Chapter 3: Shadows at the Gate
Evelyn stood in the solar, the echo of Maris’s words—Prince Rowan waits below—ringing in her ears. Her fingers tightened around the silver rose brooch, its sharp edges biting into her palm. Below, the courtyard buzzed with festive chatter, oblivious to the dread coiling in her chest. She crossed to the window, peering through the leaded glass. Rowan stood at the portcullis, his emerald cloak catching the sunlight, his voice carrying up to her.
“Lady Evelyn!” he called, his tone warm, almost playful. “Will my bride leave her prince at the gates on our wedding day?”
The crowd laughed, nobles clapping as if it were a lover’s jest. Evelyn’s jaw clenched. They saw only the charming heir of Eastmarch, the key to peace. But she saw the man who’d pushed her from Bloodstone Cliff, his whispered Victory at any price seared into her memory. The bruises on her arm throbbed beneath her sleeve, proof of a betrayal no one else suspected.
She stepped back, her wedding gown rustling against the stone floor. “Maris,” she said, turning to the maid hovering by the door. “Tell the guards to hold the gates. I’m not ready to see him.”
Maris’s eyes widened. “My lady, he’s your betrothed. The court expects—”
“I don’t care what they expect,” Evelyn snapped, then softened her tone. “Please, Maris. Buy me time.”
Maris nodded, slipping out, and Evelyn locked the door behind her. She paced, the solar’s candlelight flickering across the abandoned wedding gown on the table. Memories surged, sharp and unbidden.
She stood in Cedarhold Palace, rose petals soft under her feet. Rowan’s hand was steady as he guided her down the aisle, his smile bright.
Under the weeping willows, his kiss had been urgent, his hands warm on her face. “I’d burn the world for you,” he’d sworn, and she’d melted into him, believing every word.
But then—a shadowed alcove, Rowan’s voice low, speaking to Azrael. The sorcerer’s red amulet gleamed, and Rowan’s face was taut with resolve. “Victory at any price,” he’d muttered as Azrael vanished, leaving Evelyn frozen in the shadows, unseen.
A shout from the courtyard jolted her back. She returned to the window, watching as Rowan paced before the gate, his voice sharper now. “Evelyn! Is this how Westfall welcomes its allies?”
The crowd’s laughter faded, replaced by murmurs of surprise. A noblewoman called, “My lady, greet your prince! The feast awaits!”
Evelyn’s hands clenched. She couldn’t face him—not when every smile hid a lie. The court saw a lover’s impatience, but she saw a traitor. And the rumors from Redbrook—empty villages, blood-red rivers—pointed to Azrael’s curse, a darkness only she connected to Rowan.
She needed help, someone who understood magic, someone who could unravel the time-twisted nightmare she was living. Tristan. The name sparked a pang—her childhood love, exiled for forbidden spells. If anyone could counter Azrael’s sorcery, it was him.
She crossed to the writing desk, pulling out parchment and quill. Her hands trembled as she dipped the nib, ink splattering the wood. She glanced at the door, the castle’s festive hum a distant pulse. No one could know—not her father, not the court. They’d call her mad, and Rowan’s charm would bury her suspicions.
She began to write, her words hurried:
'Tristan, I know you’re in hiding, but I need you. Villages vanish, omens haunt Bloodstone Cliff, and I’ve lived moments that haven’t happened. Time is breaking, and I’m caught in it. Your magic is my only hope. Come to Rosehaven, in secret. I trust no one else.'
She hesitated, then added: 'I should have written years ago.'
A knock rattled the door. “My lady?” Lila’s voice, tentative. “Prince Rowan’s growing restless. Your father asks for you.”
“Tell him I’m dressing,” Evelyn called, folding the letter. “I’ll be down soon.”
Lila’s footsteps faded, but Rowan’s voice rose again, now laced with wounded pride. “Does my bride hide from me? Open the gates!”
The crowd chuckled, a minstrel striking up a playful tune about shy brides. Evelyn’s stomach twisted. They were blind to his danger, dazzled by his title. She grabbed a candle, melting wax to seal the letter, and pressed her signet ring into it, the rose sigil gleaming. The brooch lay nearby, its rune catching the light. She slipped it into her sleeve, its weight a cold reminder of Rowan’s gift—and his treachery.
She unlocked the door and peered into the hall. Empty, but servants’ voices echoed nearby, carrying trays for the feast. She needed someone she could trust to deliver the letter, someone beyond Rowan’s reach.
“Maris!” she hissed, stepping into the corridor.
The maid appeared from a side passage, her face flushed. “My lady, the prince is near shouting now. The guards are asking if they should let him in.”
“They hold the gates until I say,” Evelyn said, pressing the letter into Maris’s hands. “Get this to a rider—someone discreet, not a castle guard. It must leave tonight.”
Maris clutched the letter, her eyes darting to the stairs. “Who’s it for, my lady?”
“An old friend,” Evelyn said, her tone firm. “Can you do it?”
“There’s a stableboy, Will,” Maris whispered. “He’s loyal, and his uncle rides to the borderlands. But it’ll take coin.”
Evelyn pulled a pouch of silver from her pocket. “Give him this. Tell him to ride fast and speak to no one.”
Maris nodded, tucking the letter and pouch into her apron. “My lady, if the prince finds out—”
“He won’t,” Evelyn cut in. “Go.”
Maris hurried away, and Evelyn slipped back into the solar, locking the door. She paced, the brooch pressing against her wrist. Rowan’s voice faded below, replaced by the clatter of hooves—his retinue settling, perhaps to wait out her refusal. The court would gossip, but they’d blame her nerves, not his honor. She was alone in her suspicion, and it made her feel like a ghost in her own castle.
A louder knock startled her. “Evelyn!” Her father’s voice, sharp through the door. “What’s this about keeping Rowan at the gates? Come down at once!”
“I’m coming, Father!” she called, her heart racing. She couldn’t face him yet—not until the letter was on its way. She glanced at the candle, its flame steady now, but the air felt heavy, like a storm waiting to break.
She sank into the chair, memories of Tristan flickering—his laugh as they chased fireflies in Rosehaven’s gardens, his hands glowing with forbidden spells, his banishment when the court found his grimoires. She’d pleaded for him, but he’d vanished, leaving only a note: I’ll always be near.
Rowan’s voice rose again, faint but seething. “Westfall tests my patience! Where is my bride?”
The crowd’s murmurs grew uneasy, but a noble called, “She’ll come, my lord! Brides take their time!”
Evelyn gripped the desk, her resolve hardening. She couldn’t trust Rowan, not with the darkness spreading from Redbrook, not with her own death haunting her. Tristan was her only chance, and she’d risk everything to reach him.
Sealing the letter with trembling fingers, Evelyn murmured: “Tristan… I need your magic, now.”