll deal with later”.

Her heart gave a small, inexplicable lurch. “You sound as though I’m one of your soldiers”.

His mouth twitched. “You’re far more trouble”.

She couldn’t help it — she smiled. Just a little. It surprised them both.

Azriel’s expression softened, only for an instant, before he stepped back and bowed his head.

“Get some rest, Your Highness”.

She opened her mouth — to protest, to thank him, she wasn’t sure which — but he was already gone, his footsteps fading into the stone corridor beyond.

When she finally turned back into her room, the fire was still low, the air still cold. But the quiet didn’t feel quite so lonely anymore.

When the door to the Princess’s chamber shut softly behind him, Azriel exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours. The cold of the corridor hit him like a wave, sharp and sobering, though it did nothing to steady his thoughts.

He lingered outside for a heartbeat longer than he should have, listening to the muted sound of her movements beyond the door — the soft rustle of fabric, the faint scrape of logs being stirred in the hearth. Nothing improper, nothing dangerous. Just… proof she was safe.

He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw tight. He should not have followed her. Should not have let her see that side of him — unguarded, almost human. It wasn’t his place to speak to her like that, to let familiarity slip into his tone, to notice the way the firelight caught the gold in her hair.

He had spent years learning restraint. Years turning himself into something reliable, unshakable, useful. But one stubborn, reckless princess — one flash of defiance and laughter and fire — had managed to pry open a door he thought long sealed shut.

He began walking, slow, deliberate steps down the silent corridor. The guards at their posts nodded stiffly as he passed, but he barely saw them. His mind was still in that hall — on the edge of the firelight, where she’d stood with her chin high and her eyes brighter than the flames.

He had called her restless. It was true. But the truth was crueler: her restlessness was contagious.

He reached the stairwell and paused at the window overlooking the courtyard. Snow still fell, soft and endless. Somewhere far below, the world slept in peace. But Azriel knew better.

Peace was a fragile thing — easily broken, often by the people who least meant to.

He closed his eyes and let the cold air sting the edge of his composure back into place.

He would protect her. That was his duty.

But God help him, if she kept looking at him like that, he wasn’t sure how long he could keep pretending that was all it was.

Chapter Text

The morning wind cut through the halls of Velaris Castle like a blade, stirring the loose snowflakes from the eaves into ghostly swirls that pressed against the tall windows of the throne room. Evelyne pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she walked beside the Queen, her boots echoing on the stone floors. The hall smelled faintly of smoke, wax, and the lingering tang of frost, and every footstep seemed to remind her of how small she was in this vast, unyielding place. The tapestries depicting generations of monarchs, all stoic and imperious, seemed to watch her with silent judgment, as if the weight of her family’s history pressed down upon her already burdened shoulders.

“Evelyne, stay close,” her mother’s voice cut through the wind’s howl, sharp and measured. Isolde’s tone was as precise as her posture, her dark gown sweeping the floor without a single wrinkle, the delicate embroidery catching the pale sunlight that spilled in through the high windows. “You will need to hear this carefully. And remember, the court is always listening”.

Evelyne clenched her gloved hands at her sides. She had long since learned that her mother’s words often carried a weight heavier than the King’s decrees. She also knew that Isolde would not raise her voice, would not need to; her gaze alone could bend a woman to her will. Evelyne looked past her mother, noticing the assembled courtiers, the ambassadors from neighbouring territories, each lined with fur and jewelled insignia. Their eyes flicked toward her, some polite, some calculating, but all curious.

The Queen led her to the dais where the meeting would take place. Evelyne’s stomach tightened. Today, she realized with a sinking certainty, was another day where the world would remind her that she was a pawn. She swallowed and forced her shoulders to remain squared.

Isolde began without preamble. “We have much to discuss regarding the upcoming arrangements,” she said, her voice carrying the authority of a monarch yet the undertone of a mother who feared the world outside her own control. “It has become increasingly clear that your future must be secured for the benefit of Velaris, and, of course, for your own protection”.

Evelyne’s stomach lurched. She had anticipated vague discussions, whispered warnings, perhaps a subtle nudge in the direction of some distant alliance. But the Queen’s words were frank, almost cold.

“For years,” Isolde continued, “I have watched you grow, strong and clever, yet untrained in the subtleties required to maintain your safety in a court that knows no mercy. The world does not wait for the tender-hearted, Evelyne. You must be placed where your future will be protected, and where you will serve a purpose greater than whimsy or desire”.

Evelyne’s lips parted, but no words came. Her mother’s words were like ice against her chest. Protection. Purpose. A gilded cage masquerading as security.

“I will not—” she began, only to have Isolde’s gaze lock onto her. That unwavering, impossible gaze that had seen her through infancy, childhood, and all the silent, stifled moments in between. “Do not interrupt,” the Queen said, softly, but with an authority that silenced even the courtiers who might have dared to murmur. “Your will is immaterial here. You may not yet understand the dangers that surround you, but I do. And I will act accordingly”.

Evelyne felt a hot, furious knot of anger rise in her throat. Her heart thumped, a rapid, insistent drum, echoing her pulse against the cold stone walls. “Mother,” she said, her voice trembling with equal parts indignation and desperation, “I am not a child. I am capable of making my own choices!”

Isolde’s lips tightened, but the softest hint of sadness flickered across her face. “You are a child of duty first, Evelyne,” she said, her voice quieter, almost private, though every syllable carried to the far corners of the hall. “I was once like you, dreaming of freedom. I believed that love could be chosen, that life could be mine to command. I was wrong. Everything I did then, I did out of hope. Now, I act out of certainty. You will be married, and you will leave this castle. This is not cruelty. It is preservation”.

The words stung with a cruel precision. Evelyne’s hands tightened into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms. Preservation. The very word felt like a noose. “And if I refuse?” she demanded, her voice loud enough to carry across the room despite her racing heart. “If I refuse to be bound like this?”

The Queen’s gaze softened, but only enough to remind Evelyne of the compassion buried beneath the iron. “Refusal is a luxury you do not possess. The alliances forged through your hand are the very shields that guard this kingdom from ruin. You may not see it now, but in time, you will understand. You will thank me”.

Evelyne’s chest heaved with frustration. Thank her? For choosing a life she had not chosen herself? The thought made her stomach twist. “I will never thank you for taking my life from me!” she spat, and the words felt heavier than any stone in the castle. The courtiers shifted uncomfortably; a few gasped. Even the Queen’s advisers were taken aback by the boldness, though Evelyne didn’t care.

Isolde did not flinch. She merely studied her daughter with eyes like polished obsidian. “Then you will live in misery,” she said softly. “And know that I will never forgive myself for allowing it, should the alternative be harm to you. The choice is not yours to make. You are not free”.

The room seemed to close in, the walls pressing closer, the cold wind from the window slicing through Evelyne’s cloak and into her very bones. She wanted to flee, to run into the snow and disappear from the gilded cage that was her life. But she did not. She remained, trembling, furious, alive with the impossible weight of her mother’s love masquerading as control.

Later, when the hall had emptied and the courtiers had returned to their chambers, Evelyne remained, staring at the icy landscape beyond the window. Snow drifted in delicate, relentless patterns, blanketing the kingdom in white, covering even the jagged rocks and frozen moats. The beauty was cruel, too — a reminder that even the purest things could trap the unwary.

She caught sight of a familiar shadow near the doorway. A guard, eyes trained like hawks, watching every movement, every slight against protocol. It was subtle, protective, almost invisible. But Evelyne noticed. She knew, even in the Queen’s absence, that safety had been woven around her like invisible threads — yet another reminder that she had no real freedom.

Her fingers pressed to the cold glass of the windowpane, tracing the outline of the castle walls that held her captive. She wanted warmth, the comfort of fire and quiet laughter, but the chill remained, biting into her very bones.

And yet, beneath the cold, beneath the fury and despair, a small ember of defiance sparked. She would not allow herself to be crushed entirely. Not yet. Not while she could still feel the pulse of her own heart beneath the weight of duty.

Evelyne drew her cloak tighter, stepping back from the window, her reflection ghostly against the snow and sky. The Queen’s schemes were clear. The path laid before her was one she had not chosen. But the fire in her chest would not be so easily extinguished. Even in the cold, in the vast halls of Velaris, she would fight for a life of her own making.

Chapter Text

The corridors of Velaris Castle felt colder than usual that morning, the stone walls slick with frost from the lingering winter chill that crept through every crevice. Evelyne moved quickly, the echo of her boots sounding too loud, too deliberate, in the empty halls. Her thoughts were a swirl of frustration and anger, the Queen’s words from earlier pressing against her like a heavy cloak. She had known, of course, that her future was already being arranged, but hearing it articulated so plainly made the reality sting sharper than any cold. Her mother’s intentions were protective, yes, but the gilded cage was still a cage, and Evelyne felt it pressing in from all sides.

Snow drifted in delicate swirls across the castle gardens, clinging to the bare branches of the trees like frost-kissed lace. Evelyne’s breath came in soft clouds as she paced along the winding stone paths, her gloves damp from the touch of ice on the wrought-iron fence. She had stolen this hour, this stolen piece of freedom, to feel the cold on her cheeks and the wind in her hair — to remember that there was a world outside the gilded halls, outside the weight of duty and expectation.

A sudden rustle among the hedges drew her attention. At first, she thought it might be one of the castle servants, but then a familiar figure stepped into the filtered light — Feyre. Evelyne’s first thought was surprise; the girl was not supposed to be wandering these grounds. Feyre’s cheeks were flushed from the cold, her dark eyes bright with concern.

“Princess Evelyne,” Feyre said softly, bowing her head with a careful grace. “I… I hope I am not intruding”.

Evelyne’s initial irritation melted into curiosity. “You are not,” she replied carefully, inclining her head. “Though I must admit, the secrecy surrounding you makes one wonder at your importance”.

Feyre’s lips curved in a faint, knowing smile. “I do not seek importance, Princess. Only… understanding, discretion -”

Evelyne raised an eyebrow, folding her arms. “Discretion? You and my brother, I presume?”

“I care for your brother”. The words were simple, almost plain, yet they carried a weight that Evelyne felt pressing against her chest. A pang of something unfamiliar — jealousy, perhaps, though she could not yet name it — stirred within her.

Her tone was teasing, but beneath it ran a quiet awareness. She had suspected as much, yet hearing it confirmed made her stomach tighten in an odd mixture of curiosity and protectiveness.

Feyre nodded, a slight frown knitting her brows. “Yes. Rhysand… he… he cares for me, but it cannot be known. If anyone discovered—” She hesitated, searching Evelyne’s face for a sign of judgment, only to find none. “Please. I trust you will not tell anyone. I… I care for him, and I cannot risk him being discovered. Not yet”.

Evelyne exhaled slowly, her breath forming clouds that mingled with the cold morning air. “You have my word,” she said finally, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “Though I suspect you need it less than you think. Secrets have a way of surviving, even in this castle”.

Feyre’s relief was almost palpable. “Thank you, Princess. I… I only want him to be happy, even if for a fleeting time. And I fear you might—” She paused, unsure if Evelyne would mock her concern.

“I?” Evelyne interrupted, a faint laugh escaping her. “I could never begrudge him that. If Rhysand has someone, someone who sees him for more than the crown, I am… glad. Truly”. She gestured vaguely at the courtyard, the walls, the towers that hemmed them in. “It is the world that keeps us apart, not the people we care for”.

Feyre’s lips curved into a small smile, tentative and grateful. “You are… kinder than I imagined, Princess”.

Evelyne shook her head, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “Not kinder. Realistic. I have learned early on that life seldom grants the luxury of choice. Rhysand deserves a moment of happiness, even if it is hidden. And… I am happy enough to be the keeper of your secret. I will not betray him. But… I warn you,” she added, a teasing note creeping into her voice, “if you ever treat him poorly, I shall not be so silent”.

Feyre chuckled softly, the tension easing from her shoulders. “I would hope I never give you reason”.

They walked together briefly along the garden paths, the silence between them comfortable, weighted with understanding. Evelyne noticed how Feyre moved, how carefully she measured each step as if she were treading through fragile territory. It reminded her of herself, trapped in a life dictated by duty and expectation, yet moving with as much grace and defiance as she could muster.

“Do you envy me?” Feyre asked suddenly, turning her gaze to Evelyne. Her eyes were bright with unspoken questions.

Evelyne shook her head, the snowflakes catching in her hair. “No,” she said firmly. “I do not. I envy the world outside these walls, the freedom to make choices. But you… you have made a choice, however small, and I am… pleased for him. That is all. I have my own battles to fight”.

Her gaze fell to the floor. She wanted to ask how, how to navigate a life where every choice was dictated, but she felt the futility of the question before it even formed. Instead, she allowed herself a small nod, a silent acknowledgment of the path Feyre had chosen, and the path that had already been chosen for her.

“You are brave,” Evelyne said finally, the words coming with a mix of admiration and envy. “To love knowing the consequences”. Her voice trembled slightly, though she fought to keep it composed.

Feyre inclined her head once more. “And you, Princess, you have a heart full of fire. One day, perhaps, you will find a way to let it breathe”.

Evelyne gave a small shrug, letting her guard remain just high enough to hide the flicker of longing she did not dare acknowledge. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I am merely clever at keeping secrets. One day, you may see”.

As Feyre slipped away back toward the inner halls, Evelyne lingered, gazing at the snow-dusted turrets and the distant mountains beyond the kingdom. She felt the sharp edge of her own cage more keenly now, the walls pressing closer after witnessing the small freedom her brother had carved for himself. Yet the warmth in her chest, the spark of empathy and understanding, stayed with her. Rhysand had someone he loved, and she would not interfere. She would guard the secret with her life, but the reminder only stoked her determination — one day, she would find her own fragment of freedom, her own love that dared defy expectation.

And as she turned back toward the castle, the wind whipping at her cloak and chilling her cheeks, Evelyne felt it more keenly than ever: the line between duty and desire was cruelly drawn, and she would have to fight every inch of it to claim even a sliver of choice for herself. The princess felt a strange mixture of emotions. Relief, for having seen that love could exist in small, hidden corners of the world; envy, for the freedom her brother briefly allowed himself; and determination, a quiet, simmering resolve that one day, she would fight for her own chance at such freedom.

She stared into the flames, watching them flicker and dance as if they held secrets, she could almost grasp. The cold wind outside rattled the windowpanes, reminding her of the world beyond her reach, but within the warm glow of the fire, Evelyne made a silent promise to herself: one day, she would not be the Queen’s pawn. One day, she would choose her own heart, no matter the cost.

The shadow of the castle walls loomed large, heavy with duty and expectation, but Evelyne felt a faint warmth grow in her chest. A spark of rebellion, perhaps. A spark that could not yet be extinguished. And though she did not yet know how, she resolved that she would find a way to claim even a fragment of the life she longed for, and to protect the heart that dared to dream beyond these walls.

Chapter Text

The morning sun was pale and hesitant as it pushed through the high windows of Velaris Castle, washing the stone walls with a weak, golden light. Evelyne lingered near the window of her chambers, her fingers tracing the cold sill, watching the courtyard below. Servants moved like shadows across the snow-dusted cobblestones, their breath puffing in the icy air, but her attention was elsewhere. She could still feel the echo of her encounter with Feyre — the reminder of what her brother had that she could not yet have.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft knock at the door.

“Princess Evelyne?” The voice was cautious, yet firm. A shadow moved across the floor before the door creaked open, revealing the tall, imposing figure of Sir Azriel. He carried himself with the precision of a soldier, but there was a quiet wariness in his stance that made Evelyne pause. She had seen him since his arrival with the Prince, always lurking at the edges, silent, alert, yet they had never spoken. Not properly.

“Yes?” Evelyne asked, curiosity pricking through the polite mask she always wore.

“I was tasked to speak with you,” Azriel said, stepping inside. “If you have the time”. His voice was steady, controlled — but there was a hint of something beneath it, a weight she could not yet name.

Evelyne tilted her head, studying him. “You mean, if I can tolerate your presence,” she said lightly, though she felt her heart beat faster at the intensity in his gaze.

Azriel’s jaw tightened slightly, but he did not smile. “I am here because it is my duty to you, Princess. And I will not leave until I have fulfilled it”.

She flushed, more from the unspoken tension than his words. “Very well, then. Sit”.

They moved toward the fireplace, the warmth a stark contrast to the bitter cold seeping in from the courtyard. Evelyne took a seat on the edge of the velvet chair, while Azriel remained standing, a silent sentinel. For a moment, they simply watched the flames flicker, neither speaking.

Finally, he broke the silence. “I will not pretend, Princess. My life has been… hard. Scars are not only on the skin. They live in the memory, in every decision, every wrong turn”.

Evelyne’s brow furrowed. “You speak in riddles, Sir Azriel. Why tell me this?”

“Because,” he said quietly, “you deserve to know who guards you. Not merely the body, but the man behind it”.

She leaned forward slightly, curiosity piqued. “I am listening”.

Azriel exhaled slowly, the controlled composure faltering for just a fraction. “I am… a bastard. My mother died in childbirth. My father, a lord, discarded me as soon as I could stand. I have fought for everything — respect, a name, a place. And when I saved Prince Rhysand in battle, I was given purpose… duty”. His eyes flicked briefly to hers, and for a moment, the fierce shield he carried slipped. “And now… my duty is you”.

Evelyne blinked, the words settling heavily in the room. She had expected him to be a silent, distant figure, a protector in name only, but here was a man who had given everything to survive, now entrusted with her safety.

“You… you risked your life for him,” she said softly, thinking of her brother, so often unaware of the dangers around him. “And now you guard me. But why?”

Azriel’s gaze did not waver. “Because it is my duty. Because I am bound by honour. Because if anything happened to you…” He paused, the unspoken ending lingering in the air.

Evelyne’s chest tightened. She wanted to say something — to tell him that she understood, that she admired his loyalty, but the words tangled in her throat. Instead, she leaned back, letting the firelight warm her face, and studied him quietly.

“You are… different than I imagined,” she said finally. “Not cold, not distant. You are… aware”.

Azriel’s eyes darkened, the shadow of a smile tugging at his lips. “Aware of my duty. Not of your thoughts, Princess. That is a luxury I do not possess”.

She smirked, though it was edged with something sharper than amusement. “And yet, I suspect you observe more than you admit”.

He made no reply, but the tilt of his head, the tightening of his jaw, said more than words could. Evelyne felt a curious warmth in her chest, a flutter of defiance and fascination. She realized, with a mixture of dread and thrill, that this man — so stoic, so impenetrable — had already begun to carve a place in her thoughts.

They spoke then of less dangerous matters: the training of the castle guards, the state of the kingdom under the King’s ill hand, the minor politics of the court. Yet every sentence was laden with unspoken tension, a dance of civility and distance, each measuring the other, neither yielding.

As the afternoon light waned, Evelyne found herself regretting the conversation’s end. “I should be going,” she said softly, rising. “You will remain?”

“Always,” Azriel said simply. “Within my duty. You will not be left unguarded”.

She paused at the door, glancing back at him. “Sir Azriel… thank you. For… everything”.

He inclined his head once, a subtle gesture, and remained still, a sentinel of shadow and steel, watching her until the door closed behind her.

And as she walked through the corridors toward her next engagement, Evelyne felt the first real stirrings of something she did not yet dare name. Curiosity, respect, and a faint, dangerous fascination that whispered of rebellion — not just against the world outside, but against the rules that dictated her heart.

Chapter Text

The grand hall of Velaris Castle had never seemed so vast. Tapestries depicting generations of kings and battles stretched from floor to vaulted ceiling, catching the flicker of candlelight that danced like tiny stars across the stone walls. Tonight, the hall was filled with a throng of nobles, their voices rising and falling in laughter, conversation, and the occasional clink of goblets. Evelyne felt trapped in the midst of the swirl — glittering gowns brushing past her, the scent of spiced wine and roasted meats clinging to the air, the weight of expectation pressing down on her chest.

She moved carefully along the edge of the dance floor, her posture flawless, her smile practiced. Every inch of her had been trained to perfection: how to curtsy, how to nod politely, how to keep the flicker of frustration from her eyes. But underneath the polished exterior, her thoughts churned like the storm clouds that had passed over the kingdom earlier that day. She had been trapped in these halls for years, and the ball — meant to celebrate her coming of age — felt more like a cage decorated in gold and velvet.

It was during the third dance that she noticed him.

Azriel stood at the edge of the hall, stationed in shadow, his posture rigid, his eyes scanning the crowd as though the nobles themselves were threats to her. Evelyne’s pulse quickened. She hadn’t expected to feel the rush of relief — or irritation — that his presence brought. His watchful gaze was both comforting and infuriating, a reminder of the invisible leash she had yet to acknowledge.

A nobleman approached, bowing low with a practiced smile. “Princess Evelyne, may I have this dance?” His tone was polite, but there was an underlying self-assurance, the kind that comes with knowing the power of a name. Evelyne considered him carefully. His suit of fine cloth gleamed under the candlelight, his manners impeccable, his intent clear.

She nodded, accepting, but only to make a point. As she danced, she maintained the image of the dutiful princess, the perfect daughter, until she noticed Azriel’s eyes on her. The moment was electric. With a subtle tilt of her head, a playful arch of her brow, she leaned just slightly closer to her partner, laughing lightly at a comment, allowing her fingers to brush against his in a flirtatious, knowing manner.

Azriel’s jaw clenched, the rigid lines of his shoulders taut. He did not move, did not interfere, but the storm behind his eyes was unmistakable. Evelyne felt a thrill at the sight, even as her chest tightened with guilt. She was testing boundaries — her own and his.

As the dance ended, she excused herself, moving toward the gardens to escape the suffocating heat and the relentless gaze of the court. She found a quiet alcove among the stone columns, where the chill air reminded her she was alive, not a piece in a political game.

Azriel appeared at the edge of the alcove, silent as ever. Evelyne froze for a heartbeat, then turned, arms crossed. “You followed me”.

“I do my duty,” he said simply. “Always”.

She let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Do you ever stop, Sir Azriel? Must everything I do be watched? Even the smallest choices?”

“I cannot afford to stop,” he replied, his tone neutral, though his eyes betrayed the tension within him. “One misstep… one foolish decision, and it could cost your life. Or mine”.

Evelyne stepped closer, ignoring the chill in the air, her voice rising. “And yet here I am, dancing with noblemen, being ogled and evaluated by every courtier in the hall, and you say nothing?”

