Chapter 4: Echoes of the Fall
“Evelyn, you’re awake!” Lila’s voice, sharp with relief, pierced the haze of Evelyn’s consciousness as she bolted upright in her rose-scented bedchamber. The velvet canopy swayed above, its crimson folds catching the flicker of candlelight. Her chest heaved, sweat clinging to her skin, the air thick with the cloying sweetness of roses and the metallic tang of fear.
“I, I fell,” Evelyn stammered, her hands clutching the silk sheets. Her mind reeled with jagged images: Rowan’s soft whisper, “Look at the sunset, my love,” his hand warm on her back, then the sickening lurch as he pushed her off Bloodstone Cliff. The cold wind had screamed in her ears, rocks tearing at her gown as she plummeted into darkness.
Lila, her handmaiden, knelt beside the bed, her brown eyes wide. “You’ve been thrashing all night, my lady. A nightmare?” Her calloused fingers brushed Evelyn’s arm, grounding her.
“No,” Evelyn whispered, her throat raw. “It was real.” She swung her legs over the bed’s edge, the cold stone floor biting her bare feet. Her nightgown clung to her damp skin, and she shivered, not from cold but from the echo of that fall. How was she here, alive, in Rosehaven?
She staggered to the mirror, her reflection pale under the candle’s glow. Her auburn hair tangled around her face, and her green eyes were hollow, haunted. She raised her hands, inspecting them for wounds that should be there, broken bones, gashes from jagged rocks. Instead, a faint glow caught her eye. On her right palm, a rune pulsed, its swirling lines etched in soft gold, warm under her touch. She pressed it, and a low hum filled her ears, like the druidic chant from her dreams: “Blood binds, blood frees.”
“Lila, what is this?” Evelyn held out her hand, the rune flaring brighter, casting golden flickers across the room’s tapestries.
Lila gasped, stepping back, her braid swinging. “I’ve never seen such a mark, my lady. It’s… unnatural.” Her voice trembled, and she clutched the iron key at her belt, a nervous habit.
Evelyn’s heart pounded. “Get me my robe. I need air.” She needed to think, to piece together the betrayal that didn’t end in death. Rowan’s face, his charming smile, his lies, flashed in her mind, and she clenched her fist, the rune stinging like a fresh burn.
In Rosehaven’s rose garden, the air was heavy with the scent of blooming petals, their red and white heads bowing under morning dew. Evelyn paced the gravel paths, her boots crunching, the rune’s warmth pulsing in time with her steps. The garden’s high walls muffled the distant clatter of the castle waking, servants’ footsteps, the clang of kitchen pots, but nothing could silence the memories. Rowan’s hand, steady and cruel, pushing her. The cliff’s edge crumbling. The chant that hadn’t come from her dreams but from something saving her.
“My lady!” Lila’s shout snapped Evelyn’s head up. The handmaiden ran across the garden, her skirts hiked, face flushed. “News from Eastmarch, terrible news!”
Evelyn’s stomach twisted. “Speak, Lila. Now.”
Lila caught her breath, words tumbling out. “Villages burned. Ghostly figures, they say, with eyes like fire, cutting down farmers, women, even children. The court’s in a panic, whispering of a curse. They say it started the night you, ” She stopped, eyes darting to Evelyn’s palm.
“The night I was supposed to die,” Evelyn finished, her voice hard. She gripped Lila’s arm, her nails digging in. “Who’s spreading these rumors? Is it Rowan?”
Lila shook her head. “No word from Prince Rowan, my lady. But the survivors… they speak of a warlord. Azrael.”
The name hit Evelyn like a blade. Azrael, the southern sorcerer, whispered about in court as a myth, a shadow. Rowan’s ally? Her knees buckled, but she caught herself on a stone bench, its surface cold and slick with moss. The rune flared, and a faint voice echoed in her mind, not her own: “Seek the exiled one.”
“Tristan,” Evelyn breathed. Her childhood love, banished for dabbling in forbidden time magic. If anyone could unravel this curse, this rune, it was him. “Lila, fetch quill and parchment. I need to send a message.”
In her study, Evelyn scrawled a coded letter, her hand shaking as ink splattered the page. Tristan, come to Rosehaven. I live, but a curse threatens us all. Trust no one. The words felt like a plea, a lifeline. She sealed it with wax, the rose sigil of Westfall glinting in the firelight.
“Who’ll carry it, my lady?” Lila asked, hovering by the door, her key jangling.
“Gavyn,” Evelyn said. “He’s the fastest rider. Tell him to ride for the Twilight Citadel, no stops. And Lila, tell no one else. Rowan’s spies could be anywhere.”
Lila nodded, her footsteps fading down the hall. Evelyn paced, the room’s oak panels closing in, the fire’s crackle too loud. She glanced at her palm, the rune now dim but still warm, like a heartbeat. What had saved her? And why? The chant echoed again: “Blood binds, blood frees.” She pressed the rune, and pain lanced through her, sharp as a dagger. She gasped, stumbling, visions flashing, Rowan’s smirk, a blood-red cliff, a shadowy figure with glowing eyes.
A harsh caw snapped her back. At the open window, a raven perched, its feathers the color of dried blood, its eyes burning with the same unnatural light Lila described. It stared at Evelyn, unblinking, its talons scraping the stone sill. Her heart thundered as she stepped closer, the rune pulsing in warning.
“Who sent you?” she whispered, voice trembling but defiant. The raven cocked its head, cawed once, a sound like shattering glass, and launched into the sky, wings cutting through the dawn mist toward Eastmarch.
Evelyn’s breath caught. Azrael knew she was alive. The rune burned hotter, and the voice in her mind grew louder: “Seek the exiled one, or all falls.” She clutched the sealed letter, her resolve hardening. Tristan was her only hope, but if Azrael was watching, time was running out.