EVELINA
The morning light fell across the Everleigh gardens in long, pale bands, soft but cold.
Evelina sat beside her window, watching the mist drift between the hedges and fountains. It was beautiful, yet strangely distant, like a painting of peace hung inside a world already beginning to unravel.
On her desk lay the letter from her father, written the night before he left for the capital. She had read it until the words blurred.
My dear Evelina,
Do not fear for me. The Crown merely seeks to clarify old matters. I have nothing to hide. Truth may be slow, but it endures longer than malice.
He had written it in his usual careful hand, but she could see where the ink had deepened, where a tremor of thought had pressed too hard.
She folded the letter gently and looked out toward the road. No riders yet. The sky was pale and heavy with waiting.
A knock came at her door.
"Come in," she said.
Anna stepped inside, her face drawn. "My lady, a courier, has arrived from the capital. He says he carries a message from Lord Ravenscroft."
Evelina rose so quickly that her chair scraped the floor. "Where is he?"
"In the courtyard, my lady. He insists it is urgent."
She hurried down the hall, her pulse quickening with each step. Outside, the air carried the faint scent of rain. The rider bowed when she approached, his cloak still dusted from travel.
"My lady Everleigh," he said, handing her a sealed parchment. "Lord Ravenscroft sent this ahead of him. He rides here as we speak."
She broke the seal at once.
Your father's inquiry has ended without harm. No charges, no stains. He will return home before dusk. Be calm, and speak to no one of this. I will come soon.
Her breath left her in a single, quiet rush. Relief washed through her so suddenly she had to steady herself against the railing.
"Thank you," she murmured. "Please, tell him I await him."
The messenger bowed and rode out.
She remained where she was for a long while, the letter clasped to her chest. The fear that had gripped her since morning loosened, replaced by something lighter, not joy yet, but gratitude that trembled on the edge of tears.
Lucian arrived at sunset.
The sky was painted in gold and ash as his horse crossed the bridge toward the estate. Evelina met him at the veranda before the servants could announce him. He dismounted without waiting for assistance, and for a moment, neither spoke.
He looked as he always did after a long ride, weary but composed, his dark hair disordered by the wind, his expression careful. Yet there was something different in his eyes tonight, a heaviness that had nothing to do with distance.
"Evee," he said quietly.
"Lucian."
He removed his gloves, his voice low and steady. "Your father is safe. The inquiry is closed. The Crown Prince himself commended his years of service. There will be no further summons."
She exhaled, a sound between a sigh and a prayer. "I do not know how to thank you."
"You need not," he said. "It was never in my power to decide his fate. He stood on his own merit."
"Still, you were there," she said softly. "That is enough."
Lucian's gaze lingered on her face for a moment before he looked away, as though steadying himself. "The court has begun its quiet purge. The Crown moves carefully, removing those who fed Montclair's greed. Your father's name was bound to his once through the late Queen's trust, and that alone brought scrutiny. But his honesty spared him."
Evelina looked toward the horizon, where the light had begun to fade. "The servants speak of these arrests as though they are storms, sudden and without warning. Is it true that so many have fallen?"
Lucian nodded. "More than you know. Some are confined, others stripped of title. The Crown makes no public declarations. It prefers silence to spectacle. The people see only justice. They do not know the war beneath it."
"War," she repeated softly. "You make it sound as though the kingdom is bleeding."
"It is," he said. "Quietly."
She turned to him then, her eyes searching for him. "And you are part of this?"
He hesitated, then said, "I serve the Crown."
"That is not an answer."
Lucian's lips curved faintly. "It is the only one I can give."
The light caught the edge of his face, softening the weariness there. Evelina saw how tired he truly was and not the exhaustion of the body, but of the soul. He bore secrets that had begun to carve themselves into him.
"I do not envy you," she whispered. "To stand in the shadows while pretending to live in light."
He met her gaze again, and something unguarded flickered there. "There are days I do not envy myself either."
The honesty in his tone made her chest tighten. She stepped closer before she realized she had moved. "You do what must be done," she said gently. "Even when it costs you."
Lucian gave a faint, humorless smile. "That is what duty demands."
"Duty and sacrifice are not the same," she said.
"No," he agreed. "But in this court, they are often mistaken for each other."
A silence followed. The kind that hums with unspoken thought. The sun had nearly vanished, and the first traces of night brushed the sky.
Evelina folded her arms, though not from cold. "Will it ever end? This quiet destruction?"
"It will," Lucian said. "When truth is the only thing left standing."
She looked at him. "You speak of truth as if it were a sword."
He tilted his head slightly. "Sometimes it must be."
She wanted to ask what he meant, but his expression told her not to. There were things he carried that were not yet hers to know.
So instead, she said quietly, "When my father returns, he will insist I stay far from the capital. He will say it is safer. But I fear distance will not protect us this time."
Lucian stepped closer, his voice soft. "Then trust me to protect you."
She blinked at him, unsure if she had heard correctly. "You would do that?"
"I already have," he said.
The world seemed to still for a moment. The quiet of the evening pressed in and the faint rustle of leaves, the far call of a night bird. Evelina felt her heart begin to beat faster, unsteady.
"Lucian," she said softly, "you should not make promises in times like these. They are too easily broken."
"Then I will keep it all the same."
She looked up at him, the fading light reflecting in her eyes. For a moment, neither moved. Then Lucian reached for her hand, his fingers brushing against hers with care. The touch was steady, deliberate, as if he were afraid she might vanish if he moved too quickly.
Evelina did not pull away.
"I do not know what will come," he said quietly. "But whatever it is, I will not let the storm touch you."
Her voice trembled, though she tried to keep it steady. "You speak as though the storm is already here."
"It is," he said.
The words hung between them, fragile and heavy. Evelina felt something shift, a quiet certainty rising in the space that fear had once occupied.
She looked at him, really looked, and saw not the soldier or the strategist, but the man who had carried too many burdens alone.
"Lucian," she whispered, "you do not have to face it alone."
He started to speak, but she stepped closer. Her hand rose, brushing lightly against his cheek. The motion was instinct more than thought.
For a heartbeat, he froze, then leaned into the touch, his breath unsteady.
Evelina's pulse quickened. "Stay, just for a moment," she said softly.
"I should not," he murmured.
"Then do not think. Just stay."
The hesitation between them dissolved. He lowered his head, and their lips met, a quiet, trembling kiss, and more promise than passion. It tasted of unspoken things, of trust and fear and something warmer that neither dared name.
When they parted, the world seemed smaller, quieter.
Lucian's voice was barely a whisper. "You should not have done that."
"Neither should you," she said.
A faint smile ghosted his lips. "Then we are both guilty."
She smiled too, though her eyes shone. "Then I suppose we must both live with it."
He looked at her for a long moment, then took her hand again, pressing it gently to his lips. "Until next time we meet," he said.
And before she could speak again, he turned and walked toward his horse.
Evelina watched him mount and ride into the darkening road, the sound of hooves fading into the night.
Only when he disappeared beyond the trees did she realize she was still smiling, even as tears filled her eyes.
She returned inside, the air still carrying the faint warmth of his presence. On her desk lay both letters, her father's and Lucian's. She placed her hand over them, as though to hold everything she cared for in one place.
Outside, the bells of the capital began to toll again, soft but unrelenting.
The world was changing, but for the first time, Evelina did not feel entirely alone within it.