“I see,” Azriel said quietly, his gaze steady and unwavering. “And it enrages me”.

Her chest tightened. She had expected anger, perhaps reprimand, but the raw emotion in his words startled her. “And what am I supposed to do about it?” she demanded, her voice trembling with a mixture of frustration and fear.

“Do not tempt fate,” he said, stepping closer, his shadow falling over her as the candlelight from inside spilled across the stone floor. “Do not put yourself where I cannot protect you. It is not a game”.

Evelyne’s eyes softened for just a moment, but defiance flared immediately after. “And if it is a game? If I choose to risk it? Must you stand there like a silent sentinel, and watch me as though I am already lost?”

Azriel’s hand twitched at his side, and his jaw clenched. “You cannot understand what it is to have a life built entirely around your protection. You do not see the dangers that lurk in every shadow, in every glance from these nobles. I… cannot allow it”.

The air between them was thick, charged with unspoken words and a tension neither could fully name. Evelyne’s eyes glistened with frustration and something softer, something vulnerable. “And yet,” she whispered, “you will not leave my side. You are… constant, infuriating, and… necessary”.

Azriel’s expression remained stoic, but there was a flicker of something fleeting — regret, longing, perhaps something he did not dare admit. He stepped back, inclining his head. “I am not… necessary in the way you wish. I am necessary to keep you alive. That is all”.

Evelyne turned away, her fingers brushing the stone as she walked toward the hall. “Perhaps that is enough,” she murmured, though her voice held a tension that hinted at the storm still brewing inside her.

Azriel remained in the alcove, silent and vigilant, his eyes following her retreating figure. Duty bound him, but for the first time, he felt something more — a dangerous, unacknowledged pull that he could neither name nor resist. And as the sounds of laughter and music spilled into the gardens from the hall, both of them knew that the dance of duty and desire had only just begun.

The gardens of Velaris Castle were still cloaked in the soft hush of twilight, the air crisp with the lingering chill of winter. Snow clung to the hedges in delicate lattices, and the paths were slick with frost, glittering under the pale glow of lanterns. Evelyne had escaped the suffocating grandeur of the feast, finding refuge among the stone benches and statues that watched silently over the grounds. Here, away from the eyes of nobles and servants alike, she could breathe — even if only for a few moments.

She was not alone.

“Evelyne,” came the soft voice of her brother. Rhysand stepped lightly along the garden path, his cloak brushing against the snow. His presence was a balm, a reminder that not all in this castle sought to confine her. “I thought I might find you here”.

She managed a small smile, though it was tinged with melancholy. “And why would I be anywhere else? The hall is crowded, warm, and suffocating. You should be there, among your guests”.

Rhysand shook his head, his own smile gentle. “I can endure them better than you can. You, little sister, should not have to endure the pretence. I wanted to see you… to speak freely”.

Evelyne’s gaze fell to the icy ground. “Speak freely, or speak as you ought to? You know my thoughts are hardly permitted”.

“Perhaps,” he said, crouching slightly to remove a stray piece of snow from the path. “But you do not have to hide them from me. You never have”.

Her chest warmed at his words, a fluttering she tried to suppress. “You are kind, Rhysand,” she said softly, “far kinder than our father”.

He looked at her then, eyes steady and full of understanding. “I know. And I wish I could shield you from all of it. From the expectations, the whispers, the marriage talks that plague every princess of our line”.

Evelyne’s fingers curled at her sides, restless. “It is inevitable. I am… a pawn, as always. But what about you? Do you have a choice in your own life? I hear whispers, Rhysand, of a woman, of Feyre. Are the rumours true?”

Rhysand’s jaw tightened, a mixture of pride and caution in his stance. “They are,” he admitted quietly. “But you must understand… it is impossible. She is of low birth. Our father… would never allow it. Yet…” His voice softened, almost wistful. “Yet she is everything I wish I could choose freely. Every moment with her is stolen, yet precious”.

Evelyne felt a pang of envy mixed with relief. Her brother could pursue love, even if limited; she could not. “And you can… even if briefly. I have no such hope,” she murmured, her breath misting in the cold air.

Rhysand stepped closer, his expression earnest. “Do not despair, Evelyne. You are clever, brave… the heart of our family in ways you may not yet see. You will find your own freedom, even if our father cannot grant it. Even if it means defying him”.

Her eyes met his, the vulnerability in them bared. “And if I fail? If I am trapped as you fear, in alliances and chains of gold?”

He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Then I will fight for you, as I always have. You are not alone, Evelyne. Never alone”.

A soft snowflake fell onto her hair, and she brushed it away, realizing how much warmth she felt from him — not from the fire or the hall, but from her brother’s unwavering care. “I envy you, Rhysand,” she whispered. “To have even stolen moments of love… I cannot imagine it for myself”.

Rhysand’s gaze softened. “You will. And when you do, I hope you choose with your heart, not out of duty. Promise me that”.

“I promise,” she said, her voice trembling with a mixture of hope and sorrow.

For a moment, they stood in silence, the wind rustling through the bare branches, the snow sparkling like tiny stars under the lanterns. The world felt distant, and yet the weight of the castle and its rules pressed quietly against them, reminding Evelyne of the reality she could not yet escape.

Finally, Rhysand spoke again, quieter this time. “Be careful, little sister. And if ever you need me…” His hand lingered for a brief second on her shoulder before he turned toward the hall. “I am always near”.

Evelyne watched him go, feeling the mixture of warmth, envy, and longing that always accompanied him. Alone, she allowed herself a sigh, knowing that in this cold, gilded world, moments like these were rare treasures — fleeting, precious, and utterly forbidden.

Chapter Text

The morning light slanted coldly through the tall, arched windows of Velaris Castle, catching on the frost that clung stubbornly to the panes. The great hall, usually echoing with the low murmur of servants preparing for the day, felt heavier than usual, as if the stones themselves sensed the weight pressing down upon the princess. Evelyne stood at the edge of the hall, her fingers resting lightly on the carved oak railing of the gallery, staring down at the courtiers assembling below. Her heart thudded, not with excitement, but with an almost physical dread.

Her mother’s voice called from behind, crisp and sharp, though not unkind. “Evelyne, you will attend. It is not a request”.

She turned, giving Queen Isolde a look that mingled frustration with the practiced politeness of a daughter who had been trained too long in the art of obedience. “Of course, Mother,” she said, bowing her head slightly. The tilt of her chin and the edge in her eyes betrayed none of the storm within.

“Good,” Isolde said, smoothing the sleeve of her gown. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk’s in public, softened the briefest fraction as they lingered on her daughter. “These arrangements… they are not cruelty. You must understand, Evelyne. One day, you may thank me for the security they bring”.

Evelyne exhaled slowly, the words settling over her like lead. “Security,” she murmured, letting the word taste bitter on her tongue. “Or confinement”.

Isolde’s lips pressed together, her composure flawless. “A princess of Velaris cannot afford the luxury of freedom, my dear. You will marry well, as our family always has. As I did. As your father insists”.

Her words hung in the air, a reminder of chains worn as jewellery, gilded but unbreakable. Evelyne’s stomach knotted, a fluttering mixture of fear and defiance. She had dreamed, often in secret, of running through the castle grounds under the snow, of escaping the walls that had confined her since birth. Yet now, with the reality of her mother’s intentions laid bare, that dream felt impossibly distant.

The doors opened suddenly, admitting a flurry of crisp air and the muted sounds of activity from the courtyard. Servants hurried in, announcing the arrival of a foreign emissary. Evelyne’s pulse quickened. She had anticipated this — whispers of her betrothal had been circulating in hushed tones for weeks — but seeing the reality of it, the tangible presence of a man chosen for her hand, struck her with a fresh surge of anxiety.

Isolde led her to a velvet-covered chair at the head of the hall, guiding her with a gentle, almost reluctant firmness. “Remember,” she said softly, almost as if to herself, “it is for your own safety”.

Evelyne sank into the chair, keeping her posture immaculate, the chill of the marble floor seeping through the thick fabric of her skirts. She watched the emissary, a tall, imposing man with a suit of fine cloth and a careful politeness that spoke of wealth and influence. He bowed low, his eyes briefly flicking to hers before he addressed the Queen. “Your Majesty, I bring greetings and hopes for a fruitful union”.

“Of course,” Isolde replied, her tone measured, her eyes flicking to Evelyne. “Princess Evelyne, you will understand the importance of these arrangements. Your family, your kingdom…” She trailed off, letting the weight of expectation fill the space between them.

Evelyne’s jaw tightened. She had rehearsed her words, her expressions, every curtsy and tilt of the head for moments such as these, but it did little to ease the sinking feeling in her chest. She forced herself to nod, to smile politely, though her thoughts raced: the cage of duty, the impossibility of love, the quiet, shadowed longing she had begun to feel for someone she barely knew — a protector who watched and waited, unseen, steadfast.

She excused herself after the meeting, slipping through the corridors with the grace of a practiced princess, though her mind spun. She passed the stables, noting the crisp scent of hay mingled with the cold air, and the distant clatter of hooves as a guard made his rounds. Azriel’s arrangements were evident in the subtle placement of the men — guards who would protect without intruding, ever vigilant. Yet Evelyne could not shake the unease curling in her stomach. Even now, even with precautions, the cage around her felt tight.

By the time she reached the sunroom, the light from the high windows catching frost on the glass, she allowed herself a quiet sigh. The palace, the kingdom, the duties imposed upon her — all felt suffocating. She wandered among the frozen ferns and ivy, touching the icy leaves, grounding herself in the chill. Yet her thoughts kept straying, unbidden, to the shadow of a figure she had begun to notice — silent, watchful, unyielding. She did not yet know his name fully, did not yet understand the breadth of his presence in her life, but she felt it keenly: the sense that someone was always near, holding a line between her and the dangers she could not always see.

The afternoon passed in a blur of lessons, meetings, and quiet observation. Evelyne felt the tension coil tighter in her chest with every mention of foreign alliances, with every glance toward the hall where whispers of her impending engagement circulated. By the time the servants began lighting the hall for evening, the golden flicker of candlelight illuminating the grand tapestries and portraits of ancestors long gone, Evelyne knew with unshakable certainty that the world would not wait for her dreams, nor would it bend for her desires.

She moved to a quiet corner, drawing her skirts close, her breath misting in the cold air from the open windows. Outside, the snow had begun again, delicate and unrelenting, blanketing the gardens in a pristine sheet that gleamed in the lamplight. She imagined herself running, laughing into the storm, free from the weight of expectations and the unyielding rules of the castle. She imagined the world beyond the stone walls, the wind on her face, the thrill of being simply Evelyne — not Princess, not pawn, not daughter — just herself.

But the fantasy was brief. A shadow passed along the edge of her vision, a reminder of the reality she could not escape. Someone was always watching, always guarding, always present. And though she did not yet know him fully, did not yet trust him, the stirrings of curiosity and frustration entwined in her heart. The cage remained, gilded and cold, but for the first time, she glimpsed a shadow within it — a presence she could not ignore.

She drew in a slow breath, letting the chill settle in her lungs, and turned back toward the hall. The court awaited, the game of appearances and duty never paused. But Evelyne, for all her fear and frustration, felt a small spark of defiance. She would endure, she would navigate these chains, and perhaps, one day, she would find a way to bend them to her own will.

And as the candles flickered and the wind whispered along the castle walls, she allowed herself a secret smile, thinking only of the shadow she had begun to notice, and the unspoken promise of something just out of reach.

The castle lay in a rare silence, broken only by the whispering wind through the stone battlements and the soft crunch of snow under Evelyne’s boots. She had slipped from her chambers after dinner, careful to avoid the servants and guards, her cloak pulled tight around her. The corridors of Velaris Castle were familiar and confining, yet in the night, they seemed different — quieter, secretive, almost alive in a way that day never allowed.

She had promised herself she would walk a little before retiring, to breathe, to feel the cold against her skin, to remind herself that she existed beyond the gilded halls and endless obligations. The gardens, blanketed in fresh snow, stretched before her, silvered and quiet, lit by the pale moon.

A shadow moved ahead of her, tall and silent, almost as if it belonged to the night itself. She knew it before she reached him — Azriel. He had been stationed nearby, always on duty, but somehow he had caught her presence. His dark coat blended with the shadows, and his hands rested lightly on the hilt of his sword. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, watched her with an intensity that made her heart quicken.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said, voice low but firm, carrying over the crunch of snow.

“And you shouldn’t be lurking like a ghost,” she shot back, but there was a tremor in her voice. The night, the quiet, the solitude… it unnerved her, and yet she felt a thrill in the danger of disobedience.

“I am here to make sure nothing happens to you,” he said, stepping closer, though keeping a careful distance. “You have no idea how reckless this is”.

“And I have no idea why you care,” she said sharply. “Perhaps you should leave and let me be foolish in peace”.

Azriel’s eyes narrowed. “Foolish? Evelyne, if anything happened to you — anything — I would be blamed. You are reckless and impossible, and yet I cannot let you risk yourself”.

Evelyne felt a flicker of indignation. “And what am I to do, then? Sit idle in my room while the world decides my life for me?”

“You cannot know the danger out here,” he said, voice tight with restraint. “A single misstep, and you could be compromised. If that happened… there would be consequences you cannot imagine”.

She laughed bitterly, letting the snow settle on her hair. “Consequences? Do you think I care for a reputation that means nothing if I cannot choose my own life? If it means I might escape a marriage I do not want, I will risk it all”.

Azriel’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking to the castle walls and the shadows beyond. “You are foolish, Evelyne. You may think it is a small risk, but the world outside is not forgiving. And my duty… my duty is to the Crown, not to you. I cannot follow if you run”.

Her heart tightened at his words, though she kept her defiance. “I know. And yet here you are, watching. I will do this alone. You will not follow me, not truly. So step back, Azriel. Step back before it’s too late for both of us”.

He did not move, but the tension in his stance spoke of frustration and vigilance. “Step carefully. Do not make me regret standing aside,” he warned quietly. “I will not be able to protect you if something happens beyond these walls”.

Evelyne swallowed, the cold air filling her lungs, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to feel the weight of his watchfulness. “I will be careful,” she promised, though her words rang with defiance. “I never wished to harm you, but I cannot wait for someone else to decide my life”.

The wind swirled around them, scattering snowflakes across their faces, and the gardens lay silent once more. Evelyne turned, boots crunching softly over the frost, leaving Azriel in the shadows. He stayed still, silent, vigilant, his presence a reminder of the watchful eyes she could not escape, yet of the limits of the protection she could expect.

For Evelyne, the night was both freeing and confining, a reminder of her own defiance and the rigid world she would continue to challenge — alone.

Chapter Text

The corridors of Velaris Castle were unusually quiet that morning, the usual bustle of servants hushed as snow continued to drift lazily against the tall windows. Evelyne wandered near the library, drawn by the faint smell of ink and parchment, a small rebellion against the monotony of courtly life. The winter light filtered through the frosted glass, dusting the stone floor with a pale glow, but it did little to warm the chill that had settled into her bones.

She paused outside the servant’s quarters, where voices, hushed yet urgent, carried through the walls. Curiosity tugged at her. She edged closer, pretending to tie her gloves, listening carefully.

“—can’t last another week,” a voice murmured. “The northern villages are starving. Some haven’t had bread in days”.

“Does the King even know?” another asked, worry lacing the words. “Or does he care?”

Evelyne’s stomach tightened. She had seen little of the kingdom beyond the castle walls, but she knew it was prosperous in parts, rich with timber, silver, and grain. Yet the suffering in the lowlands, whispered of quietly by those who served in silence, painted a different picture. The luxury of the courts could not hide it.

Her heart ached, the stories playing over in her mind. Could her father, so proud and imperious, truly be blind to the suffering of his people? She wanted to confront someone, to ask questions, but the fear that always stalked her held her back. Who would listen to a princess who only knew comfort and confinement?

Azriel appeared silently at the far end of the hall, dark and imposing, as if he had materialized from the shadows themselves. Evelyne’s pulse quickened, partly from the fear of being caught, partly from relief that she was not entirely alone. He did not speak, only observed her with the silent authority that had become his constant presence.

“They whisper of rebellion,” she murmured, almost to herself. “The people… they are starving”.

He said nothing, but the tightening of his jaw and the darkening of his eyes spoke volumes. He was aware, cautious, as ever, yet bound by duty. His silence was both reassurance and warning.

“I cannot sit here, pretending I do not see it,” she continued, moving closer to the fire that burned in the library hearth. “And yet, what can I do? I am a princess, yes, and I am meant to uphold the crown. But if the people suffer, if they starve, what use is the crown to them—or to me?”

Azriel’s dark eyes flicked to her, noting the fire in her expression. “You can watch, you can listen, you can learn. But the world beyond these walls is not forgiving. One wrong move, one ill-timed word… you could put yourself — and the Crown — in danger”.

Her hands trembled, and she clenched them at her sides. “I am not asking for your protection. I am asking… asking to act, to do something for the people. I will serve the crown as I must, but I cannot do so without seeing the truth of what our kingdom is. I cannot turn a blind eye while they suffer”.

He frowned, the weight of his responsibility pressing down. “Your courage is admirable, but it cannot outweigh your safety. I cannot… I will not allow you to risk your position”.

Evelyne’s eyes narrowed, the firelight catching the stubborn set of her jaw. “Then help me where you can. Arrange for some food to reach the northern villages. I will sort the money myself if it means helping them. Surely that much you can do?”

Azriel’s gaze sharpened. “You cannot simply move resources without permission. It is not your place. If you try to send aid yourself…”

“I will!” she snapped. “I do not intend to betray the crown, Azriel, but I cannot stand by while the people suffer. If you will not help me, I will go myself”.

For a long moment, he studied her, the tension in his posture almost painful. Finally, he exhaled slowly. “You are reckless,” he muttered, a faint edge of respect in his voice. “I cannot allow you to endanger yourself, but I will see that it is done, quietly. Within the bounds I can enforce without drawing suspicion”.

Her lips curved in a fleeting, victorious smile, tempered with relief. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I will not waste this opportunity. I want to serve the crown, Azriel, but I also want to serve the people. And sometimes, those two things are not the same”.

He shook his head, eyes dark with vigilance. “You are a foolish princess. But… I do not doubt your heart. Do not let it lead you into ruin”.

The wind howled against the castle walls, rattling the windowpanes as Evelyne lingered by the fire, watching the shadows dance. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled, a reminder of time passing, of the duties she could not yet escape.

And in that silence, Evelyne resolved that she would not be idle. She would see, she would understand, she would act — even if the cost was her safety, even if it meant defying her father, even if it meant walking the dangerous line between duty and desire.

Azriel remained silent, a sentinel in the shadows, watching her with the steady vigilance of someone who knew too well the stakes of the world outside the castle walls. He could not guide her, could not intervene, but he would watch. And perhaps, in that quiet vigilance, he could at least ensure she survived long enough to make her own choices.

Chapter Text

Snow swirled across the courtyards of Velaris, whipped into small whirlwinds by the harsh winter wind. Evelyne pressed her hands to the icy windowpane, staring out at the stark, grey landscape. The castle felt impossibly large, yet claustrophobic all at once. She had never felt so small, so powerless.

Her father’s illness had been worsening for weeks, whispered about in shadowed corridors, hinted at by servants who dared not speak too openly. Evelyne did not fear his death itself—she had long known that kings and queens must pass—but she feared the void it would leave. What would happen if he were gone? Would her brother be forced to carry a crown heavier than any sword? Would she be cast aside, another bargaining piece in the endless games of alliances and marriage? The thought twisted her stomach into knots.

Evelyne pressed her back against the cold stone of her chamber wall, mind racing as she considered the impossibility of it all. The castle felt smaller than ever, corridors narrow and suffocating, the high windows barring her from the freedom she craved. Every lecture from her mother, every reminder of duty, every whisper of her father’s weakening health pressed down on her chest. She could not remain here forever, trapped under the crown and the weight of these walls.

Her gaze flicked to the guards posted outside her chambers. Even now, they were nothing more than routine sentries, unaware of the plans forming in her mind. She traced a careful path—wait until the hallways were quiet, slip past the servants, step lightly through the corridors, and out into the biting winter night. For a fleeting moment, the wind beyond the castle walls felt like freedom, if only in imagination.

She crept toward the door, heart thundering, fingers hovering over the latch. But before she could step into the hallway, a shrill alarm ripped through the castle. The sound made her stomach plummet. Then came the heavier thuds—guards being struck down just beyond her chamber. Panic clawed at her chest, and she pressed herself against the wall, breath caught in her throat.

Before she could think further, the door burst open. Azriel charged in, cloak flaring, boots skidding against the stone. His face was flushed, eyes blazing with fury and relief all at once.

“You!” His voice cut through the chaos. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Evelyne spun to face him, wide-eyed. “What… what is happening?”

His gaze fell on her—the veil slipping from her hair, the cloak draped over her shoulders, the careful outdoor clothes she had donned. Azriel’s jaw tightened, and a low growl escaped him. “Tell me, now. What were you planning?”

“I… I wasn’t going to—” she began, but he cut her off.

“You were planning to run!” he snapped. “Do you understand the danger? The king—your father—was almost killed. Guards are dead outside this very door. You could have been next! Do you even know how far I ran across this castle to ensure you were safe? Half the men fell, and I came for you first!”

Evelyne’s chest rose and fell rapidly. “I didn’t mean any harm. I only… I wanted a chance, even a moment, to choose for myself!”

Azriel stepped closer, tension radiating from him. “A moment could have cost you your life. Or worse”.

Her lips trembled, her heart pounding—not just from fear, but from the closeness of him, the intensity in his gaze. For a heartbeat, their eyes met, and she caught a flicker—a warmth behind the anger. Her pulse quickened in a way she could not name.

“I… I won’t try again. Not now”. Her voice was soft, almost fragile.

He exhaled sharply, a hand brushing against hers in inadvertent proximity, the contact brief but charged. “You are a fool,” he murmured, almost inaudible, before stepping back to regain control.

Just then, the door swung open again. Rhysand strode in, his face pale, eyes sharp. “Evelyne! Are you all right?” His gaze swept the room, noticing her cloak and veil. “I heard the alarms—what were you thinking?”

The subtle spark between Evelyne and Azriel vanished instantly. Azriel stiffened, his protective instincts flaring again, and Rhysand’s presence reminded both of them of duty, hierarchy, and danger.

“I… I’m safe,” Evelyne said quickly, brushing past the lingering tension. “For now. I won’t try to leave again”.

Rhysand’s eyes softened on her, concern clear, while Azriel’s jaw remained tight, gaze shadowed with worry. He turned toward the window, noting how close she had come to disaster, and his expression hardened. “You are lucky,” he said quietly, almost to himself, “and foolish beyond measure”.

Evelyne, still trembling, pressed a hand to her chest. Relief, fear, and defiance swirled together as she realized just how fine the line was between life and death—and between safety and something she did not yet understand.

The hallway outside Evelyne’s chambers was quiet now, though the echoes of chaos still lingered in the castle. Azriel’s boots clanged against the stone as he paced, eyes scanning every corner, alert for any remaining threat. He came to a stop just a pace away from her, chest heaving, cloak damp from the snow and his frantic run.

“You are beyond foolish,” he said, voice rough but quieter now, softer in the way only worry could make it. His gaze lingered on her—the strands of hair fallen from her veil, the flush on her cheeks from exertion and fear. “Do you understand how close you came? Do you even realize…” His voice faltered, tension coiling in his jaw, “…what could have happened?”

Evelyne swallowed, defiance still flaring, though her hands trembled. “I… I didn’t mean any harm,” she whispered. “I only wanted to… breathe. Just for a moment”.

Azriel’s eyes softened, and for a heartbeat, he let down his guard. He lifted a hand, hesitating, the tips of his fingers hovering near hers. Evelyne’s pulse quickened, her own hand twitched almost to meet his. The air between them felt charged, tension coiling around them like the storm still raging outside.

For a fleeting second, his fingers brushed against hers—barely, almost a ghost of a touch—but it sent a spark through both of them. Neither pulled away immediately, both aware of the silent weight in that contact. His eyes flicked toward the hallway, scanning again, posture stiffening, but the unspoken worry lingered.

“You can’t do this,” he murmured, voice low, almost to himself, every word weighted. “Not again. You understand me?”

“I… I understand,” she whispered, trying to steady her racing heart. “For now”.

He exhaled sharply, stepping back, the moment gone, replaced with the urgency of reality. “For now,” he echoed, jaw tight, shoulders rigid, though the tension in his gaze betrayed how close he had come to losing himself in worry.

Just then, the door opened gently. Rhysand stepped inside, face pale but eyes soft, breath coming in short bursts. “Evelyne! Are you all right?” he asked, concern clear in his voice. “I came to see you after… everything. The alarms… the attack. The king is safe”.

Evelyne’s shoulders relaxed slightly, relief flooding through her. “I’m fine,” she said, voice steady, though her heart still hammered. “I was checking on you… and the guards. You’re unharmed?”

Rhysand nodded. “All of us are fine. The castle is secure again. I wanted to make sure you were safe”. His gaze lingered on her, warmth and care plain in every glance.

Azriel’s stance shifted slightly, eyes narrowing as he watched the exchange, aware of the closeness between them but careful to remain silent. Evelyne noticed the tension in him and felt a strange mix of gratitude and unease.

She pressed a hand to her chest, the adrenaline still coursing through her. “Thank you,” she whispered, almost to herself, glancing at Azriel. “For everything”.

Azriel’s jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened with concern, but he said nothing. He simply nodded, as though acknowledging a debt he could never fully voice, and turned his attention back toward the corridors, alert, protective, and impossibly vigilant.

For a moment, the three of them stood there in the quiet aftermath, the storm outside a distant echo, hearts still racing, breaths uneven. Evelyne realized, with a mix of defiance and apprehension, that she had survived—not just the attack, but the edge of something far more dangerous: the pull of feelings she could neither name nor ignore.

The storm outside had softened to a cold drizzle, but the chill lingered in the corridors. Evelyne stayed near the window for a moment, watching the snow drift past the spires of Velaris, her heart still thudding from the events of the night. Every shadow, every distant echo reminded her how close she had come—not just to danger, but to revealing more than she could safely share.

Azriel stood a few paces behind her, silent, rigid, like a sentinel carved from stone. He did not move closer, though she could feel his presence pressing against the edges of her awareness. His gaze was sharp, alert, scanning for threats beyond her window, beyond the castle walls. And yet, she sensed something deeper behind those guarded eyes—a worry, a tether he could not acknowledge.

“You shouldn’t have been near the window,” he said, voice low, controlled. No anger this time, only a restrained edge of concern. “You could have been—”

“I know,” Evelyne interrupted softly, though defiance still lingered in her tone. “I wasn’t careless. I only… I wanted to see. To breathe. Just for a moment”.

Azriel’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling at his sides. He wanted to argue, to pull her back into safety, to scold her properly—but he drew a deep breath and let it go. Another moment like last night, another touch, another spark, would be impossible. He could not risk it. Not after everything.

“You… you must understand,” he said carefully, measuring each word, “I cannot allow anything like that to happen again. Not for your sake, not for mine. You are not… expendable. And I—” He stopped, as though finishing the sentence would be foolish, dangerous even. He let his eyes linger on her a moment longer before stepping back slightly, creating distance, regaining the barrier between them that duty demanded.

Evelyne felt a pang of disappointment but also a strange respect for him. He was relentless in his role, even when it hurt him as much as it hurt her. Her fingers brushed lightly against the edge of the sill, almost wishing he would reach for her, almost daring him to—but she knew better. He would never.

“I understand,” she whispered, though a part of her wanted to press closer, to see what might happen if she ignored the rules. “For now,” she added, echoing his own words from earlier, a quiet acknowledgment of the space he needed.

Azriel gave a curt nod, eyes flicking once more toward the empty corridor beyond the window, then to the distant flicker of torchlight down the hallway. “For now,” he agreed. And with that, he turned, letting his cape brush past her as he moved to resume his duties, alert, vigilant, and painfully aware of the distance he had to maintain.

Alone, Evelyne exhaled, pressing a hand to her chest as her pulse slowly calmed. The warmth of the fire still lingered in her veins from the previous night’s close call, and yet a cold realization settled in: Azriel’s vigilance was both a comfort and a reminder. She could feel the pull of something unspoken between them, something he would never let surface—not now, not when the crown, the castle, and her safety demanded restraint.

The castle was quiet again, but the storm of their near-touch lingered, a subtle ember that neither of them could fully ignore. Evelyne closed her eyes, letting the cold seep through her fingertips, the memory of his concern burning like a secret flame she could neither name nor dismiss. And somewhere in the shadows, Azriel continued his watch, distant but unrelenting, drawn by duty—and perhaps, by something he refused to name even to himself.

Chapter Text

The chamber was quiet, lit only by the flickering fire and the waning daylight seeping through the tall windows. Outside, winter winds howled across the battlements, rattling shutters and sending a chill curling through the castle halls. Evelyne drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders, the fabric a thin barrier against the cold and the restlessness in her chest. She had found herself wandering the corridors again, restless and unsettled, and now, by some impulse, had allowed Azriel to guide her to a quiet, secluded room in the servants’ wing—one of the few places he could grant her a measure of privacy while still watching over her.

The firelight flickered across the stone walls of the castle chamber, casting long shadows that danced with the cold wind rattling the windowpanes. Evelyne sat stiffly in her chair, her cloak drawn tight around her shoulders, a thin scarf still clinging to her hair from the evening chill.

“You’ve walked enough for one night,” he said quietly, voice low and measured, though the sharp edge of frustration was unmistakable. He had insisted she remain indoors, but she had argued until he relented enough to accompany her to this small sitting chamber.

Evelyne’s eyes met his, a mixture of defiance and curiosity. “And yet here I am,” she said, her tone teasing but edged with something sharper. “I could not bear the halls another moment. Even with your… supervision”.

Azriel’s jaw tightened. “Supervision,” he repeated, his gaze flicking to her hands as they fiddled with the hem of her cloak. “You would walk into danger without a thought. You know what happened last time. You know what the King’s enemies are capable of”.

“And yet,” Evelyne said, leaning back in her chair, “here I am. Alive, unharmed. Perhaps I am stronger than you give me credit for”. Her words carried a spark, but the tremor in her voice betrayed the fear she carried beneath the defiance.

Azriel stepped closer, his presence looming in the shadows. “Strength is not enough. You do not yet understand what it means to risk everything for foolishness”. His hand brushed briefly against the back of a chair as he came to a stop, the gesture unintentional but grounding.

Evelyne’s gaze softened, ever so slightly. “And yet you risk everything for me. Every day, in silence, you are here. Why?” The words slipped out before she could stop herself, a question she had never dared to voice.

Azriel looked away, muscles tense, his voice low, almost reluctant. “I am… required to be. I serve the King, the crown. My loyalty is not yours alone, Princess”.

“And yet,” she pressed gently, “you are here. You have chosen to watch over me”.

There was a long pause, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the soft whistle of wind against the stone. Then, carefully, cautiously, he began. “I was not always… this”. He raised his sleeve, revealing the faint scar along his forearm. A long, thin line that spoke of battle, of life spared by skill and luck in equal measure.

He frowned, “I should guard you even more closely, but I cannot be everywhere”.

Evelyne’s curiosity overcame her defensiveness. “Then tell me… tell me of yourself, Sir Azriel. What made you… this way?”

He looked away, jaw tightening. “I was raised with little choice. My mother died when I was born, and my father… he cared not. I was trained in harshness, in a place where only the strong survived. Every scar, every wound I bear was earned in silence and solitude”.

Evelyne leaned forward, captivated. “And yet you serve with such… care. You are steadfast, vigilant. You do not flinch when others would falter. That comes from more than training”.

Azriel’s eyes met hers briefly, shadows of vulnerability flickering before the usual stoicism returned. “Perhaps,” he said, voice low. “But care does not undo the past. It only shapes what I do now. I am bound by duty, by loyalty, by what I cannot change”.

She studied him, sensing the weight he carried, the silent battles that were his alone. “It is rare, someone so… disciplined and yet so… human beneath it all,” she said quietly. “I suppose that is why I find it… comforting. To know someone sees the world as it is, and not merely as a crown demands”.

Azriel’s jaw tightened. He took a small step back, as if reminded of the boundaries they could not cross. “You must remember, Princess, my loyalty is not yours alone. My life is bound to the crown, to the King, to the safety of this castle. I am not free to act on –”

He stopped himself.

Evelyne’s smile was soft, a whisper of defiance. “And yet you are here. Watching, guiding, enduring my whims. Perhaps that is more than duty allows”.

Azriel gave no reply, only a small inclination of the head, a silent acknowledgment of her words. He knew he could not say more, not yet. The fire flickered between them, and for a brief moment, the tension softened, leaving only the quiet knowledge that each was beginning to see the other in ways the rest of the castle could not understand.

Evelyne leaned back in her chair, the faintest spark of a thought flickering through her mind. She would remember this conversation—the rare glimpse of the man behind the armour, the knight who carried his past like a shadow yet remained fiercely unyielding in the present. And perhaps, in time, she would come to understand why she felt a curiosity—and a pull—toward him that she could not yet name.

Chapter Text

The grand hall shimmered with candlelight, the high ceilings echoing with music and polite conversation. Nobles in velvet and silk mingled, their jewelled smiles and courteous bows creating a precise dance of etiquette that Evelyne could never fully master, no matter how long she studied it. The winter wind rattled the tall windows, sending occasional shivers down her spine despite the warmth of the fire and the layers of her gown.

Evelyne moved through the crowd with her usual composure, nodding politely, smiling where expected, yet her mind wandered. Tonight’s festivities were meant to celebrate her brother’s return, yet she could not shake the uneasy feeling settling in her chest. She had been instructed to appear gracious, to greet the nobles who might be sent to propose alliances, but the thought of their expectations weighed heavily.

From across the hall, Azriel observed. He lingered near the shadows, silent, a fixed presence she had grown accustomed to but never fully understood. Tonight, however, there was a difference. He followed her movements with a taut awareness, his eyes narrowing when certain noblemen drew too close. When Evelyne’s gaze accidentally flicked to him, she caught a hardness in his expression she had not seen before. He did not smile, did not bow or make any effort to blend in with the court. He simply watched—and she felt the weight of his scrutiny as sharply as a whispered reprimand.

A young lord approached, bowing with practiced elegance. “Princess Evelyne, may I have the honor of this dance?” he asked, his voice smooth, almost rehearsed.

Evelyne inclined her head politely, aware of Azriel’s presence behind her, and moved with the man across the polished floor. She kept her smile formal, but her eyes couldn’t resist glancing toward the shadows where Azriel stood. His jaw was tight, his stance rigid, and a shadow passed over his face—disapproval, perhaps, or irritation. She had no way of knowing, and it puzzled her. She was doing exactly what she had been told: showing courtesy, maintaining decorum. Why then did he seem… angry?

The dance ended, and the lord bowed again, flushed with effort. Evelyne gave a polite nod and moved away. Azriel stepped closer than usual, so that when she turned to find him at her side, the air between them felt charged, though she could not name why.

“You cannot simply drift through these halls,” he said sharply, his voice low, carrying only enough for her to hear. “There are eyes everywhere, and not all are polite or safe. You would do well to remember that”.

Evelyne tilted her head, surprised by his tone. “I am simply following court etiquette,” she said softly. “I am expected to smile and dance. Surely that cannot warrant such… temper”.

Azriel’s eyes flicked briefly toward the crowd, then back to her. “It is not temper,” he said carefully, “it is concern. And sometimes concern must be loud enough to be heard”.

Evelyne’s brow furrowed. She did not understand the intensity in his words, the way he seemed to flare at the smallest perceived risk. “I see,” she murmured, uncertain whether to feel chastised or confused.

He did not answer further. Instead, he straightened and stepped back slightly, letting the illusion of distance return, though the tension lingered like smoke. Evelyne felt it, a subtle friction she could not explain, a protective heat she sensed but did not name. She tried to dismiss it, focusing on her surroundings, the music, and the chatter—but the weight of his gaze followed her, cold and sharp.

The night wore on, dances were exchanged, toasts were made, and Evelyne navigated the glittering hall with the grace expected of her. And all the while, Azriel’s presence remained—a silent sentinel, frustratingly near yet distant, a mystery she could neither interpret nor confront.

For Evelyne, it was perplexing. His sudden shortness, the tightness in his stance, the sharpness of his words—what could it mean? She had done nothing but her duty, yet here was this man, standing guard, seemingly displeased at her every polite gesture. And though she could not name it, a part of her felt a spark of… irritation in return, as if some invisible line had been drawn between them.

By the end of the evening, the music had waned and candles flickered low. Evelyne paused to glance toward the shadows. Azriel still stood there, unmoving, his dark eyes scanning the crowd. She did not understand him, did not know what drove his sudden intensity, but one thing was clear: he was watching, and whatever the reason, she could not shake the sense that his vigilance, however irritating, kept her safer than she had realized.

The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of frost and pine from the castle gardens. Evelyne slipped through a side door of the hall, letting the noise of the last dances fade behind her. She needed space, a reprieve from the gilded hall, the stifling expectations, and the ever-watchful eyes of courtiers. Even now, her gown rustled with every step, a reminder of her station, her role, and the careful façade she was expected to maintain.

She wandered among the neatly trimmed hedges and snow-dusted pathways, letting her fingers brush against the cold iron of the wrought-iron benches. The gardens were deserted at this hour; the only sound was the soft crunch of snow beneath her slippers and the distant echo of a lute from inside. Here, she could breathe. Here, the castle’s demands felt distant, almost negotiable.

A voice called softly from the shadows. “Princess Evelyne?”

She froze, expecting perhaps a servant, but it was Feyre—small, composed, and careful in her movements. The young woman’s eyes were wide, carrying both caution and urgency. Evelyne’s brow lifted in mild surprise. “You… you should not be here,” she whispered, more a statement than a reprimand.

Feyre stepped closer, hands clasped. “I saw you in the gardens from the hall,” she admitted. “I did not mean to intrude, but I must ask you to keep something… private. For my sake, and for the Prince’s”.

Evelyne’s heart sank, understanding immediately. “You mean your… relationship with him,” she said softly, though she did not judge. “I will keep your secret. Truly. It does not concern me”.

Feyre let out a small breath of relief. “Thank you,” she said. “He—the Prince—he is… good to me, and I care for him. But you understand. This cannot last. If the King knew, it would ruin everything”.

Evelyne nodded, a pang of sympathy stirring in her chest. “I do. He… deserves happiness,” she murmured, thinking of her brother, so often bound by duty. A flicker of envy passed through her, however. Rhysand could pursue love in secrecy; she could not. Every moment of choice in her life seemed bound by expectation. “I… envy him, in a way. You have a choice, fleeting though it is. I have none”.

Feyre’s gaze softened. “I know,” she said quietly. “You are brave, Princess. More than most realize. You see the kingdom, the people… more than the crown itself. That will guide you, should you find a way”.

Evelyne looked away for a moment, tracing the frost on the hedges with a gloved fingertip. “I do care for the crown,” she admitted. “But the people… the people matter more to me. It is why I endure this life, this… gilded cage. But sometimes, it is too much, and I wonder if I could ever have even a fraction of freedom”.

Feyre reached out briefly, placing a hand lightly on Evelyne’s arm, just enough to convey solidarity without overstepping. “You will find it,” she said. “In your own way. You always find a way”.

Evelyne’s lips curved in a faint smile, and for the first time that evening, she felt a small weight lift. “Thank you, Feyre,” she said. “Truly. It is… comforting to know someone understands”.

As Feyre retreated back toward the hall, Evelyne remained a moment longer in the frost-kissed garden, lost in thought. And as she moved to re-enter the castle, she caught sight of a dark figure near the edge of the pathway—Azriel. He had been watching, no doubt drawn by his duty, though she could not tell if he had noticed the encounter. His presence made her pulse quicken—not with understanding, but with a mix of irritation and unease.

He stepped forward, his eyes scanning her with quiet intensity, and she straightened. “Princess,” he said, voice low and clipped. “It is late. You should not wander alone”.

Evelyne tilted her head, trying to mask both relief and frustration. “I am aware, Sir Azriel,” she said carefully. “The night is quiet, and I am unharmed”.

His gaze remained sharp, though he said nothing further, merely turning to ensure the path behind her was clear. Evelyne noticed the faint tension in his stance, the rigidity that suggested he would act at a moment’s notice. A flicker of curiosity—and perhaps unease—stirred within her. Why did he care so fiercely for her, beyond the obvious duty?

She shook her head slightly and moved back toward the castle, thoughts heavy. There were secrets in the gardens, whispers of love, duty, and forbidden choices. And somewhere in the shadows, a knight’s vigilance lingered, unspoken and unknowable, just beyond her awareness.

Chapter Text

The halls of Velaris Castle were unusually still that morning, the frost clinging to the stone walls like a permanent reminder of winter’s grip. Evelyne walked beside her mother, head held high, hands folded in front of her, though her heart felt anything but poised. The letter had arrived in the dead of night, sealed with the crest of the Northern lands. Its contents had already made their mark, heavier than any stone she had ever carried.

“The Northern lands have offered their alliance in full,” Queen Isolde said, her voice sharp and controlled. “They bring armies, resources, and a union that will strengthen Velaris against any who might challenge it”.

Evelyne stilled, “And what does that mean?”

Her mother eyed her, as if she hadn’t been listening, “It means the proposal is accepted in principle. Only minor terms remain to be negotiated”.

Evelyne’s lips pressed into a thin line, nodding politely, but inside she felt a cold dread settling into her chest. T

They’re planning my life as though I were a chess piece.

My hand, my voice, my choice—none of it matters. 

She forced herself to remain silent, as her mother’s practiced eyes would see any falter as weakness.

I should be proud, shouldn’t I? I am to bring power, armies, stability. But at what cost?

My heart, my freedom, my name—it will be tied to someone I have never met.

I am expected to smile, to obey, to be grateful for the security that feels like a cage.

She straightened her shoulders as they walked. “Yes, Mother,” she said softly, the words a bitter echo in her own ears. Her voice was calm, polite, but the storm within her raged unchecked.

Once out of her mother’s gaze, Evelyne stumbled into the nearest alcove, pressing her hands against the stone walls as though she could steady herself against the crushing weight of reality. Her mind raced, imagining what her life would soon become: a parade of formalities, of polite smiles, of endless ceremonies, and the unbearable thought that she would be locked away in the Northern lands, far from the people she loved, far from everything that made her life hers.

And I cannot do anything to stop it.

I have no power. No choice.

Not now, not ever, until someone—if anyone—dares to risk it for me.

The soft clatter of boots on stone drew her attention. Azriel.

He appeared at the edge of the alcove, the ever-watchful shadow, noticing immediately that something had changed in her posture, the tightness in her jaw, the flush of anger in her cheeks.

“Princess?” he asked cautiously, stepping closer. “Is everything—”

“Everything?” she snapped, spinning to face him, the rawness of her emotions spilling forth. “Everything is awful, everything is ruined”.

He frowned, “Princess —”

“Do you even understand what it means, Azriel? To have my life decided before I’ve even been given the chance to breathe freely, to choose? To be nothing more than a tool for politics?”

Azriel’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes meeting hers steadily. “I cannot change the decisions of the crown,” he said. “You must understand that my duty—”

“Don’t speak to me of duty!” she interrupted, voice trembling with rage. “I am not some object to be managed! And you—standing there like some silent wall while this happens to me!”

His expression darkened, tension coiling in his body. “I am not a wall. I am here to ensure your safety. You may not understand it, but—”

“I understand perfectly!” she shot back. “No one cares what I want. No one sees me. And yet here you are, standing in my path like some enforcer of rules that do nothing to protect my heart!”

For a heartbeat, the corridor was silent except for the harsh winter wind rattling the windows. Evelyne’s chest heaved, her mind racing with the impossible.

I love my kingdom. I want to serve it. But at what cost to myself?

If I disappear into a marriage I did not choose, I will have given everything—my voice, my freedom, my heart—away.

I would rather defy them all than surrender what makes me, me.

He stepped closer, hands half-raised, but stopped short of touching her. “Princess—”

“Don’t!” she hissed, and for a moment the wind from the window swept through the corridor, catching her veil. “I will not be lectured, I will not be policed, and I will not be silenced! I… I cannot—” Her voice broke, but she pressed on, a fire igniting in her chest. “I cannot let this happen without trying to resist! If I disappear into a marriage I did not choose, everything I am—everything I care for—will be gone!”

Azriel’s dark eyes softened fractionally, though he said nothing. The corridor felt impossibly small, yet the space between them seemed charged, taut with unspoken tension.

“I understand your role,” she said, voice cracking but fierce. “I know your duty is not to me but to the crown. And when I marry, you will not follow. But do not think for a single moment that this changes how I feel! I am responsible for my people, for my kingdom, for Velaris—but what of my own life? What of my own heart?”

Azriel’s breath hitched just slightly, though he masked it instantly with a tight, measured posture. “Princess, you—”

“I said don’t!” she screamed, the words echoing off the stone walls. Tears glimmered on her cheeks, yet her eyes blazed with defiance. “Do. Not. Follow. Me!”

The words rang out, each syllable sharp as steel. Evelyne whirled toward her bedroom door, yanking it open, and slammed it shut with a force that shook the hinges and reverberated through the corridor. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Azriel stood frozen just beyond the threshold, hand half-raised, jaw clenched, every muscle taut, as though the echo of her scream had physically struck him.

For a brief heartbeat, the corridor fell silent. The wind rattled the windows, and the frost clung to the walls like the weight of the world pressing down. Evelyne pressed her hands against the door, gasping for breath, trying to steady the storm inside her. Somewhere beyond the cold stone, Velaris carried on, unaware of the private chaos that had erupted between a princess and her shadowed protector.

Azriel drew back a single step, his presence suddenly restrained. He could not risk another moment like this—not yet. Duty, honor, and the fragile balance of the court pressed down upon him. And yet, even in the cold silence, his dark eyes lingered on the door, on her, on the fire and fury that had just been unleashed.

She had spoken. She had screamed. She had slammed the door. And for now, that had to be enough.

Chapter Text

The corridors of Velaris were unusually silent that night, the torchlight flickering against the cold stone walls as though the castle itself was holding its breath. Evelyne moved swiftly yet cautiously, boots barely making a sound on the frost-hardened floor. Her heart pounded with the memory of the day’s earlier chaos, of letters she had torn open in frustration, of the looming threat of marriage she could neither refuse nor escape. She had needed a moment, a chance to breathe, to walk without walls pressing in around her. And she knew exactly where she had to go.

The courtyard stretched before her, silvered by moonlight and dotted with frost-crusted statues and dormant fountains. Her cloak was heavy against the chill, but it did little to warm the fire in her chest. She found him leaning against the low wall near the stables, shoulders squared, eyes dark against the pale glow of the night. He was still, like a sentinel carved from shadow, and for a moment she simply watched him, heart stuttering in unexpected anticipation.

“Azriel,” she whispered, her voice tentative yet urgent.

He turned sharply, eyes narrowing as they met hers. The faint moonlight reflected off the scar that ran down his cheek, a reminder of battles and duty, of a life forged in obedience and violence. “Princess,” he replied, the single word carrying a weight she could feel in her bones. His tone was clipped, wary, as if he had already sensed the emotions she had not yet given voice to.

“I… I wanted to apologize,” she said, stepping closer, the frost crunching under her boots. She kept her gaze fixed on the ground, unwilling to betray the fluttering in her chest. “For earlier… my outburst. I—” She took a shaky breath. “I didn’t mean to yell, not at you. Not like that”.

Azriel’s expression softened ever so slightly, though he did not relax his stance. “I understand,” he said, voice low, measured. “It is… difficult. The walls of this castle can feel heavier than the crown itself”.

Evelyne looked up, meeting his gaze. There was something raw in her own eyes, something she seldom allowed herself to feel, even in private. “It’s suffocating,” she admitted softly. “I obey, I follow rules… but sometimes it feels like I can’t breathe. And yet… I am expected to smile, to behave as if all is well, all the time”.

He said nothing, but the tension in his posture softened imperceptibly. She felt it—a small acknowledgment that he understood, even if he could not say it aloud.

For a moment, they were silent, listening to the soft whistle of wind through the trees and the distant cry of a night bird. Then, impulsively, she stepped closer. “Would you… walk with me?”

Azriel hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the castle walls, toward the sleeping guards. Duty and caution battled with something far less tangible, something he could not yet name. But he finally inclined his head. “Very well. A walk. Only a short one”.

They moved together through the courtyard, boots crunching softly on frost, the cold air sharp and invigorating. Evelyne felt the chill bite at her cheeks, but it was nothing compared to the fire of emotion she could not yet define. The night seemed to hold its breath with her, each step deliberate, measured.

“I don’t often walk at night,” she admitted, glancing sideways at him. “It feels… free, even if only for a short while”.

Azriel’s eyes flicked to hers, dark and unreadable. “Freedom is dangerous in Velaris,” he said quietly. “Especially for you, Princess”.

She let out a small, bitter laugh. “Dangerous… yes. But perhaps less frightening than being trapped within these walls”. Her hands clenched at her sides, frost biting through her gloves. “Sometimes I would trade anything for even one night like this, one night where I can choose my steps, my path, my thoughts…”

He said nothing, but the faint tightening of his jaw, the subtle flare of nostrils, betrayed the tension she could not yet name. He remained measured, still a sentinel, yet the restraint he wore like armor only made the small, unspoken connection between them more electric.

They walked past the frost-covered gardens, the statues of forgotten monarchs watching silently as snow dusted their shoulders. Evelyne inhaled sharply at the crisp air, letting it clear her mind even as it filled her with a quiet determination. “Do you ever wish…” she began hesitantly, “…that you could leave all of this behind? The castle, the rules… the duties?”

Azriel’s gaze darkened, a storm contained. “It is not so simple,” he said. “I have obligations. I serve the crown. And even if I could leave… I could not abandon the responsibility I carry, knowing you are here, knowing the dangers that surround you”.

Her heart stuttered at the words, at the care she could sense beneath the controlled exterior. She wanted to reach out, to touch him, to feel warmth in the cold night, yet she restrained herself, reminding herself that his duty came first. “And yet… you stay,” she murmured, softer now, almost to herself.

“I stay because it is necessary,” he replied firmly, but there was an undercurrent she felt, though he did not name it. Something protective, something heavier than duty. She felt it in the slight tightening of his stance, the watchful tilt of his head toward her.

A gust of wind rattled the stone wall, scattering a few flakes of frost across the courtyard. Evelyne shivered, not from cold but from the proximity, from the weight of shared silence. She stepped a fraction closer, glancing at him, noticing how the torchlight kissed the planes of his face, the scar, the dark depth of his eyes. For a heartbeat, the night felt suspended, the world reduced to the two of them.

Her hand lifted, almost instinctively, toward the railing beside him, brushing against it as if she might touch him—but she stopped, drawing it back quickly. She could not, must not, break the boundaries that kept him in the shadows and her in the light.

Azriel, sensing her movement, stiffened. There was a subtle catch in his breath, a fraction of tension in his posture. He did not move toward her, did not speak, but Evelyne felt it—the unspoken care, the quiet storm of his concern. She swallowed hard, heart pounding, and turned her gaze forward again.

The castle of Velaris at night was a thing of contrasts. Its towering stone walls, dark and imposing by day, softened under the silver wash of moonlight. Frost clung to parapets, catching the starlight and sparkling like shards of crystal scattered over the battlements. The banners that had flown boldly during the day now hung still, heavy in the cold, and the gardens were quiet, statues casting long, slanted shadows beneath the watchful gaze of the heavens. Above it all, a sky thick with stars stretched endlessly, pinpricks of light reflecting on the frozen moat and glinting in the windows, giving the fortress a silent, ethereal beauty.

Evelyne’s breath puffed in clouds, mingling with the mist rising off the frost-crusted ground as she walked beside Azriel. Her gaze kept flicking to him, though she barely allowed herself to acknowledge it. He moved with the measured ease of someone born to command both battle and respect, each step confident, every glance alert. She had always known him to be quiet, almost painfully reserved, but now, under the open sky, she saw the edges she had never considered before—the scars across his cheek and jawline, the slight crease above his brow, the tense lines in his shoulders that spoke of countless battles endured.

For a moment, her pulse quickened. There was something undeniably striking in his imperfections, something that drew her eye despite herself. His dark hair fell loosely, a few strands caught by the wind, and his posture, though taut with vigilance, held a natural strength that seemed effortless. Evelyne’s chest tightened. She hadn’t thought of him this way before, and yet, suddenly, she could not look away.

“You’re staring,” Azriel said quietly, his voice low and wary, and she realized she had been caught mid-thought.

“I—” she began, cheeks warming under the chill, and quickly looked away, focusing on the frozen garden path instead of the man who had so suddenly captured her attention. “I was… thinking about the castle”. A weak excuse, but one that carried no threat of revealing the truth of her sudden awareness.

Azriel’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, but he made no comment. Instead, his eyes scanned the shadows beyond the walls, alert for any sign of danger, a silent reminder of the life he led, of the duty that separated them. And yet, the faint furrow in his brow softened as he glanced at her, a subtle signal that she was safe under his watch.

They walked on, past frost-laden hedges and statues of forgotten monarchs whose faces were eroded by time and weather. Evelyne felt a strange mixture of awe and sadness at the way the starlight played across the marble, how the dark gardens seemed both vast and intimate, as if the night itself was conspiring to give her this small freedom. Her heart beat a little faster with each step, and though she tried to quell the feeling, the knowledge of Azriel’s nearness made it impossible.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said suddenly, his voice carrying an edge of concern she hadn’t expected. “More so than usual”.

Evelyne glanced up, meeting his eyes under the pale starlight. “I suppose I’m… thinking,” she said. “There’s… much on my mind”.

“You think too freely,” he replied, tone sharp, but she caught the faint worry behind it. He wasn’t rebuking her; he was warning himself, as much as her. “You cannot wander without consequence, Evelyne. Every choice you make is watched. Every misstep… dangerous”.

“I know,” she whispered, feeling both chastised and protected in the same breath. She lifted her gaze, letting it wander over his face again, noting the way the moonlight kissed the planes of his scarred cheek, the faint crease of a healed wound above his brow. “You… you’re not flawless, are you?” The words slipped out before she could stop them, and she felt her pulse hammer in embarrassment at their sudden intimacy.

Azriel’s jaw tightened, but he did not flinch. “No,” he said quietly. “I am not”.

Evelyne’s lips pressed together, a soft exhale of acknowledgment. There was something raw and honest in that, a human imperfection she had never expected to find in someone so disciplined, so contained. Her mind raced with a fluttering warmth she refused to name. He wasn’t just her protector. He was… other, unknowable, commanding her attention despite the rules, despite the distance she had tried to maintain.

A gust of wind whipped across the courtyard, brushing her cloak around her shoulders, carrying the faint scent of pine and frost. She shivered, not from the cold, but from the closeness of him, from the quiet awareness of his presence. Her hand brushed against the railing of a frost-coated fountain, and for a heartbeat, she let her fingers linger, imagining, daring, what it might feel like to reach for him. But instinct and caution drew her hand back.

Azriel’s eyes flicked to her, sharp, perceptive, and she felt it—the unspoken understanding, the silent warning. He would not act, could not act, and yet his concern was tangible, almost suffocating in its intensity. The night seemed to hold its breath alongside them, the stars above witnessing their shared moment of unacknowledged tension.

They walked on, side by side, their shadows long and intertwined on the frost-crusted path, each step echoing in the still night. The castle loomed behind them, silent and watchful, a reminder of the rules and duties that bound them both. Yet for these stolen minutes, under the endless sky and the glittering stars, the world felt just a little softer, a little more alive.

They walked on in silence for a few steps, each lost in their own thoughts, until Evelyne tilted her head to the side, daring. “Do you ever… wonder if it could be different?” she asked, voice low. “If the world were… not so strict?”

Azriel’s head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing. “Do not speak like that,” he said sharply. “You have no idea what you are saying”.

“Perhaps,” she whispered, her gaze dropping. “But it feels… important to wonder”.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he scanned the horizon, the walls of Velaris looming behind them, the stars stretching endlessly above. The night seemed to press in around them, intimate, private, and yet full of the unspoken rules that bound them both.

Finally, he spoke, softer this time, almost regretful. “It is dangerous to feel… this way,” he murmured. “To wonder about things we cannot have”.

Evelyne’s heart thrummed painfully, and she had to remind herself that he did not know, could not know, the small, fluttering attraction that stirred inside her. She dared a small, almost imperceptible glance at him, noting how the moonlight played across the lines of his scarred face, and the taut strength of his form.

For a moment, they were silent, the only sounds the whisper of the wind through the frosted branches and the distant call of an owl. Their shadows danced along the path, long and intertwined, yet separated by the unspoken rules of duty and honor.

They walked on in silence, the crunch of frost beneath their boots the only sound. The castle loomed behind them, dark and still, its turrets sharp against the starlit sky. Frost glimmered on every branch and windowsill, and the air smelled faintly of smoke and pine. It was cold, yet the quiet warmth of shared space made her shoulders relax slightly, even if her heart still beat too quickly.

Evelyne stole a glance at Azriel, noticing the way the moonlight played across his angular features, highlighting the line of his scar and the sharpness in his dark eyes. He moved with careful precision, every step measured, his presence both a barrier and a comfort. She had never truly noticed him like this before. There was strength in him, yes, but also a calm vigilance that made her feel… watched in a way that wasn’t oppressive, but quietly protective.

“You walk like you own the night,” she said softly, more to herself than to him, letting the words escape without thinking.

Azriel’s gaze flicked to her, a faint tightening at the corner of his mouth, though he said nothing. She could feel the slight tension in him, the unspoken alertness, and it made her chest ache in a way she couldn’t name.

They paused at a small stone bench tucked beneath a frosted hedge. Evelyne shivered, though not entirely from the cold. He waited beside her, silent but unwavering, and for a moment she allowed herself to breathe, to simply exist in the quiet companionship.

“It’s… beautiful tonight,” she murmured, letting her eyes wander over the sparkling courtyard, the glimmering snow under the starlight. “Almost peaceful”.

Azriel made no comment, but the small nod he gave her spoke volumes. She didn’t need words to feel the weight of his presence, steady and unyielding, and a quiet respect that wasn’t yet revealed, not to her or to anyone.

After a moment, she shifted, brushing the snow from her cloak. The stillness stretched between them, comforting yet taut, a silence that held more than either dared to speak aloud. Slowly, she let her gaze fall ahead, the path winding back toward the castle.

Without a word, they turned together, walking back under the pale light of the stars. The frost crunched beneath their feet, and though no hands touched, no confessions were made, the night held a quiet understanding.

By the time they returned to the castle walls, the night had deepened further. Azriel lingered just a step behind, a shadowy guardian, and Evelyne felt a faint, fleeting warmth in knowing he was there. She didn’t understand why she noticed it—or why it mattered—but she welcomed it nonetheless.

As she slipped quietly back into her chambers, the door closing softly behind her, the world outside felt a little less cold, a little less lonely. And though nothing had changed, everything felt different.

Chapter Text

The great hall was warm with firelight and the hum of morning duties, yet Evelyne’s pulse thudded like a warning drum. She moved quickly through the corridors, skirts whispering against cold stone. Her maid’s voice echoed faintly behind her, but Evelyne didn’t stop to listen.

She had spent the morning in restless fury — pacing, fuming, replaying the whispers she’d overheard at breakfast. One of her ladies, careless and eager for gossip, had told her that Sir Azriel had spoken to the Queen last night. About her.

He’d reported that she’d slipped from her chambers again.

That she’d been walking alone after curfew.

That her guard duties were being “reconsidered".

Her heart had stopped at those words. For a long, cold moment, she hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry. After everything — the trust she’d given him, the raw honesty of their night in the gardens — he had gone to her mother like a spy.

Now, she could hear the clang of steel from the training yard, and it only fed her anger.

Evelyne pushed through the side doors, ignoring the startled call of a servant. The morning air hit her like a slap — bright, biting cold under a sky of heavy grey. The courtyard was alive with motion: soldiers training, the ring of swords, the bark of commands.

And there he was.

Azriel.

He stood at the edge of the yard, speaking with a junior knight, his dark hair catching a trace of sunlight. His cloak was unfastened, wind tugging it around his legs. He looked utterly composed, as if the chaos of her thoughts couldn’t touch him at all.

For a moment she simply watched, unable to reconcile this calm, unreadable man with the one who’d smiled faintly beneath the stars. The one who’d spoken softly, who’d looked at her as if she were more than duty.

Then her fury caught up with her feet.

She strode toward him.

Several guards noticed her, heads turning, and Azriel’s attention snapped her way. He froze mid-sentence, eyes flicking around them in alarm.

“Captain!” one of the men barked as they noticed her approaching. The drills faltered.

Every pair of eyes now turned.

Evelyne ignored them all. “A word, Captain”.

“Your Highness,” he said sharply when she reached him, his voice low but urgent. “This isn’t—”

“How dare you,” she hissed. Her voice trembled with rage. “How dare you speak to the Queen about me?”

He straightened instantly, that faint alarm vanishing beneath a soldier’s mask. “Your safety is not a private matter, Princess. You know that”.

Evelyne took a step closer, the gravel crunching under her slippered feet. “You went to her. You reported me. After everything—”

“After you nearly left the castle during an assassination attempt?” His voice rose, sharp as flint. A few men nearby shifted uncomfortably, pretending to focus on their drills. “After you made yourself a target? Yes, I did what was necessary”.

“You betrayed me”.

“I protected you”.

There was an edge to her voice that silenced the entire yard. The guards exchanged uneasy glances as Azriel, visibly tense, gestured her toward a quieter alcove beneath the colonnade.

The moment they were out of earshot, Azriel rounded on her. “Where is the guard I stationed with you?”

Her hands curled into fists, ignoring him. “You made me look like a fool”.

“You did that yourself,” he bit out before he could stop himself. The words landed like a slap.

Her breath caught, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

Evelyne’s throat burned. “You— you think this is all just some foolish game to me? That I wanted to be trapped in this place, paraded around for whichever lord offers the most gold?”

Azriel’s jaw clenched. “It isn’t my place to think anything of your life, my lady. My duty is to the Crown”.

“And nothing else?”

“Nothing else”.

The air between them snapped tight. Evelyne took a step closer, her gown whispering against the frost-slick stones. “You think this is about whims? You humiliated me. I trusted you”.

“That was your mistake”.

The words hit harder than any blade.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “So last night— what was that? Another part of your duty? Making sure your precious princess didn’t wander too far?”

He looked away, jaw clenched. The muscle ticked again, and for a moment, she thought he might apologise. He didn’t.

“Last night was a mistake,” he said instead, voice like flint. “You are a charge, Your Highness. Nothing more. You will stay where you’re told, do as you’re told, and make my job easier by not running off like a child”.

Her breath caught. Something inside her splintered.

“You don’t get to talk to me that way,” she whispered.

“Then stop making it necessary”.

For a moment, there was only silence — the echo of the yard beyond, the faint hiss of snow melting against stone.

Evelyne’s vision blurred. She hated that it wasn’t all anger — that beneath it, there was something else, a hollow ache where warmth had been. “I thought—” she stopped, shook her head. “It doesn’t matter what I thought”.

He met her gaze for the briefest moment — and she saw it then. Not regret, exactly. But fear.

“Go back inside, Princess,” he said softly. “Before someone sees you here".

She straightened her shoulders, every inch the royal he accused her of being. “Don’t worry, Captain. I wouldn’t want to complicate your duties any further”.

Then she turned and walked away, her steps sharp and echoing through the courtyard, her spine straight even as her heart cracked open.

Azriel didn’t move until she was gone. His men resumed training, the clang of metal returning to fill the air. But for the rest of the morning, his strikes were harder than usual — every blow landing like he was punishing himself.

That afternoon, the castle hummed with a strange, tense quiet.

Evelyne walked the halls like a ghost. Courtiers dipped into bows as she passed, but she barely saw them. Her thoughts kept replaying that conversation — his tone, the finality of nothing else.

By the time she reached her chambers, her head pounded. She slammed the door behind her so hard that her maid jumped.

“Leave me,” she whispered.

The maid hesitated. “Your Highness—”

“Leave me!”

The door clicked shut.

Evelyne pressed her palms to the cold wall, her breath shuddering. She didn’t cry. She refused to. But she couldn’t stop shaking — from anger, from confusion, from something deeper she didn’t dare name.

How easily he had dismissed her. How quickly he’d turned from warmth to frost.

She paced the room, muttering under her breath, her emotions twisting in every direction. “Nothing else,” she mocked softly. “Nothing else".

But the ache in her chest didn’t fade.

She didn’t eat that evening. The Queen’s summons went unanswered. Rhysand sent a note, but she couldn’t bear to see even him.

Instead, she stood by her window long after dark, staring at the torchlight flickering in the courtyards below.

Across the yard, in the far training circle, she saw a lone figure still moving. Sword glinting in the moonlight. Blow after blow, strike after strike, relentless and punishing.

Azriel.

He trained until his tunic clung with sweat, until the practice dummy was little more than splintered wood and straw. Each swing was too sharp, too desperate.

He didn’t see her watching.

Evelyne pressed her forehead against the glass, eyes burning. She wanted to hate him. Saints, she wanted to.

But hate was easier than what she really felt.

That night, when the halls had fallen silent and the fires burned low, Azriel sat alone in the armoury. The weight of his sword lay heavy across his knees, his palms still raw from the training yard. He hadn’t stopped since the morning, not really. Every muscle ached, but the ache in his chest was worse.

He’d thought the distance would help. That if he reminded her — reminded himself — of what they were, he might still find his footing in the line between duty and desire. But the look in her eyes when she’d shouted his name, when she’d said I thought you were different—it haunted him.

He had told himself she was nothing but his charge. That she was the Crown’s to protect, not his to want. But the lie sat bitter on his tongue.

Outside, the wind howled through the castle gates, cold and unrelenting.

He thought of her at her window — because of course she’d be there. She always was, staring out like the world beyond the walls was hers to take if she only dared.

He clenched his fists, forcing the thought away.

“I am her guard,” he whispered to the empty room, voice hoarse. “Nothing else".

But even as he said it, he knew it was already too late.

By morning, the tension in Valeria hung thick as frost.

The Queen’s council gathered in the war room. Talk buzzed of assassins, alliances, and impending betrothals. Evelyne stood at her mother’s side, her face a perfect mask of composure.

No one would know that her heart had broken the night before.

And across the room, posted silently by the door, Azriel did not look at her once.

But she felt him. Like the weight of a promise left unspoken — and the burn of one she wished she could forget.

Chapter Text

Velaris had grown quieter.

 Not with the peaceful hush of winter snowfall, but with a kind of stillness that trembled — the stillness before something breaks.

It began in the lower halls, among the servants and messengers who moved like ghosts through the castle. Evelyne noticed it first in their eyes: wide and darting, as if words had become dangerous. They didn’t linger anymore. Conversations stopped when she entered a room, and though no one spoke aloud, she could feel the air itself whispering.

At breakfast, her maid had dropped a jug of milk when a soldier passed by. In the gardens, a gardener’s hands trembled as he bowed. And in the evening, while the Queen spoke of upcoming trade negotiations with the North, Evelyne caught the faintest phrase from the corridor beyond the throne room:

“Another village have lost men – starved I hear”.

At first, she tried not to listen. Her mother’s voice lingered in her mind — the concerns of the commonfolk are for the council, not the crown princess.

But the words found her anyway.

“They took our grain for the army again,” a maid murmured as Evelyne passed one morning, her hands raw from scrubbing the same flagstones for hours. “Half the village has nothing left”.

“Keep your voice down!” another hissed. “Do you want the guards to hear?”

That night, Evelyne lay awake long after the candles had burned down. The voices would not leave her. They wove through her mind like the wind through the battlements — famine, unrest, whispers of theft and rationing.

And the ache that grew in her chest was one she did not know how to soothe.

She rose before dawn, wrapping herself in her cloak and slipping into the hall. The torches were dying, and the stone walls seemed to exhale mist with each breath of cold. The smell of iron and smoke lingered — the scent of a kingdom stretched thin.

From the upper balcony, Evelyne looked down over Velaris. The first light of morning cast long shadows over the fields. Beyond the walls, the city still slept — smoke curling from the chimneys of small cottages, rooftops silvered with frost.

She wondered how many fires were lit in hunger rather than warmth.

For the first time in her life, she hated the beauty of her kingdom. Because beneath it, she could feel the suffering — unseen but present, like a bruise beneath silk.

Her hand brushed against the glass, tracing the outline of the horizon. “If I could,” she whispered, “I’d tear down these walls and give them every stone".

“Your Highness".

The voice came from behind her, low and even.

Evelyne turned. Azriel stood there, already armoured, his sword at his hip. The morning light caught on the lines of his face — sharp, sleepless, unreadable.

She hadn’t spoken to him properly since their confrontation. The memory of his words still rang like a bruise — you’re nothing but my duty.
 Now, his silence was colder than anger.

He followed her through the corridors, kept his distance at the lessons, bowed when required — all proper, all perfect.

And every time she caught his reflection in the mirror or in the shine of a windowpane, her heart twisted in something she didn’t have the courage to name.

Evelyne had thought she could endure it. That she could ignore him as he ignored her. But every glance that passed between them — or didn’t — cut deeper than any cruel word.

“I wished to walk,” she said finally, her voice soft but steady.

His jaw tightened. “The castle isn’t safe before sunrise. You should remain inside”.

“I wasn’t asking permission,” she replied.

For a heartbeat, something flickered across his face — something tired, something pained. But he only inclined his head and fell into step behind her, boots silent on the stone.

The hallways were cold, and the candles trembled in the draft. From somewhere deep in the castle came the faint echo of the servants’ quarters — muffled laughter, a crying child, the sound of old stone settling.

They passed the lower kitchens, where the scent of burned bread and wood smoke hung thick in the air. Two servants whispered near the doorway, their voices low, urgent. Evelyne caught fragments as she walked past — borders closed... the South refusing shipment... the Queen ordered... rations...

She slowed. “What are they speaking of?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

Azriel's expression did not change. “It’s not your concern, Your Highness”.

“Not my concern?” Her tone sharpened. “My people are hungry, and you think it’s not my concern?”

He looked at her then — not cruelly, not coldly, but with that maddening, hollow restraint that had come to define him. “There is nothing you can do,” he said. “Let the council handle it”.

She stopped before a window that overlooked the lower courtyards. Beyond the walls, the town of Velaris sprawled in shadow — dark roofs and darker fields, the thin lines of smoke rising from dying fires.

“Do you ever think of them?” she asked softly, her breath fogging the glass.

“Of whom?”

“The people. The ones who live down there". She nodded toward the horizon. “The ones who feed us, who freeze while we dine beside the fire".

He hesitated. “It is not for us to question the King’s rule".

She turned then, fury flickering beneath her calm. “Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?”

He stiffened but didn’t rise to it. “You should rest, Your Highness".

“I cannot rest,” she snapped. “I cannot sit in silks while children starve a few miles beyond these walls!”

Her voice cracked, and she hated it for the weakness it betrayed.

For a heartbeat, Azriel’s mask faltered. There was something in his eyes — guilt, perhaps, or the same helpless anger that lived in her own heart — but it was gone as quickly as it came.

“Then you must trust that they act in the King’s wisdom”.

She turned away before he could see the tremor in her lip. “I used to think that meant something,” she whispered.

They continued in silence through the corridor, the sound of their footsteps echoing like a heartbeat between the walls.

When she reached her chamber again, Evelyne paused at the desk near her window. Outside, the frost still clung to the fields. She thought of the people there — nameless, faceless, starving — and her throat tightened.

She took up her quill.

To Lord Maeron, Steward of the Lower City, she wrote, send word of what is needed. Bread, medicine, coin — whatever we can spare from the palace reserves. I will ensure repayment myself.

Her handwriting wavered as she folded the parchment. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even permitted. But she had to try.

She sealed the letter and handed it to a young servant with trembling hands. “Deliver this in secret,” she said quietly. “No one must know".

The boy nodded, frightened but loyal, and disappeared into the corridor.

By the next evening, the letter was gone.

Not delivered. Not destroyed. Simply gone.

When Evelyne questioned the servant, he stammered that a guard had stopped him — confiscated the note, warning of treason for sending unauthorised missives from the royal chambers.

Something inside her broke at that.

The kingdom she loved — the one she had sworn to serve, to protect, to inherit — was beginning to fear its own blood.

She found Azriel again that night, standing at his post by the doors to the Great Hall. His posture was perfect as ever, eyes forward, expression carved from stone.

“You knew,” she said, her voice trembling.

He looked at her, a flicker of surprise — or guilt — passing through his eyes. “Knew what?”

“That my letter would be taken".

“I had orders, Your Highness. No communications without approval".

“So, you knew,” she said again, quieter now, heartbreak threading through her words. “You stood there and let them silence me".

He didn’t answer.

Evelyne swallowed the ache in her throat. “You think duty absolves you of cruelty. But you’re wrong".

Azriel's voice was low, measured. “And you think compassion absolves you of consequence".

The words struck her like a blade. For a long moment, they simply stared at one another — two figures bound by silence and crown, standing in the widening shadow of a kingdom beginning to fracture.

Later, Evelyne stood alone on her balcony, looking out over the land she had been born to rule. The night sky above Velaris was dark and endless, strewn with stars like shards of glass.

Somewhere, far beyond the palace walls, she could hear faint echoes — not music, not prayer, but the sound of a crowd gathering. A murmur. A spark.

Whispers of rebellion.

And in that sound, Evelyne felt something rise within her. Not fear, not yet.

 But a promise.

That if her family would not protect their people — she would.

Even if she had to stand against them to do it.

Chapter Text

Evelyne paused at the heavy velvet curtains of her mother’s chamber, hesitating before stepping inside. The firelight danced across the walls, flickering shadows that seemed to mirror the turmoil in her chest. Queen Isolde sat behind the writing desk, pen in hand, yet she did not seem to be writing. Instead, her gaze lifted to meet Evelyne’s, cool, calculating, and yet… almost tender.

“Sit, Evelyne,” Isolde said, her voice soft, but there was an edge beneath it, like steel wrapped in silk. “We need to speak of the matters that cannot wait any longer".

Evelyne obeyed, though her knees felt weak. “Yes, Mother,” she whispered.

The Queen gestured to the chair opposite her. “The proposal from the Northern lands… you know my thoughts on it". She paused, letting the silence stretch. “It is advantageous, yes. Protective, yes. And necessary".

Evelyne nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. She had known this was coming, had expected it for months, and yet the weight of the words pressed down as though she had never considered them before.

“I understand,” she said quietly, almost too quickly. “I… I will do what is required".

Isolde’s lips curved slightly. “Good. You must understand, Evelyne, this is not merely for your sake, or mine. It is for the Kingdom, for Rhysand's future. The stability of his reign could depend upon it. You would not wish to make it harder for him, would you?”

Evelyne shook her head. “Of course not,” she murmured, though her hands clenched tightly in her lap. “If this… if this will make his path smoother, then I will—”

“You will do your duty,” Isolde interrupted, leaning forward slightly, her voice taking on that almost whispering intensity that made Evelyne’s stomach twist. “I know you care for your brother. And I know… I know you have your own thoughts about… certain people". Her eyes flicked subtly, knowingly. “I spoke with Sir Azriel. He is concerned, naturally. Protective, as he should be. But you must see, my darling, that the better course is the one that is expected of you. For his sake, and for yours. You cannot allow impulses to endanger those who serve and protect you. You understand that, do you not?”

Evelyne’s breath caught. She forced herself to meet her mother’s gaze. “I understand,” she said softly, though her heartbeat frantically. She did understand, more than she would ever admit aloud. Every choice she had made, every small rebellion, had been tethered to the knowledge that Azriel risked something—his honour, his position—for her. And she could not, would not, add to that burden.

Isolde leaned back in her chair, the faintest smile curving her lips. “Good. That is what I expected. The world… the Kingdom… it does not pause for feelings, Evelyne. It rewards those who bend to its needs. Sometimes… we must do what is hard, even when our hearts wish otherwise. I know you are capable of this. And I know, deep down, you already understand the necessity".

Evelyne lowered her eyes, nodding. “Yes… Mother". Her voice was small, but resolute. “I will… I will do it. For Rhysand. For the Kingdom".

Isolde’s fingers brushed over a sheet of parchment on her desk, as if she had already begun arranging the next step. “Very well, my daughter. Then we have agreement. You will present yourself as agreeable, as the daughter of the House of Valeria should. You will show grace, charm, and obedience. And in doing so… you protect more than yourself".

Evelyne’s lips pressed into a thin line. The weight of her choice settled over her, and though her hands were trembling, her mind was sharp. She would do what was required. She would accept the proposal, for Rhysand, for the Kingdom, and for… for the shadow of Azriel who had fought to keep her safe without asking anything in return.

“Yes, Mother,” she whispered again, her voice steadier now. “I will do as you ask".

The Queen nodded, satisfied, though her eyes lingered on her daughter with something unreadable—pride, approval, and perhaps a touch of manipulation that only a mother who had lived her own sacrifices could wield. “Good. That is all I ask".

The castle corridors had never felt colder. Even in the middle of day, when sunlight sometimes pierced the thick stone walls, Evelyne felt trapped in a shadow that had settled over Valeria since her conversation with the Queen, since Azriel had stopped speaking to her.

Weeks had passed since Azriel had spoken to her. Weeks in which every glance, every movement he made seemed to scream indifference, even as she knew — deep down — he was always near. The cold walls of Valeria felt even more suffocating in his silence, each corridor and shadow reminding her that the one person she had begun to trust, the one person who had ever seemed to understand her, had retreated behind a wall of duty and unreadable calm. And now, more than ever, she needed answers, needed him to break the distance, but she feared what his words might bring.

And yet, when she found him in the training yard, she felt the old pull of familiarity, even though he met her gaze with none of the recognition she craved. His posture was rigid, his movements precise, a commanding presence among the soldiers, yet his eyes—dark, sharp, and unreadable—traced her approach with nothing but professional caution.

“Princess,” he said flatly, stepping aside as she drew near, as though she were a nuisance in a place where she had every right to be. His tone was calm, but each word cut, deliberate and cold. “I left you with the Queen, you shouldn’t be wandering here. People need to know when you move”.

Evelyne’s chest tightened. Her voice, when she finally spoke, wobbled between accusation and desperation. “Why are you being like this? What has changed?”

He stiffened, jaw set. “Nothing has changed. You are under my protection, Princess. That is all”.

The words landed like stones in her chest. She blinked rapidly, trying to blink away the sting, but it remained. “All?” she spat, a bitter laugh escaping. “All? Is that what I am to you? A duty? A task? A… a job you perform because you have to?”

Azriel did not flinch, did not waver. The distance between them seemed to grow with each heartbeat. “That is exactly what you are,” he said, measured, clipped. “You are under my protection, and I will perform that duty to the letter. Nothing else is my concern".

Her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. “You think that shields me?” she demanded, stepping closer, ignoring the admonishing gazes of the soldiers. “You think your walls, your cold professionalism, protects me? Do you not see what’s happening? I am to be married soon. I will leave this castle, and you… you will be gone. And yet you act as though your silence keeps me safe. As though it… as though it matters to me!”

Azriel's jaw tightened imperceptibly as he watched her, the firelight catching the sharp lines of his face. He said nothing, only inclining his head with a stiff, almost imperious nod.

Evelyne noticed the tension in his shoulders, the rigid set of his posture, and it made her chest ache. “You don’t approve,” she said softly, a hint of understanding in her tone despite the weight in her heart.

His eyes flicked to hers, unreadable, before he looked away. “It is not my place to approve, Princess,” he said, his voice clipped. “I ensure you remain unharmed. That is all I may do". Evelyne’s stomach knotted. Azriel's eyes flickered, just for a heartbeat—something she couldn’t name, a shadow behind the mask of duty. Then it was gone. His voice, low and controlled, carried a sharp edge that made her flinch. “And yet, I will continue to do what is necessary. Your feelings are irrelevant. You will obey. You will survive. That is all that matters".

Evelyne’s lips trembled. She laughed, a hollow, angry sound. “Irrelevant? My feelings? Do you know what that feels like, Ser? To trust someone, to think they might… might care about you beyond duty, and then be met with… this?” She gestured to him, to the space between them, to the coldness that had grown like frost in her chest. “You act as though I am nothing, as though my fear, my anger, my—my desperation—means nothing!”

Azriel did not move, did not soften. He took a slow step closer, his shadow stretching across the cobblestones, the flickering torchlight throwing his sharp features into sharp relief. “You are not nothing,” he said carefully, almost quietly, almost like a warning. “But you are not mine. You are the crown’s. Everything else—your desires, your rebellion, your whims—they are not for me to entertain. You will obey, because if you do not…” His voice trailed off, the implication hanging heavy between them.

Evelyne’s chest heaved, and for a moment, she felt dizzy with frustration, heartbreak, and a deep, aching longing she barely recognised. “And if I cannot obey? If I cannot bend to the crown or to anyone? Then what, Azriel? Will you… punish me with your coldness? Will you… leave me to face it alone?”

He did not answer immediately. His eyes darkened, something unspoken brushing against the surface of his features before he covered it with the same controlled mask of professionalism. “I will do my duty,” he said finally. “I will do what is necessary to keep you alive. Nothing else. You must understand—this is for your safety, nothing more. You are not to be compromised, Princess. That is my concern. Your feelings… your anger… your protestations… they are irrelevant".

Evelyne’s throat tightened. “Irrelevant? They are the only thing I have left,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I trusted you, I thought you… I thought you felt differently. But no, I was foolish".

Azriel’s expression remained unreadable. The faintest flicker of something—regret, frustration, something she couldn’t name—passed across his features before vanishing. “Foolishness can be deadly,” he said, his tone sharp now, a reprimand that stung more than any blow could.

She pressed on, desperate, teeth gritted. “And yet, I have accepted it! I am to be married, I will leave, and you… you will not have to see me again. I will leave, and I will be gone, and you—” Her voice cracked with emotion. “You will continue your duty, and we will never speak of this again!”

Azriel stepped back, as if to put space between them that the air itself could not fill. He did not reach for her. He did not offer comfort, did not explain. Duty, he reminded himself, only duty.

Evelyne turned and stormed away, boots clanging against stone, shoulders heavy, chest aching, and the first true sense of helplessness settling over her. She had no answers, no release, only the cold knowledge that the man who had become the centre of her world would not, could not, meet her halfway.

Even as she disappeared around the corner, she caught the faintest glimpse of him watching her, a shadow among the soldiers, his hands clenched at his sides. For a moment, she imagined him reaching for her, imagined him speaking the words she so desperately wanted to hear. But the image dissolved as quickly as it came.

He was Azriel.

Bound. Controlled. Dutiful. Cold. And she… she was alone.

Chapter Text

The winter wind howled through the castle battlements, rattling the shutters and carrying the distant clatter of boots along the stone corridors. Evelyne had been pacing her chambers all morning, unable to quell the anxious knot that had settled in her stomach. Rhysand had insisted she remain behind, safe, while the council convened, yet the unease clung to her. Something about the day felt different—heavy, oppressive, a warning that she could not place.

She pressed her hands to the window frame, peering out over the icy courtyard. Snowflakes drifted lazily to the ground, but the chill did little to calm her restless thoughts. Guards moved with a sharp precision, their breath fogging the air, eyes scanning every shadow. Normally, their presence reassured her. Today, it only amplified her unease.

Suddenly, the distant clash of steel rang through the castle, a sharp metallic scream that set her heart hammering. She froze, her pulse spiking. Something was wrong.

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed in the hall below, and then came a terrifying, guttural shout—a command in the King’s voice, harsh, unyielding, carried through panic. Evelyne’s hand flew to her mouth as she realized what was happening. The King.

Without thinking, she ran toward the door, fingers fumbling at the latch, and swung it open. The hallway was chaos incarnate. Servants screamed, scattering like frightened birds, and armoured men poured from the stairwells, weapons drawn. Smoke and dust mingled with the acrid scent of steel and blood. Her eyes sought Rhysand, and then, just beyond the main hall, the true horror revealed itself.

A figure darted from the shadows, blade glinting in the torchlight. The King staggered back, off balance, as another assassin emerged from the opposite side. Evelyne’s stomach lurched; she could not look away.

Then came the sound of a brutal, controlled counterattack—steel clashing with steel, men shouting orders, the sound of boots pounding stone. And then she saw him. Azriel. Even from this distance, she recognised the scarred man’s movements: precise, deadly, unflinching. He moved like a storm, forcing the attackers back, his blade a blur as he intercepted the first assassin before they could strike again.

Her heart thumped painfully as she realised Rhysand had been caught in the fray too. She bit back a scream as she saw him parrying, disarmed by one of the attackers’ sudden strikes, just long enough to leave him vulnerable. And then, as if drawn by instinct, another figure appeared alongside Azriel—Sir Cassian—fighting with equal ferocity, each movement synchronised, a deadly duet against the hidden threat.

Evelyne pressed her hands to her mouth, unable to look away as the fight tore through the main hall. Torches toppled, clattering to the stone floor, sending sparks into the air. A scream cut through the chaos. Another guard went down, and for a sickening second, her heart lurched into her throat as she feared the worst for her brother.

But Azriel and Cassian fought like men possessed, her protector’s every movement deliberate, fierce, designed to keep the King alive at all costs. Azriel’s chest heaved as he parried another blow, eyes scanning for the next attack, and Evelyne realised, in a moment that shook her to the core, that he was willing to die for the crown… for her family.

Suddenly, the King faltered, staggering toward the wall as a third assassin lunged from above the staircase. In a heartbeat, Azriel was there, catching the blade on his forearm with a grunt of exertion. Blood seeped through his gauntlet, but he did not falter. With a brutal twist, he disarmed the man, sending the assassin sprawling across the floor, and then pivoted, rushing to intercept another threat.

Evelyne’s knees buckled; she sank to the ground, clutching the hem of her skirts, trembling. The world around her was chaos, but the sight of Azriel—unyielding, unbroken, every scar and imperfection shining with purpose—made her chest tighten. She could feel the weight of the moment pressing on her: death had walked these halls, and he had met it head-on to protect them all.

And then, as suddenly as it began, the violence ceased. The remaining assassins were subdued, either bound or fleeing, and silence fell over the hall, broken only by ragged breathing and the drip of blood from injured men. The King leaned heavily against a pillar, pale but alive, as guards attended to his wounds. Rhysand’s chest rose and fell in exhausted relief, and Evelyne’s eyes darted around, counting the cost: a few dead guards, bruised and bloodied men strewn across the floor, but no lives lost beyond the attackers and those who had tried to defend the throne.

Azriel stood near the King, chest heaving, blood streaked across his armour. His eyes swept the room like a hawk, finally resting on Evelyne. There was no warmth there—only intensity, a sharp reminder of duty and vigilance. He had saved them, and yet he allowed no hint of pride or satisfaction to soften his expression.

Evelyne could not help but feel a pull toward him, toward the man who had risked everything without hesitation. But she stayed rooted to the spot, unsure if she could move without drawing his attention. She wanted to rush to him, to thank him, to grasp some fragment of safety in the chaos—but she knew better. Azriel’s code would not allow it, and she would not force him to bend it.

Rhysand, brushing snow and blood from his shoulders, finally noticed her standing in the doorway, frozen and pale. “Evelyne!” he exclaimed, rushing to her. He pulled her close, checking that she was unharmed. Relief softened his features. “You’re safe… thank the gods you’re safe".

“I—” Evelyne began, but words failed her as her gaze flicked back to Azriel, who now quietly sheathed his bloodied sword, his stance unyielding even after all the violence. The King’s life was spared, her brother was alive, but Azriel’s vigilance never wavered.

Her stomach tightened as she realised the weight of what had happened: the castle had been breached, the King nearly slain, and their lives hung by threads—and she had been powerless. But Azriel… he had acted, and she knew, deep down, that nothing would convince him to step back from the shadows.

Azriel’s eyes briefly met hers again, sharp and commanding, before he turned back to ensure the remaining guards were attending to their posts. Evelyne’s heart ached, knowing she could never repay him for this, and that whatever feelings stirred within her would remain unspoken, buried beneath the unyielding wall of his duty.

Alone with her racing thoughts, she understood that the kingdom—and the crown—would demand sacrifices, both seen and unseen. And in that moment, the true weight of her engagement, her role, and her protector’s unyielding devotion pressed down upon her, heavier than any stone walls around Velaris.

The echo of the battle still lingered in the stone corridors as footsteps approached the royal chambers. Evelyne, still pale from the shock, watched as her mother swept into the room, her composure impeccable yet eyes betraying the strain of the morning’s events. Behind her, the King leaned on Rhysand’s shoulder, walking slowly but with authority, already issuing quiet commands that sent the remaining guards scrambling to their posts.

Rhysand’s tone was steady, resolute, and commanding—a calm that belied the fear of the earlier chaos. “Reinforce the northern walls. Patrols double in the outer courtyard. Every guard, every servant who can hold a torch, must know their place. This will not happen again". His voice carried over the murmur of the court, precise and deliberate, and Evelyne felt a flicker of relief. He would be a different kind of King, one who protected his people rather than ruled with fear.

The Queen followed closely, her hand briefly brushing Evelyne’s shoulder. “You were brave to stay here,” she said softly, a rare tenderness threading her sharp words. “But you must remember, my daughter, that even the bravest cannot defy fate without cost".

Evelyne’s hands clenched at her sides. She wanted to protest, to say she had done nothing, but Rhysand’s gaze caught hers, firm and reassuring. He had already noticed her distress, the tension in her shoulders, and gave a small nod to Cassian.

The knight stepped forward, his face calm but careful as he bowed slightly. “Your Highness,” he said quietly, voice low so only she could hear, “Rhysand has ordered me to see you safely to your chambers".

Evelyne’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I can manage,” she whispered, though her voice trembled. She knew she could not argue. Cassian’s presence was a silent promise of protection—one she had not fully appreciated until now.

“Not this time,” Cassian said firmly, yet with a gentleness reserved for her. He offered his arm. Evelyne hesitated for a heartbeat, eyes flicking to her brother, then allowed him to guide her through the halls. The castle, still ringing with the chaos of the morning, felt colder, sharper, but Cassian’s steady presence grounded her, tethered her to a sense of safety she had not expected to feel.

As they walked, she caught glimpses of the court reassembling, the King seated once more with Rhysand directing from beside him. Orders were given, lists checked, reinforcements arranged. Evelyne’s heart tightened, a mixture of pride and fear. Her brother’s strength shone in every command, and she realized how much had been asked of him already. The people of the kingdom were in safe hands, but she wondered how long the cost of that safety would rest on those she loved most.

When they reached her chambers, Cassian paused, ensuring the door was securely closed behind them. “Rest now, Princess,” he murmured, “and do not leave again today. Rhysand would not forgive it, nor would I".

Evelyne nodded, swallowing hard. “I understand,” she said softly, but a fire lingered in her chest. She had survived the chaos, witnessed bravery and loyalty, and yet felt the weight of the crown pressing on her. Azriel was nowhere in sight, but she sensed that somewhere in the castle, duty and loyalty continued to thread their invisible lines around her, protecting her, controlling her, defining her world.

She sank onto her chair by the window, staring out at the courtyard still dusted with snow and scattered footprints. The castle was alive, alive with danger and vigilance, yet there was a spark in the morning sun, a promise that perhaps this kingdom, her home, might endure. And for the first time since the attack began, she allowed herself a slow, shaky breath, knowing she was, at least for now, safe—but also keenly aware of the distance that duty had placed between her and the one person she wished had been at her side.

Chapter Text

The castle still hummed with tension. Guards moved in tighter formations, their armour glinting under the weak winter sunlight. Word had spread quickly: the King was alive, but the attack had left the court shaken. Whispers of betrayal and rebellion lingered like smoke in the corridors.

In the great hall, Rhysand stood tall, his presence commanding despite the shadow of his father’s illness. His voice carried easily, cutting through the murmurs. “The King is safe. But from this moment forward, we must act with vigilance. No corner of Velaris shall be left unguarded. The safety of the crown, the people, and the kingdom falls to all of us".

A ripple ran through the court. Noblemen straightened in their seats, whispering among themselves. Some exchanged wary glances, impressed but cautious. Others muttered about the young prince assuming such responsibility so quickly. The Queen, poised as ever in public, gave a polite nod to her son, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of concern. Her lips pressed into a thin line—approval and anxiety tangled in the single gesture. She had survived her own years in this palace, bound by duty and strategy, and she knew all too well the weight of authority.

Evelyne watched from the edge of the hall, her hands clenched in her lap. The murmurs of the court filled her ears: approval, uncertainty, fear, and intrigue all swirling together. She saw the respect in some eyes, the veiled envy in others, and for the first time, she realized just how different things would be under Rhysand. Her brother had the chance to guide with fairness, to temper strength with kindness, and she felt a pang of hope for the kingdom—even as her own heart wrenched at the thought of what the future might demand of her.

Rhysand’s tone softened slightly as he addressed the council. “In light of these events, I am hereby named Regent until my father’s health stabilizes. Decisions that must be made in his stead will pass through me. Let this serve as a warning: any who threaten the crown or this kingdom will answer swiftly".

The hall fell silent, every nobleman weighing the implications of his words. Some bowed, masks of loyalty firmly in place, while others pressed thin smiles and curious glances, testing boundaries. The Queen’s face remained neutral, but Evelyne noticed the tension in her shoulders, the slight tightening of her fingers on the table beside her. Even the court, so often a stage of propriety and etiquette, seemed to sense that a shift had occurred.

Evelyne’s chest tightened at the word ‘threat.’ The halls had felt safe once, familiar, even comforting. Now, danger seemed to linger in every shadow, in every passing glance from the guards. Yet, even in the cold uncertainty, a flicker of pride shone in her brother. He would protect this kingdom, and she knew he would do so with fairness and courage.

Cassian, ever vigilant, guided her back to her chambers. “Rest, Princess,” he murmured. “Rhysand commands it, and I would not have you near the council". His eyes held something unspoken, a reflection of his care for both her and the kingdom.

Once inside, Evelyne sank into her chair by the window, looking out over the frost-tipped towers. The snow glinted in the sunlight, a stark contrast to the chaos that had unfolded mere hours before. She longed to see Azriel, to find the one constant who had kept her tethered to reality amid the peril—but he remained absent. She allowed herself a quiet sigh, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on her shoulders. She had survived today, the kingdom remained intact, and her brother would guide it wisely—but she was acutely aware of the walls closing in, and of the distance growing between herself and the one person she wished would stand beside her.

Her thoughts drifted to her father. King Edric. She did not fear his death—not in the way the court might expect a daughter to fear losing her father—but rather feared the consequences his absence might bring. How would the kingdom endure? Could Rhysand truly balance mercy and strength as he stepped into power? Evelyne’s gaze fell to the snow-dusted courtyard below. She loved the crown, yes, and the responsibility it represented, but she loved the people more. The farmers in the villages, the merchants in the streets, the children who would grow up under a just ruler—these were her true concern. Her father’s control had been harsh, distant, a shadow looming over the lives of the common folk. She felt neither grief nor loyalty in the usual sense, only a pragmatic understanding that his survival mattered less than what came next for the kingdom.

A heavy silence fell over her chambers. Evelyne traced a finger along the rim of her teacup, reflecting on the fragile balance of power, the weight of duty, and the danger that still lingered in every corner of Velaris. The assassination attempt had been a warning, yes—but it was also a mirror. A mirror showing what she had always known: life within the castle walls was not her own, and the world outside demanded vigilance, strength, and sacrifice.

She imagined Rhysand in the hall again, issuing commands with steady authority. The people would look to him for guidance; the nobles would watch for weakness. And somewhere in the shadows, she knew, Azriel would be watching too—duty-bound, silent, protective.

The sun dipped lower behind the western towers, casting long shadows across the courtyard. Evelyne clenched her hands tightly, resolved. She could not let fear dictate her actions. She had her own strength, her own voice. And one day, she would find a way to bridge the divide between duty and heart—even if the path to Azriel remained shrouded in shadows.

For a long moment, Evelyne let the quiet of the room surround her. The wind whispered against the towers, the sun glimmered off ice and snow, and for the first time in days, she allowed herself to hope that perhaps, just perhaps, this kingdom could survive. And that perhaps, someday, she could survive within it as well.

Chapter Text

The castle awoke not to trumpets, nor the warmth of dawn, but to whispers that crawled through the corridors like frost.

The air in Valeria was heavy that morning—thick with something unspoken, restless.

Whispers slithered through the corridors faster than the servants could hush them. Evelyne had grown accustomed to rumours in the castle, but this was different. The maids wouldn’t meet her eyes; the guards at her chamber door stood too straight, as if bracing for something ugly.

Servants scurried with lowered eyes; courtiers huddled in corners, muttering behind gloved hands. Something had cracked beneath Velaris’s polished veneer, something ugly and unstoppable.

Evelyne felt it before she heard it.

 The air was too still. The silence, too careful. Her ladies kept their distance that morning, fumbling with her gown, avoiding her reflection in the mirror.

“What is it?” she asked, her patience already thinning. “Out with it".

No answer. Just uneasy glances.

Finally, one whispered, “It’s Feyre, Your Highness".

Evelyne froze. “What about her?”

“She… she was seen taken to the throne room. With guards".

A cold tremor ran down Evelyne’s spine. She didn’t wait to hear more.

The sound of raised voices reached her before she reached the doors.

 Her brother’s voice — sharp, desperate — echoing down the marble hall.

“Mother, please, she’s done nothing wrong!”

Evelyne pushed the doors open.

The scene before her stole the breath from her lungs.

Feyre knelt in the centre of the room, her hands bound, her pale face streaked with tears. Two guards gripped her shoulders. The Queen stood before her, spine straight, chin raised, eyes glacial.

And Rhysand — the golden prince — looked broken.

“She has overstepped her place,” the Queen declared. “I will not allow this… infatuation to taint our name".

“It’s not infatuation!” Rhysand’s voice cracked. “I love her!”

“Then you are a fool,” Isolde said, voice trembling not from emotion but from fury. “You would risk the respect of every noble house for a dalliance with a servant girl?”

“She’s more honourable than half the courtiers you bow to!”

Isolde’s eyes hardened. “Enough".

Evelyne couldn’t stay silent. “Mother". Her voice rang through the chamber. “What are you doing?”

Isolde turned, her expression composed — too composed. “Evelyne. This does not concern you".

“It concerns him,” she shot back, pointing at Rhysand. “And therefore, it concerns me".

The Queen’s tone chilled further. “You will speak carefully".

“No,” Evelyne said, stepping forward. “Not when you’re doing this". She turned to her brother. “Rhysand, what’s happened?”

“They’re sending her away,” he said, voice raw. “They say she’s dangerous. A distraction".

Evelyne looked to her mother in disbelief. “A distraction? From what, from feeling?”

“From duty,” Isolde hissed. “You both seem to forget what that word means".

A heat rose in Evelyne’s chest, sharp and bitter. She had come to despise that word — duty. It was a word people like her mother wrapped their cruelty in, gilding cages with obligation and calling them crowns.

Duty was the excuse for every broken promise, every lost freedom, every heart sacrificed in the name of something greater. She had been raised to honour it, to carry it like a torch through the dark — yet all it had ever done was burn her.

“She loves him,” Evelyne said, voice trembling. “That’s all".

“That is enough,” Isolde snapped. “Love makes rulers weak; I will not see it undone by my children’s naïveté".

“I know cruelty when I see it!” Evelyne’s voice rose, startling even herself. “She’s done nothing but care for him, and you’d cast her out like a criminal!”

“This is mercy,” Isolde hissed. “Were it not for your father’s illness, she would face trial for deceit against the Crown".

“Deceit?” Evelyne’s voice cracked. “For loving him?”

The Queen’s expression didn’t waver. “For believing she could".

Evelyne’s heart thundered in her chest. “And what of compassion? Of kindness? Have you forgotten what it means to rule with humanity?”

“I have not forgotten,” Isolde said, stepping closer. “But I have learned. Compassion is a luxury of those who are safe. We are not".

The Queen lifted a hand, and the guards began to drag Feyre toward the door.

“Stop!” Rhysand shouted, surging forward. “You can’t—”

A hand caught his arm — firm, unyielding.

Azriel.

Evelyne hadn’t even seen him enter, but there he was, in full armour, holding Rhysand back as the girl was dragged away screaming his name. There was no saving it. The guards dragged and Rhysand lunged forward, only for Azriel to hold him back — his jaw locked, his face unreadable.

Rhysand turned on him with fury. “Get your hands off me!”

Azriel didn’t speak. His face was stone.

And for the first time, Evelyne hated him for it.

The doors closed behind Feyre. Silence followed, broken only by Rhysand’s ragged breathing.

He turned to his mother, face white. “You’ve taken everything from me".

“I’ve saved you,” she said simply.

He stood frozen, his breath ragged. “She was all I had,” he whispered. “All I wanted". Then he turned and walked out, his shoulders trembling but his head still high.

He just walked past her — past Evelyne — like a ghost.

When the doors shut behind him, Evelyne rounded on her mother. “How could you?”

Isolde’s patience snapped. “Do not speak to me as if you understand the weight I carry, child. One scandal, one whisper of weakness, and every vulture from the North to the Isles will descend upon us".

“You talk as though love is a sin".

“It is when it endangers the throne".

“Then what of your own love? For father? For us?”

The Queen’s face flickered — just briefly. “You think I do not love you? I’ve given my life to protect you".

Evelyne shook her head, tears pricking her eyes. “You’ve given your heart to the crown and left nothing for us".

Isolde’s jaw tightened. “If you cannot understand now, you will in time. When you wear the weight of duty, you will learn that it leaves no room for dreams".

When Evelyne finally escaped the throne room, she felt sick.

 She didn’t see Azriel waiting outside until she almost collided with him.

“You knew,” she said quietly.

He didn’t meet her eyes.

“You knew, didn’t you?”

Still silence.

Her voice broke. “You were supposed to protect us, Azriel —not destroy us".

He flinched, ever so slightly. “I protect this family by obeying the Queen".

Her eyes burned. “You betrayed him. You betrayed me".

A pause. Then, low: “I had no choice".

Evelyne took a step back, shaking her head. “You always have a choice. You could have come to me. To Rhysand. Anything but this".

“I serve the crown,” he said, and it sounded like a confession more than a defence. His voice cracked beneath its own restraint. “If I hadn’t, it would have been worse for her—for all of you".

“Don’t you dare pretend this was mercy".

His eyes finally lifted to hers — not cold, not angry, but hollow. “You think I wanted this?”

She wanted to shout yes. To tell him he was heartless, unfeeling, a soldier carved from stone. But she saw something in his expression that stopped her — guilt, heavy and raw.

Still, her fury burned brighter. “You’ve become exactly like them".

That landed. His jaw clenched, his chest heaved, but he didn’t argue. He didn’t reach for her.

Evelyne’s voice trembled. “I thought you were different".

Azriel took a step forward, then forced himself back. “And I thought you’d understand what it means to survive in this place".

“Then I pity you,” she said softly. “Because surviving isn’t living".

She turned and walked away before the tears fell — her footsteps echoing in the silence between them.

Azriel didn’t follow. He couldn’t.

He stayed in the cold corridor long after she was gone, the ghost of her voice — and the echo of his own betrayal — heavy in his chest.

That night, Evelyne stormed into her mother’s solar without waiting to be announced. The Queen sat by the fire, a quill poised above parchment, the picture of calm.

“I will not forgive you for this,” Evelyne said.

“You will,” Isolde replied without looking up. “Because in time you’ll see I was right".

“You call destroying your son’s heart, right?”

“I call securing his throne necessary".

“Then you are a monster".

Isolde’s hand stilled. Slowly, she looked up. “You think I enjoy this, Evelyne? That I take pleasure in breaking the things my children love?”

“Then why do it?”

“Because the world would break them first,” the Queen said. “Better they hate me and live, than love me and die".

Evelyne swallowed hard, refusing to let her tears fall. “You speak as though love is poison".

Her mother’s eyes softened for a heartbeat. “Not poison. A weapon. One you cannot afford to wield".

Evelyne turned away, shaking. “You’ve turned Azriel into your puppet. Rhysand into a hollow shell. And me into a prisoner".

For a fleeting moment, the Queen’s mask faltered. Her hand, so often steady and regal, trembled against the velvet armrest of her chair. The candlelight caught in the faint shimmer of her eyes — not tears, Evelyne realised, but the glint of something colder. Composure, sharp as glass, pieced back together by will alone. When Isolde finally looked up, her voice was even, but it carried the brittle edge of exhaustion, of a woman who had long since traded softness for survival.

“You think I wished this for you?” she said quietly, the fury gone from her tone, replaced by something far more dangerous — restraint. “You think I wanted to see you haunted by a man who cannot protect you?”

Evelyne blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

Isolde’s gaze fixed on the far wall, as if looking through years of regret. “Your father spoke to him,” she said at last. “He had heard rumours, people were noticing. He made certain your knight understood his place. For the good of the crown. For your safety — for his. If he has changed, it is because your father commanded it".

The words struck like ice through Evelyne’s chest. She wanted to deny them, to call her mother a liar, but the calm conviction in Isolde’s voice — the absence of malice — told her otherwise.

“You see, child,” the Queen whispered, eyes glistening now with something Evelyne couldn’t name, “love has no place in palaces. It is a fire we are all taught to smother".

“What?” Evelyne’s voice faltered.

“The King warned him that others might use his affection to hurt you both. He reminded him that a guard’s duty is not to feel, but to protect. And if he could not do that, he would be... dealt with".

Evelyne stared at her mother, the world narrowing to a dull roar in her ears. Her father. It all made sense now — the sudden distance, the way Azriel's eyes had gone from steady warmth to polished steel. The cruel words that had torn through her like blades hadn’t been his own; they’d been shackles forged in her father’s command.

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

Her throat burned with a sound that wasn’t quite a sob. “He… he did it to protect me?” she whispered, though the words sounded foreign, heavy with disbelief.

“To protect the crown,” Isolde corrected softly. “You are the crown, Evelyne. You always have been".

Evelyne’s nails dug into her palms until she felt the bite of skin. She wanted to scream, to tear the walls down stone by stone. Duty. That wretched word again, binding every choice, every heartbeat, every dream.

She turned away from her mother, unable to look at her calm, unbroken face. “Then I pity you,” she said, her voice trembling but fierce. “If that’s what it means to love as a queen — I want no part of it".

She didn’t wait for a reply. The door slammed behind her, the echo chasing her down the corridor like the ghost of all the things she could never say to him.

And as she walked, her fury curdled into something quieter — a hollow ache.

Azriel hadn’t betrayed her.

He had obeyed.

The knowledge didn’t soothe her; it broke her all over again. Because now she understood the truth: in Valeria, even love was an act of duty.

Evelyne didn’t remember leaving the Queen’s chambers. Her feet carried her through the labyrinth of hallways like a ghost drifting through its own ruin. The tapestries blurred past — saints, kings, conquerors — all of them bound by duty, all of them looking down at her with painted pity.

The air outside was sharp enough to draw tears. The balcony overlooked the sleeping sprawl of Valeria, the city lying beneath a thin veil of mist and moonlight. Chimneys bled smoke into the night sky, and from far below came the faint hum of life — the crackle of tavern fires, the bark of dogs, the slow, rhythmic churn of the tide.

Evelyne gripped the marble railing until her fingers turned white.

Her breath trembled out in a shudder. “To protect the crown,” she whispered to no one, the words tasting like ash. “To protect me".

But what did protection mean, when every act of it tore another piece of her away?

The wind caught her hair, pulling strands loose from their braids. Somewhere in the courtyard below, she heard the clang of steel — guards changing watch. Her gaze flicked toward the flicker of torchlight along the outer wall, and for a fleeting, traitorous heartbeat she thought she saw him.

Azriel.

Standing rigid in the torchlight, a silhouette of iron and shadow. He hadn’t seen her, or perhaps he had and refused to look. His posture was perfect — back straight, jaw set, gaze fixed on the gate beyond. Not a man, but a weapon. Not a heart, but a vow.

Her throat constricted. She wanted to call out to him, to make him look at her, to make him see her — not the crown, not the heir, not the King’s daughter, but the girl who had once made him smile.

But the words wouldn’t come.

So instead, she pressed her hand to the cold stone railing and let the silence settle between them like a promise neither of them could keep.

Far below, the torchlight flickered — and when she looked again, he was gone.

Only the shadows remained.

Chapter Text

The castle slept beneath a bruised sky.

 Snow fell soft as ash, whispering against the high windows of Velaris, coating the ramparts in pale silence. Inside, the corridors were dim — only the faint orange glow of torches tracing the path of the night watch. Evelyne’s slippered feet made no sound as she slipped through them, cloak drawn tight, breath sharp against the cold.

Her heartbeat too fast.

 It wasn’t only the secrecy of her walk, nor the knowledge of what she was about to do — but the unbearable stillness that had settled since Feyre’s banishment, since the truth had come to light.

She could still see her mother’s face: calm, merciless, unreadable. To protect the crown.

The phrase clawed at her even now.

And Azriel —

She hadn’t seen him since the argument, not properly. Only at a distance, during court assemblies, where he stood at Rhysand’s side in polished armour, unreadable as stone. He hadn’t met her eyes once. She’d told herself she didn’t care. She’d told herself she was done with him.

 But the lie hurt more each day.

Tonight, she couldn’t bear it anymore.

The Queen’s words — the King’s manipulation — the way Azriel had looked at her that night in the torchlight, as though he wanted to say something and couldn’t — it was too much. Evelyne couldn’t sleep, couldn’t breathe beneath the weight of her own helplessness.

So, she did what she always did when she felt trapped.

She ran.

She found him in the practice yard, just before dawn.

The air was thick with cold fog, curling around the training dummies and half-buried targets. The torches had burned low, and snow gathered along the stones, turning the world to shades of silver and smoke.

Azriel stood alone in the middle of it, sword in hand, his breath visible in the frost.

 He was stripped of his armour, wearing only his undershirt and bracers, his skin sheened with sweat despite the cold. Each swing of his blade cut the air with precision — controlled, methodical, almost punishing.

For a moment, Evelyne just watched him. The motion of him was terrifyingly beautiful — every movement sharp, efficient, honed. The steel sang through the air and she wondered, not for the first time, if he ever truly rested.

“Training at this hour?” her voice cut across the fog before she could stop herself.

Azriel stilled.

 He didn’t turn.

“My lady should be in her chambers". His tone was low, rough from disuse, formal. Detached.

Evelyne stepped closer, boots crunching in the frost. “You told me once I should learn to defend myself. I thought perhaps I’d start now".

He said nothing. Just wiped his blade clean on a strip of cloth and slid it into its sheath.

“Azriel". Her voice trembled. “Look at me".

When he finally turned, it was worse than she’d imagined.

The distance in his eyes — the way his jaw was locked tight, as though every word he wanted to say was something he wasn’t allowed to — it was unbearable.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“And yet,” she countered, “here I am".

He let out a sharp breath. “If the guards see—”

“They won’t". Evelyne stepped forward until the fog swallowed them both. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That my mother had Feyre banished. That you knew".

His silence was answer enough.

Her chest ached. “You stood there. You said nothing".

Azriel’s hands curled into fists. “If I’d spoken, it would’ve damned her and you".

“She was innocent".

“I know". His voice broke — the sound like a crack in the ice.

The words hung between them, trembling in the cold.

Evelyne’s anger twisted, collapsing into something raw and confused. She’d come here ready to scream, to hurt him like he’d hurt her — but his face, his voice, the exhaustion lining every word — it disarmed her completely.

“You could have trusted me,” she whispered. “After everything…”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand what your father is capable of. The King made it clear — if I disobeyed orders, if I failed to distance myself—”

Her voice cut through his. “The Queen told me".

Azriel froze.

“She told me everything,” Evelyne continued, her tone trembling with fury and heartbreak. “How the King ordered you to stay away from me. How you obeyed because it was your duty — because my life was another task on your list. Tell me, Azriel, is that what I am to you? Another duty?”

His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking as though he were swallowing fire. “I can’t protect you if—”

She cut him off. “So, you chose obedience".

“I chose your life,” he bit out.

The words hit her like a slap.

 He took a step toward her, then stopped — as though afraid even proximity might damn them both. His breath shuddered out.

“I did what I had to,” he said quietly. “You think I don’t—”

 He stopped himself, jaw tight.

 “You’re to be married. You can’t keep running to me when it hurts".

Evelyne flinched.

“I never asked you to save me,” she said. “Only to see me".

“You must understand why,” he said quietly, almost pleading.

“No!” she interrupted, stepping closer until her breath touched his collar. “All I understand is that you have completely taken over my life. My thoughts. My soul". Her voice cracked, but she didn’t stop. “You tell me to be safe, to obey, to marry for the crown — and still I can’t breathe unless I know you’re near. You’ve taken everything from me, Azriel, and the worst part is—” She stopped, chest heaving. “The worst part is I don’t even want it back. I only want you. Damn the risks. Damn the King. Damn all of it".

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The world seemed to hold its breath — the snow pausing in the air, the torchlight catching in her eyes.

Azriel looked at her as if she’d just undone every wall he’d spent his life building. His voice was rough when he finally spoke. “I—”

And then, at last, the space between them shattered.

She didn’t know who moved first — only that his hand came up, fingers brushing her cheek, and then the space between them broke like glass.

His mouth met hers like the breaking of a storm — cold, desperate, tasting of guilt and steel. The kiss wasn’t gentle; it was a collision of everything they’d buried. Pain, anger, longing. She clutched at his tunic, pulling him closer, and for a moment the world shrank to just this — the heat of him, the breathless sound he made, the truth they’d both been denying. The world fell away; the cold stone walls, the heavy silence, the chains of their duty — all of it vanished.

It was her first kiss.

Not the kind whispered about by ladies in silk parlours or imagined beneath painted ceilings — but a real one, made of breath and tremor and everything she’d never been allowed to feel. His hands, rough and calloused, cupped her face as if she were something fragile, something sacred. And in that moment, Evelyne understood a terrible truth: she never wanted to kiss anyone else. No royal suitor, no stranger dressed in gold. Only him — the man she was never meant to want.

Then he tore himself away.

“No,” he rasped, stepping back as though the air itself burned. “We can’t. Not you. Not now".

Her lips parted. “You kissed me—”

“I shouldn’t have". His voice was broken glass. “You’re promised. You’re—”

“—Miserable,” she snapped. “And you think I care about duty when my heart—”

“Don’t". His voice rose sharply, enough to make her stop. “Don’t say it".

Evelyne blinked hard, her chest tight with unshed tears. “You think ignoring it will make it easier?”

He looked at her, something like agony in his eyes. “No. But it might keep you alive".

The words hit her harder than any blade.

For a moment, she just stared at him — this man who had become her prison and her salvation all at once. And then she swallowed, straightened, forced steel into her voice.

Evelyne sank onto the stone bench, her fingers twisting the edge of her sleeve. Her chest heaved with a mix of anger, frustration, and something far deeper — longing that gnawed at her every thought. She looked up at him, eyes burning, voice low but steady.

“I understand,” she whispered, almost to herself. “I understand that you serve the crown, that your loyalty — your duty — comes before me. I know I’m nothing but a responsibility you cannot choose to carry beyond what is allowed". Her lips trembled. “But… that doesn’t change how I feel. I don’t want anyone else. I don’t care for the crown, or titles, or… anything else if it means losing you".

Azriel's jaw tightened, his expression unreadable in the shadowed garden. “Princess…” he began, but she cut him off, her words spilling out, raw and unfiltered.

“I’ve accepted it. I’ll obey. But that doesn’t mean I’m happy. Nothing — no one — matters to me but you. Not the court, not the palace, not even being a princess. You are all I want, and all I’ll ever want".

He exhaled sharply, a mixture of frustration and something unspoken flickering across his gaze. His hand twitched at his side, restrained by the invisible chains of his duty. “And that,” he said quietly, “is exactly why I cannot let this go further. I cannot risk your life… or the kingdom… for what we want. I cannot risk you".

Evelyne swallowed hard, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, but she nodded, a small, defeated motion. Her heart ached in every direction — a beautiful, terrible pain that belonged entirely to him. And still, even in the misery of her own restraint, she felt a strange pride. She could endure this, she could bear the duty, the restrictions, the ache — because even if he could not choose her now, he had already claimed the most important part of her.

And that, she realized bitterly, would never leave him, no matter the orders, no matter the crown, no matter the world.

“Fine,” she said quietly. “Then I’ll find a way to live my life — with or without your permission".

Azriel closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. “You’re not the one who needs my permission, my lady".

She hated how formal he sounded. She hated the distance, the title, the ache in her chest.

But she nodded once, fiercely. “You will not stop me".

“No,” he said softly. “I never could".

Something inside her fractured.

She turned to leave, then paused when he spoke again, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m already looking for her,” he said.

Evelyne froze. “Feyre?”

He nodded once. “Quietly. Through channels that won’t draw suspicion. I couldn’t save her that night, but I can find her".

Her throat tightened. “Why tell me now?”

He hesitated. “Because… you deserve to know that not all loyalty to the crown is blind".

Their eyes met — and for the first time in weeks, she saw him again. Not the knight, not the cold mask, but the man beneath it.

Then he bowed his head slightly, formal once more. “You should go before you’re seen".

Evelyne nodded, though every step away from him felt like tearing out a piece of her own heart.

As she turned toward the courtyard, the snow deepened, swallowing the sound of her footsteps. Behind her, Azriel stood unmoving, face turned toward the dark horizon — where dawn was just beginning to bleed through the clouds.

And though neither spoke another word, both knew something had already changed.

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered weakly through the frost-lined windows of Velaris, casting pale streaks across the cold stone floor. Evelyne stood by the high windows in her chamber, staring out over the snow-covered courtyard, her fingers brushing against the icy sill. Her breath formed small clouds in the frigid air as she tried to summon some warmth, some comfort—but the chill in the castle was nothing compared to the chill that had settled in her chest over the past days.

The echo of last night’s confrontation with Azriel still haunted her. She had spoken her heart in the garden, laid bare every want, every desperate need, and yet he had pulled away. His distance now felt like a physical weight pressing down on her chest, suffocating in a way she had not expected. She knew he had a duty, that the crown and her protection came first—but knowing it did nothing to ease the ache of longing.

She turned away from the window as a loud rap at her door broke her reverie. “Enter,” she called, her voice brittle.

The door swung open, revealing the Queen, her composure as cold and precise as ever. Yet Evelyne caught a faint tremor in her mother’s hand as she stepped inside, a trace of vulnerability she never saw publicly. Isolde’s eyes swept over her daughter, sharp and calculating.

“Evelyne,” the Queen began, her voice smooth, “your father will see you immediately. You must attend the council".

Evelyne’s stomach sank. She knew what that meant. Her father’s temper had been storming quietly these past weeks, brewing like a storm cloud ready to break. And she, in her youth and in her folly, was the first lightning rod to strike.

“I’m… not ready,” Evelyne said, though the words felt hollow even as they left her lips. “I—”

“You have no choice,” Isolde interrupted, her tone carefully clipped. “The King’s will is not up for debate. You know this".

Evelyne’s hands clenched at her sides. Her chest tightened. “I do know,” she whispered, though her voice carried more defiance than she had intended. “But knowing doesn’t make it any easier".

The Queen’s eyes softened ever so slightly, though the steel in her voice returned almost immediately. “Evelyne, your compliance does not make you weak. It ensures the safety of this family, of the crown. You are aware of what has been uncovered in the villages. The unrest grows, and your father is… watchful. Your marriage—your duty—will secure alliances and calm the unrest. You understand, yes?”

Evelyne’s jaw tightened. The words were suffocating, yet painfully true. “Yes,” she murmured, though her mind rebelled. The idea of marrying for duty, of being bound to someone she did not choose, was a weight that threatened to crush her very soul. She wanted freedom. She wanted Azriel. And yet, more than anything, she wanted the kingdom and the people she loved to remain safe.

The Queen’s gaze sharpened. “Then go. Do not make your father wait".

Evelyne swallowed hard, feeling the icy grip of fear coil through her stomach. She left the chamber, walking briskly down the long corridors toward the council hall, her skirts whispering over the cold stone. Her mind swirled with thoughts of rebellion—not open defiance, not yet—but a storm of anger, suffocation, and helplessness.

The council hall was already in turmoil when she arrived. The King’s voice thundered, cutting through the tension like a blade. “This is intolerable! My children! My court! Dissent among my own house? I will not—”

Evelyne froze near the doorway, taking in the scene. Her father stood at the head of the hall, red-faced and furious, his hands trembling with barely contained rage. Advisors whispered urgently in his ear, while Rhysand attempted to calm the room, his own expression strained with effort. Even the Queen, composed as ever, had an edge of unease as she observed Edric’s fury.

“You will obey! You will serve the crown without question!” the King roared. “And I will not have anyone thinking themselves above the law, above me!”

Evelyne’s chest ached. She felt small and powerless in the vast hall, surrounded by courtiers and knights, all silent witnesses to her father’s wrath. Her mind, however, refused to be entirely captured by fear. Amid the chaos, she thought of Azriel, of the distance he had placed between them, and of the fiery defiance that would not allow her to bend completely.

The council chamber buzzed with uneasy murmurs as courtiers and advisors took their seats, all glancing nervously toward the head of the hall. Evelyne’s father, King Edric, sat perched on the high dais like a storm cloud about to break. His once strong, youthful features now resembled an older Rhysand, but twisted by illness, exhaustion, and the cruelty of a man determined to squeeze every last ounce of obedience from his people. Deep lines carved his face, his eyes sharp and calculating, and his frailty only seemed to make his wrath more dangerous. He looked every inch the ruler who would die soon, but not without leaving his mark in fear and submission.

Evelyne’s heart pounded as the King’s gaze swept the room, landing finally on her. “The Princess,” he rasped, voice like dry leaves cracking underfoot. “The Princess is to be married. The Northern lands have extended their hand—and their armies we accept this offer. Their union will strengthen this kingdom, and there will be no further discussion".

A collective murmur rose from the court, but none dared speak against him. Evelyne’s stomach twisted, but she forced herself to remain silent. She could feel eyes on her, measuring, judging—but none were as significant as the figure in the shadowed corner of the chamber.

Azriel.

He had been watching, his posture rigid, jaw set, hands clenched. His expression betrayed nothing, but Evelyne could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing, sharp and insistent. For a brief moment, their eyes met across the hall. No words were exchanged, yet the tension between them was undeniable—a quiet, electric conversation that spoke of frustration, fear, and something she couldn’t yet name. She turned her eyes away, biting her lip, but she felt it burn in her chest.

The King continued, his voice rising like a whip. “You will obey. You will bring honour to this house. You will not bring shame upon me ". His gaze sharpened on Evelyne, cruel and piercing. “And you—” he pointed, voice almost a growl, “will not fail me in any way. I will tolerate nothing. Not from you. Not from your brother. Not from anyone".

Evelyne’s breath caught. The words were suffocating, each one a chain tightening around her. Yet through the fear, her thoughts drifted to Rhysand. She wondered if he would bear this cruelty quietly or if he, too, would rage inwardly. But the sight of her father now, so weakened yet more terrifying than ever, reminded her that time was short. The King’s illness was evident in every tremor, every brittle word, every effort to exert absolute control. He would not last long. And before that day came, he intended to bend everyone—including her—to his will.

“And you, Princess,” the King snapped, turning sharply to Evelyne, “will take your place as consort to the Northern lands’ prince. There will be no further hesitation. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Evelyne said, her voice quiet but firm. Her mind swirled with anger, fear, and frustration. She was a pawn, yet she would play the game as best she could.

The King’s sharp gaze flicked toward Azriel, who had not moved from his corner. “And you,” Edric barked, “ensure she does not stray. Her conduct is your responsibility".

Azriel’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. He inclined his head, saying nothing. His silence carried a weight of warning, of restrained anger, and of protective intent that Evelyne could almost—but not quite—read.

As the court dispersed, courtiers whispering about alliances and armies, Evelyne lingered near the rear of the hall, trying to reconcile the storm of emotions inside her. She glanced at Azriel once more. He did not approach, did not speak, but his eyes followed her as she moved. She realized, with a pang of both frustration and longing, that he could see more than anyone else—though he chose to remain cold and professional.

The Queen moved beside Evelyne, her composure immaculate, though her sharp eyes betrayed a flicker of concern. “You understand what is expected of you,” Isolde murmured. “Your father’s health leaves us little room for error. Everything you do now shapes the future of this house, of the kingdom. Remember that".

Evelyne nodded silently, though inside she seethed. Duty. Obligation. Chains wrapped in gilded silk. Yet even in the shadow of all this control, she could not deny the magnetic pull of Azriel’s presence—the tension, the unspoken concern, the barely contained fire. And though she knew she must obey, a quiet storm was growing within her. A storm that would not be easily tamed.

When the council meeting finally adjourned, Evelyne retreated to the quiet of her private chambers, her body trembling with pent-up fear, anger, and frustration. She sank onto the edge of her bed, her hands clenched in her lap. The walls seemed to close in, the stone heavy with centuries of history, power, and obligation. She hated the word duty, hated what it meant: obedience, submission, the erasure of choice. And yet, she could not abandon it—not now, not when the kingdom needed her, when her brother needed her.

Her thoughts wandered to Azriel again, and a painful longing stirred within her. He had always been the one person she could confide in, though now he had withdrawn, acting as though she were no more than a task to be completed, a responsibility to be managed. Yet she remembered the faint spark in his eyes in the garden, the subtle tension, the way he had looked at her with something unspoken but deeply dangerous. It was infuriating and thrilling all at once.

Evelyne pressed her forehead to her knees, letting herself succumb for a moment to the suffocating mixture of fear, anger, and desire. Her father’s fury, the weight of her betrothal, the cold distance of Azriel—all of it combined into a storm inside her chest. She would obey. She would marry. She would do her duty. But she would not forget. Not him. Not what she felt. And when the time was right… she would find a way to reclaim even a fraction of the freedom that had been stolen from her.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn crept across the frozen battlements of Velaris, and with it, Evelyne awoke to a restless shiver. The chill of her chamber seeped through the thick wool of her blankets, yet it was not the cold that made her uneasy. Her thoughts were consumed by the events of the previous day, by the narrow escape from the hallways, and most of all by the absence of Azriel. Weeks of his distance had been frustrating enough, but now, with the assassination attempt still fresh in her mind, the void he left seemed unendurable.

Pulling her skirts around her, Evelyne slipped quietly from her bed, careful not to wake the ladies in attendance. She had to see him. She needed to know he was safe. A flurry of footsteps carried her down the shadowed corridors outside her chamber, her heart hammering in her chest with every echoing step. The castle, still in the wake of yesterday’s chaos, felt different—hushed, tense, as if even the stones themselves were holding their breath.

She expected him on her door, as he so often was but there was no one, nothing. As she rounded the corner near the gallery, the sudden glint of steel in the dim light made her gasp. A figure lunged from the shadows. She barely had time to react before a sharp pain tore across her shoulder. She stumbled, a cry escaping her lips. Another blow, a sharp scrape against her side, sent her to the ground, gasping, disoriented.

The shadows erupted as castle guards poured into the corridor, grappling the assailant and forcing him to the floor. Evelyne tried to rise, but her legs wobbled beneath her. The adrenaline that had carried her faltered, replaced by dizzying exhaustion and a wash of fear. A guard’s strong hands steadied her. “Princess, step back,” he said firmly but gently. “You’re hurt—come with us".

She clutched at him, not wanting to leave. “Sir Azriel… where is he?” she demanded, her voice sharp despite the pain. Her hands shook as she tried to pull herself upright.

The guard’s face fell, uncertain. “I… I don’t know, Princess. He… he’s not here".

Panic surged through her chest. Her mind raced—where had he gone? Why wasn’t he protecting her, as he always had? She wanted to run, to find him, to make sure he was safe—but her legs refused to obey. With careful, guiding hands, the guards lifted her and carried her back to her chambers, the cold morning air whipping against her skin as they moved.

Inside her room, she sank onto a chair, wincing as the aches of bruises and scratches flared. The fire in the hearth did little to thaw the storm raging inside her. Moments later, the door opened, and the Queen entered, her expression composed but her eyes betraying concern.

“Evelyne,” Isolde said softly, stepping closer. “You’ve been hurt".

“I’m fine,” Evelyne replied, though her voice cracked, betraying her panic. “Where is Sir Azriel? Where has he gone? Why wasn’t he—”

“He isn’t here,” the Queen interrupted gently, placing a calming hand on her daughter’s arm. “I don’t know where he is at this moment. But you are safe, and that is what matters now".

Evelyne shook her head, tears welling. “Safe? How am I safe if he’s not here? He’s always there, and now… now I don’t know if he’s—if anything has happened to him!”

Ever since the alarms had sounded during the assassination attempt, Evelyne could not forget how Azriel had been the first to move, sprinting through the chaos to ensure her safety. She remembered the way his eyes had scanned every shadow, how his hand had gripped hers briefly, steadying her, how he had thrown himself between her and danger without a second thought. The memory should have been comforting, but now, in the hush of early morning, it sent a chill through her instead. What if this time… what if he had not reached her first? What if the blade had found him instead? Her stomach knotted, and the fire of panic flared hotter than the hearth in her chamber.

Isolde’s composure faltered slightly. “I understand, Evelyne, I do. But your worry will not change the world right now. You must remain here. Let me—let me go find your brother. Rhysand can help, he will know what to do".

Evelyne’s breath hitched. “Rhysand… he’ll be furious if anything has happened to him. And I—” She pressed her hands to her face, trying to hold back a sob. “I just need to know he’s alive. Please, Mother, tell me where he is!”

“I wish I could,” the Queen murmured, her tone gentle, almost maternal. “But I cannot. You must trust me that I will find him, Evelyne. Now, rest while I seek your brother’s counsel".

The Queen left, and Evelyne’s chest tightened. The room felt unbearably quiet now, every shadow and corner filled with imagined threats. Her mind raced, replaying the events of the morning, every narrow scrape with death, and every moment she had relied on Azriel. And yet he was gone.

Tears blurred her vision. She had never felt so powerless. All at once, the weight of the world pressed down upon her: the assassination attempt, her engagement, the chaos of the castle, and now Azriel, her anchor, taken from her. She had survived a blade in the hallways, but could she survive losing him? Could she survive a world without him to protect her?

And as the room became quiet, Evelyne leaned back in her chair, her heart pounding, the warmth of the fire doing nothing to chase away the icy dread that had settled in her chest. The halls of Velaris were quiet again, but she knew the storm had only just begun.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn crept across the frozen battlements of Velaris, and with it, Evelyne awoke to a restless shiver. The chill of her chamber seeped through the thick wool of her blankets, yet it was not the cold that made her uneasy. Her thoughts were consumed by the events of the previous day, by the narrow escape from the hallways, and most of all by the absence of Azriel. Weeks of his distance had been frustrating enough, but now, with the assassination attempt still fresh in her mind, the void he left seemed unendurable.

Pulling her skirts around her, Evelyne slipped quietly from her bed, careful not to wake the ladies in attendance. She had to see him. She needed to know he was safe. A flurry of footsteps carried her down the shadowed corridors outside her chamber, her heart hammering in her chest with every echoing step. The castle, still in the wake of yesterday’s chaos, felt different—hushed, tense, as if even the stones themselves were holding their breath.

She expected him on her door, as he so often was but there was no one, nothing. As she rounded the corner near the gallery, the sudden glint of steel in the dim light made her gasp. A figure lunged from the shadows. She barely had time to react before a sharp pain tore across her shoulder. She stumbled, a cry escaping her lips. Another blow, a sharp scrape against her side, sent her to the ground, gasping, disoriented.

The shadows erupted as castle guards poured into the corridor, grappling the assailant and forcing him to the floor. Evelyne tried to rise, but her legs wobbled beneath her. The adrenaline that had carried her faltered, replaced by dizzying exhaustion and a wash of fear. A guard’s strong hands steadied her. “Princess, step back,” he said firmly but gently. “You’re hurt—come with us".

She clutched at him, not wanting to leave. “Sir Azriel… where is he?” she demanded, her voice sharp despite the pain. Her hands shook as she tried to pull herself upright.

The guard’s face fell, uncertain. “I… I don’t know, Princess. He… he’s not here".

Panic surged through her chest. Her mind raced—where had he gone? Why wasn’t he protecting her, as he always had? She wanted to run, to find him, to make sure he was safe—but her legs refused to obey. With careful, guiding hands, the guards lifted her and carried her back to her chambers, the cold morning air whipping against her skin as they moved.

Inside her room, she sank onto a chair, wincing as the aches of bruises and scratches flared. The fire in the hearth did little to thaw the storm raging inside her. Moments later, the door opened, and the Queen entered, her expression composed but her eyes betraying concern.

“Evelyne,” Isolde said softly, stepping closer. “You’ve been hurt".

“I’m fine,” Evelyne replied, though her voice cracked, betraying her panic. “Where is Sir Azriel? Where has he gone? Why wasn’t he—”

“He isn’t here,” the Queen interrupted gently, placing a calming hand on her daughter’s arm. “I don’t know where he is at this moment. But you are safe, and that is what matters now".

Evelyne shook her head, tears welling. “Safe? How am I safe if he’s not here? He’s always there, and now… now I don’t know if he’s—if anything has happened to him!”

Ever since the alarms had sounded during the assassination attempt, Evelyne could not forget how Azriel had been the first to move, sprinting through the chaos to ensure her safety. She remembered the way his eyes had scanned every shadow, how his hand had gripped hers briefly, steadying her, how he had thrown himself between her and danger without a second thought. The memory should have been comforting, but now, in the hush of early morning, it sent a chill through her instead. What if this time… what if he had not reached her first? What if the blade had found him instead? Her stomach knotted, and the fire of panic flared hotter than the hearth in her chamber.

Isolde’s composure faltered slightly. “I understand, Evelyne, I do. But your worry will not change the world right now. You must remain here. Let me—let me go find your brother. Rhysand can help, he will know what to do".

Evelyne’s breath hitched. “Rhysand… he’ll be furious if anything has happened to him. And I—” She pressed her hands to her face, trying to hold back a sob. “I just need to know he’s alive. Please, Mother, tell me where he is!”

“I wish I could,” the Queen murmured, her tone gentle, almost maternal. “But I cannot. You must trust me that I will find him, Evelyne. Now, rest while I seek your brother’s counsel".

The Queen left, and Evelyne’s chest tightened. The room felt unbearably quiet now, every shadow and corner filled with imagined threats. Her mind raced, replaying the events of the morning, every narrow scrape with death, and every moment she had relied on Azriel. And yet he was gone.

Tears blurred her vision. She had never felt so powerless. All at once, the weight of the world pressed down upon her: the assassination attempt, her engagement, the chaos of the castle, and now Azriel, her anchor, taken from her. She had survived a blade in the hallways, but could she survive losing him? Could she survive a world without him to protect her?

And as the room became quiet, Evelyne leaned back in her chair, her heart pounding, the warmth of the fire doing nothing to chase away the icy dread that had settled in her chest. The halls of Velaris were quiet again, but she knew the storm had only just begun.

Chapter Text

The corridors outside Evelyne’s chambers had begun to blur into one endless passageway of silence. It had been four days since the attack, four days since she’d last seen Azriel.

The first night, she had not slept. The second, she had tried. By the third, she had begun pacing until her legs trembled.

Now, she simply sat by the window, staring into the courtyard below. The morning light was pale and cold, struggling through the thin winter mist. The castle was quieter than usual — tense. Guards patrolled in pairs, whispers carried through open archways, and servants bowed lower when they passed her, as though her very presence were a reminder of what had gone wrong.

And Azriel was nowhere.

The last thing she remembered of him was the faint trace of his voice in the chaos — the same voice that had found her after every cry for help since childhood. But not this time.

 Now, every sound outside her door made her flinch. Every footstep in the corridor made her hope — and then crumble when it wasn’t him.

When the door opened at last, she shot to her feet. “Azriel—?”

But it wasn’t him. It was Rhysand.

Her brother looked exhausted — travel-worn and grim. The dark circles beneath his eyes, the dried blood on his sleeve, the heavy fur still draped across his shoulders told her he had ridden hard and fast.

He paused, taking in her appearance — the unbrushed hair, the sleepless eyes.

 “Evelyne,” he breathed, crossing to her. “You look… gods, you look pale. I came as soon as I heard. Are you hurt?”

“No,” she said quickly, though her voice trembled. “I’m fine. It’s not me you should be asking about". Her hands gripped his sleeves, her knuckles white. “Where is he, Rhysand? Where’s Azriel?”

Rhysand’s jaw set. “You shouldn’t be worrying about him right now".

“Don’t you dare tell me that,” she snapped. “Don’t you dare. He would’ve come for me the moment he heard—he always does. He—”

“Enough!” Rhysand’s voice cracked like a whip, the authority of a prince in every syllable. The sound made her flinch, but he stepped back immediately, running a hand through his hair. “Evelyne, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. But you don’t understand—Azriel’s actions—”

Her breath caught. “What actions?”

He hesitated. “He’s been arrested".

The words struck her like a physical blow. “Arrested?”

“For deserting his post,” Rhysand said quietly, his expression unreadable. “The night of the attack, he disappeared. The King ordered his detainment at the gates yesterday morning. He’s awaiting trial".

“No". The denial came like a whisper, then again, stronger. “No, he wouldn’t. He would never leave without telling anyone, not while I—” She broke off, pressing her hand to her mouth, forcing back a sob. “You know him, Rhysand. You’ve known him since you were boys. He would never abandon his duty".

Rhysand looked away. “I know,” he said finally. “But the King—”

“I don’t care about the King!” she shouted. “I care about Azriel!”

He turned sharply to face her then, something dangerous flashing in his eyes. “You what?”

She froze. The words had slipped out too easily, too raw. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she didn’t look away. Not this time. “You heard me".

For a moment, silence stretched between them — brittle, aching. Then Rhysand’s voice lowered, his tone one of warning. “Evelyne, tell me this isn’t what I think it is".

She swallowed hard. “He saved my life more times than I can count. He’s protected me when no one else could. And when I thought I would lose everything—he was the only one who made me feel like I still had something worth staying for".

His face darkened. “You’re speaking like a fool in love".

“Because I am,” she burst out, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I love him, Rhysand! I love him more than the crown, more than any promise made for duty’s sake. I don’t care that he’s a guard, or that he’s beneath me in title. I don’t care about any of it".

It struck her then — sudden, sharp, and terrifying in its certainty. She loved him. Not the way a princess was meant to love — not as a symbol, or a story, or a promise of alliance — but with something bone-deep and ruinous. She loved the man who stood beside her in silence, who guarded her not just with steel but with something she could never name aloud. It had crept up on her slowly, like frost across glass, and by the time she’d noticed, it had already claimed her whole heart.

“Do you even hear yourself?” Rhysand snapped. “He’s a soldier sworn to the King, sworn to me! What do you think would happen if anyone heard this? They’d call it treason—”

“I already know what treason sounds like,” Evelyne hissed. “It sounds like silence. It sounds like standing by while everything I care for is destroyed".

Rhysand’s eyes softened, the fury fading into something heavier — grief. He looked at her for a long moment before finally sitting down at her writing desk, his hands trembling slightly. “You’ve changed,” he murmured. “You were always strong-willed, but this… this is different".

She said nothing, only wiped at her tears, standing tall despite her shaking hands.

Finally, Rhysand sighed, the sound heavy with defeat. “I cannot say I approve. But I understand. Gods, I understand".

Her heart clenched. “You do?”

Evelyne’s breath caught at his words, but they brought no comfort — only a deeper ache. Because she did understand too. She thought of Feyre, of how love had ruined her life before it ever had the chance to bloom. The whispers that still haunted the corridors spoke of scandal and disgrace, but Evelyne knew the truth: Feyre had simply chosen wrong. Chosen someone she wasn’t allowed to love — and paid for it with her freedom.

And now, Evelyne realized with a hollow kind of dread, she was walking the same path. The same forbidden thread wound through her heart, tying her to someone she could never have. The same story, different name.

Only this time, she refused to let it end the same way.

He nodded slowly. “Azriel is a good man. Too good. But that won’t protect him from the King’s temper, or the court’s judgment. The council is holding his trial as we speak".

“What?” Evelyne gasped. “Now?”

He stood. “Stay here, Evelyne. I’ll go. I’ll see what can be done".

But she was already moving.

“Evelyne!” he barked, but she didn’t listen. She ran, skirts twisting around her ankles as she flew down the hallways, ignoring the startled calls of the guards. Her lungs burned, her legs ached, but she didn’t stop until the sound of voices reached her ears — the deep hum of the council chamber, thick with tension.

She pushed through the doors, and the sight that met her stole the breath from her chest.

Azriel stood at the centre of the hall, hands bound, face bloodied and bruised. His uniform was torn, his knuckles split. He looked like a man carved out of stone, every line of his body rigid, defiant.

Evelyne froze.

“Azriel…”

He lifted his head at her voice, and for a fleeting moment, something broke in his expression — a flicker of pain, of longing. Then it was gone, replaced by the cold mask of duty.

Before she could move closer, a strong arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back. “Princess, no,” Cassian hissed, his voice low but firm. “Not here. You’ll only make it worse".

She twisted against him, but his grip held, pulling her out of the hall. Yet the door remained open, a glimpse into the destruction.

“He would never leave willingly,” she whispered, trembling. “He wouldn’t. He told me—”

“I know,” Cassian said gently. His eyes softened. “He told me too".

Her heart stilled. “He… what?”

Cassian nodded. “He loves you, Evelyne. Gods, he tried not to, but he does. He told me once—if it meant keeping you safe, he’d take every wound in the kingdom upon himself".

A sob tore from her throat, raw and broken. She turned her face into Cassian’s shoulder, the sound of the council fading around her, the sight of Azriel blurring through tears.

“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t let them hurt him".

Cassian tightened his hold, his voice a quiet vow. “Rhysand won’t. Not while he still has breath in his body".

As the guards stepped forward to lead Azriel away, Evelyne caught one last glimpse of his face.

 And though he said nothing, his eyes found hers — and she knew.

He would endure whatever came next for her.

Even if it meant losing everything.

Chapter Text

The throne room was colder than Evelyne remembered.

The air itself seemed sharpened by the steel of judgment — thick, unmoving, and cruel. It pressed against her chest as she stood in the shadowed alcove beyond the great pillars, hidden from the main hall. Cassian had all but dragged her here when she’d tried to run into the room outright. His warning still rang in her ears: If you speak, you doom him faster.

But how could she remain silent when he stood there — shackled and bloodied — before her father’s throne?

Azriel looked nothing like the man she remembered. His usually steady posture was bent slightly under the weight of chains, his face shadowed and bruised. Dried blood traced a cut along his jaw, and one of his eyes had gone purple. Yet even beneath the grime and pain, there was something fiercely intact about him — an unbroken steadiness that defied the spectacle of his humiliation.

The guards flanked him like vultures, their spears pointed and gleaming. Court whisperers filled the chamber’s edges, their murmurs hissing like the flicker of torches. Evelyne saw her mother seated beside the King, her composure a mask of marble — too still, too controlled. Only her pale hands, clasped tightly in her lap, betrayed her unease.

And at the centre, the King sat — a hollow crown on a dying man’s head. His sickness had withered him, but his eyes burned brighter than ever, feverish and cruel.

Azriel did not bow.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

“Do you know why you stand here before me, Commander?” the King asked, his voice cutting through the hall like a drawn blade.

Azriel lifted his gaze, unflinching. “Because I followed your orders, Your Majesty".

A ripple of unease ran through the council. The King’s lips curled. “Followed my orders? I recall no order that permitted my captain to abandon his post without leave".

Evelyne’s fists clenched. She wanted to scream — to tell them he had not abandoned anything, that he had been sent away. But Cassian’s hand pressed firmly against her shoulder, anchoring her to silence.

Azriel’s jaw tightened. “I was instructed to ride north to inspect the patrol lines. I reported to General Cormac before I left".

“Convenient,” sneered one of the councillors. “And yet, no such record exists".

A trap. Evelyne could see it — the neat little snare the King had laid. Her father had always been skilled at crafting webs of truth and lies, twisting them together until even innocence could look like guilt.

Rhysand stood near the throne, pale and silent. His expression betrayed nothing, but Evelyne knew that look — the tension in his shoulders, the flicker of anger he tried to suppress.

When the King turned to him, Rhysand straightened. “Father—”

“Do not defend him,” the King snapped. “You would do well to remember your place, boy".

Something inside Evelyne snapped at that word — boy — because Rhysand had been nothing but loyal, nothing but good. And Azriel, for all his silence, had been the same.

Azriel’s voice broke through again, steady despite the bruise that darkened his mouth. “If this is about the attempt on Her Highness’s life, I was at the northern gates when it happened. I returned the moment the alarms rang".

Evelyne’s throat tightened at the sound of his title for her — cold, formal, as if he were reminding her that this was who she was. A Princess. Untouchable.

A councillor spoke again, this one older, his voice oily. “Then how do you explain the reports of negligence? That your post was unguarded. That your decisions placed the Princess in direct danger?”

The room buzzed with false words. Evelyne could barely breathe through the panic rising in her chest. Every accusation was a lie — carefully placed, purposefully cruel.

She bit her tongue until she tasted blood.

The King leaned forward. “You swore an oath, Sir Azriel. To protect this house with your life. Instead, you dishonoured that oath. You dishonoured me".

Azriel’s head lifted, and for a heartbeat, Evelyne saw something dangerous in his eyes — fury, maybe, or heartbreak. “I have done nothing but serve you, Majesty. With every breath, I have served".

“And yet,” the King said softly, “you grow too close to what you were meant to guard".

The words hit like a blade. Evelyne’s breath hitched audibly, and Cassian’s hand shot out, gripping her arm tighter. She hadn’t realized she’d stepped forward.

Azriel didn’t flinch. His silence was deafening.

The King smiled. “Ah. So that strikes a chord".

The Queen’s eyes flickered, just for a moment — a flash of guilt or warning, Evelyne couldn’t tell.

“This is a court of judgment,” the King continued, his tone almost casual. “You will speak truth before crown and council. Tell me, Commander — what exactly are your intentions toward my daughter?”

Evelyne’s heart stopped.

The hall went dead still.

Even Rhysand froze, his jaw locked, his eyes darting between Azriel and the King. Every eye turned toward the prisoner in chains.

Azriel said nothing.

“Speak,” the King commanded.

“I serve the crown,” Azriel said finally, his tone even. “And I have no intentions beyond my duty".

The lie stung more than truth ever could.

Evelyne’s eyes burned, tears threatening to break through. His words were calm, absolute — but she saw it in the slight tremor of his hands, the tension in his shoulders. It killed him to say it.

The King’s smirk deepened. “Then your punishment should not trouble you".

Rhysand took a step forward. “Father—”

“Silence!”

The command rang through the room like thunder. Rhysand froze, his fists clenched at his sides.

The King leaned back in his throne. “You will be stripped of command. Held in the cells below until I decide your fate".

Azriel bowed his head once. “As you wish, Your Majesty".

It was that calm that broke her. That quiet acceptance.

Evelyne tore free from Cassian’s grasp, stepping into the open. The gasp from the court rippled like fire through oil.

“Father, you cannot—”

“You will not speak!” The King’s roar shook the marble. “You shame yourself before the court".

Evelyne’s voice trembled, but she didn’t back down. “He saved my life!”

“And endangered your name,” the King spat. “Enough!”

Two guards moved forward, seizing Azriel by the arms.

Their eyes met — only for a heartbeat — and it was enough.

 All the words they couldn’t say passed in that single glance: apology, love, despair.

It came upon her like a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding — soft, merciless, inevitable. She loved him. Gods help her, she loved him. Not with the kind of love sung about in ballads or whispered in candlelight, but with the fierce, aching devotion of a heart that had never known its own hunger until now. She loved him in the pauses between words, in the silence of his duty, in the way he looked at her as though she were both a burden and a blessing he could not set down.

And she would never be allowed to tell him.

The truth of it hollowed her out — that she had finally found something worth defying the crown for, only to realise it had already been taken from her.

Then he was gone, dragged through the doors as Evelyne cried out his name.

Cassian caught her before she could follow, his arms tight around her trembling frame.

“Don’t,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Please, Evelyne. Let Rhysand handle this".

Her knees gave way, and she sagged against him, sobs racking through her chest.

“He’ll die,” she gasped. “Father will kill him".

Cassian didn’t answer. His silence was all the answer she needed.

The throne room doors shut behind Azriel with a thunderous slam, and in that echo, the world fell apart.

Chapter Text

The dungeon beneath Velaris reeked of damp stone and old regret. Even the torches along the narrow stairway seemed to flicker reluctantly, their light shuddering against the walls as though afraid to touch the darkness too closely.

Evelyne’s slippered feet made no sound as she descended, her pulse loud in her ears. She had slipped past the guards with Cassian’s help — though his expression had made clear this was a terrible idea. But she didn’t care. She hadn’t cared for days. Not since they’d dragged Azriel through the great hall, bloodied and beaten, his wrists bound in chains that had looked far too heavy for a man who had once carried her through danger without hesitation.

Each step felt like a betrayal of her upbringing, of her title — of the Queen’s command that she stay put, behave, be silent. But silence had become unbearable. She needed to see him, if only once more.

When she reached the bottom, the guard stationed there straightened in alarm.

“Your Highness—”

“Open it". Her voice trembled, but her eyes did not. “I won’t ask twice".

The man hesitated, looking between her and the door to the cells. Something in her gaze — something raw and broken — must have convinced him, because the keys clinked soon after. The gate groaned open, and Evelyne stepped into the corridor of cells.

The sound of dripping water filled the silence. Then, from one of the cells near the end — a hoarse voice:

“Who goes there?”

Her heart twisted. She hurried forward, her skirts brushing the cold floor. And there he was — behind iron bars, his face half-shadowed. The bruises had darkened, the split across his lip crusted with blood. He looked thinner, exhausted — yet his eyes still found her like a compass finding true north.

“Gods, Azriel…” She reached for the bars, fingers wrapping around the iron. “What have they done to you?”

He exhaled shakily, a bitter half-smile ghosting across his mouth. “What they always do to those who forget their place".

“That’s not fair—”

“It’s the truth". His voice was quiet, but sharp as steel. “You shouldn’t be here".

“I had to see you".

He turned away, chains clinking with the movement. “You’ve already risked enough".

She pressed closer to the bars. “Don’t you dare push me away again. I’ve done nothing but try to reach you since—” Her voice broke. “Since they took you".

He closed his eyes, shoulders rigid. “You shouldn’t have seen that".

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered. “You should be free".

Something in him cracked then — a tremor in his voice, a softness that slipped through the armour of his restraint. “Freedom’s never been for people like me, princess".

“Don’t call me that,” she said fiercely. “Not now. Not when you—”

Her words faltered as tears spilled down her cheeks. She reached through the bars, fingertips brushing the rough skin of his hand where it rested on his knee. He didn’t move away this time. “They say you betrayed the crown,” she whispered. “Tell me it isn’t true".

His lips parted — then closed again. “The truth wouldn’t change anything,” he said finally.

“It would change everything to me".

He turned his face into her palm, closing his eyes for half a heartbeat. “Then I suppose that’s why they locked me up".

Tears spilled freely now, tracing paths down her cheeks. “They’ll kill you, Azriel".

“Maybe,” he said. “But not before I make sure you live".

Her voice cracked on the words, and something in him faltered. He reached through the bars, hesitating only a second before his hand brushed hers. The touch was gentle, reverent — as though even that small contact might undo him.

“I told Rhysand,” she said suddenly. “About us. About how I feel".

Azriel’s eyes snapped to hers — startled, then pained. “You shouldn’t have”.

She gripped his hand tighter through the bars, her voice trembling but fierce. “I can’t pretend anymore,” she whispered. “I love you, Azriel. I think I have for far longer than I realised. Before the gardens, before the kiss… before you ever even looked at me like I was more than my title".

Azriel’s breath hitched — a sound that was almost pain. His fingers tightened around hers until the chains at his wrist clinked. For a heartbeat, he looked like he might speak — but then his jaw locked, his gaze flicking down to the filthy floor.

“Evelyne,” he murmured, rough and low. “You shouldn’t waste words like that in a place like this".

For a moment, Evelyne thought she’d imagined it — the sound of her name, not her title, low and rough in the space between them. Evelyne.

No, Your Highness, no Princess, no polished restraint, just her name. It shouldn’t have meant anything, but the way he said it hollowed her out, soft and trembling, as though he’d carved it from the edge of his soul.

Her breath caught. In another life, hearing her name like that would have been a promise. Now it was a mistake — one that burned warmer than it should have. She wanted to be angry, wanted to cling to her heartbreak, but the sound of her name lingered, gentle and forbidden, and she couldn’t decide whether it was mercy or cruelty that he’d finally given it to her.

She blinked, wounded. “Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want the first time I said them back to be in a prison cell,” he said quietly, the faintest tremor breaking through his composure. “Not here. Not like this".

Her heart lurched. She leaned closer, her tears catching the dim torchlight. “Then don’t say them now,” she whispered. “Say them when you’re free".

He lifted his eyes then — and whatever emotion lived there was almost unbearable to look at. Hope and despair, love and guilt, all tangled into something too raw for words.

“Evelyne…” he said softly, her name breaking in his mouth like prayer and curse both.

She didn’t budge, “Promise me”.

“When I’m free” he compromised, but it was spoken in volumes, “If I ever am”.

“You will be. Rhysand will help you". She forced the words through a sob. “He’s already gone to the council. You’ll be freed soon, I swear it".

He shook his head. “Don’t make promises to ghosts".

“You’re not a ghost".

He smiled then — small, sorrowful. “Not yet".

She gripped his hand tighter. “Don’t say that".

“Listen to me,” he murmured, shifting closer so his forehead nearly touched the bars. “If you love me — truly love me — you have to survive this. You have to do what I couldn’t. Be brave in the ways I wasn’t allowed to be".

Her heart splintered at the words. “You don’t get to tell me how to love you,” she whispered. “Not when you’re the one in chains".

He huffed a quiet, almost broken laugh. “Always so defiant".

“Always because of you".

A silence stretched between them — thick, heavy, sacred.

Then, without thinking, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to the cold iron between them — the only barrier left. He mirrored her, his breath warm against the chill. It wasn’t a kiss, not truly. But it was everything they were allowed.

When footsteps echoed from the stairwell above, they broke apart.

Azriel’s voice dropped to a desperate whisper. “Go. Please. If they find you here—”

She shook her head violently. “I’m not leaving you".

He reached through the bars and touched her cheek, just once — a fleeting, reverent gesture that burned like a brand. “You already have,” he said softly. “You have to".

The guards’ voices grew closer. Evelyne stepped back, heart in pieces.

As they dragged her away, she looked over her shoulder one last time. Azriel was still kneeling there, watching her go, his expression unreadable — but his eyes… his eyes said everything they couldn’t.

And Evelyne realised then that love wasn’t always freedom.

Sometimes it was a cage.