While speaking with the Margrave, the night soon fell. Evelyne was guided by a servant to a room to rest. The chamber, seemingly reserved for esteemed guests, bore a stark elegance. Polished oak furniture, rugged yet refined, filled the space with muted splendor. Heavy velvet curtains framed frosted windows, their rich emerald hue contrasting the snow-laden expanse outside. Despite its beauty, the room exuded a quiet isolation, reflecting the North's relentlessness.
Evelyne reclined on the edge of the bed, its silken blankets a stark contrast to the weight pressing on her chest. Her silver hair cascaded over her shoulders, catching the flickering glow of the firelight. She stared at the dancing flames, their restless movements reflected the storm brewing in her thoughts.
She sighed, her breath forming a delicate cloud in the chilly air. "Should I have told him the truth, as I originally intended, instead of using his kindness to rethink?" she murmured, her voice a fragile whisper lost in the room's stillness.
Her thoughts churned like a tempest. Aldric's steady gaze, the warmth behind his words when he spoke of her family, tempted her to trust him. Yet something deeper warned her against it. 'What if the truth sounded too convenient? A woman untouched by the flames that consumed her home, barely scratched by an ambush that left others dead. Bloodied but unbroken.' The circumstances screamed of manipulation, as if she were the centerpiece of a game she didn't fully understand.
Evelyne shifted, wrapping her arms around her knees. Sleep should have come easily after the chaos of recent days, but exhaustion only sharpened her awareness. Her memories clawed their way back, unrelenting.
The fire had raged with unholy ferocity, reducing her estate to ashes. She had been asleep when it began, her body jolted awake by Cristina's desperate grip. Days later, the carriage ambush followed—Hely's lifeless form etched forever in her mind. In both cases, Evelyne had survived. Too alive, too untouched. And always, there was blood on her dress—not her own, but someone else's.
"This feels deliberate," Evelyne whispered, her hands trembling. 'As if someone orchestrated my survival.'
Her jaw tightened, her fingers digging into the soft fabric of the nightgown provided by the servant to replace her blood-stained clothes. The Vargas family's last invention resurfaced in her thoughts, a mana-induced device so shrouded in secrecy that even she, her father's confidante, knew little of its workings. 'Could it have been a breakthrough so revolutionary that it might spark a revolution?' she wondered, swallowing hard.
Her father's insistence on secrecy now seemed ominous. Evelyne's lips pressed into a thin line as she stared at her reflection in the frost-glazed window. 'Were Father's secret meetings…' She shook her head, her breath fogging the glass. 'No. I shouldn't be suspicious of my own father. It could just be a simple business secret—nothing more.'
Yet, no matter how much she tried to convince herself, the questions lingered like shadows in the firelight.
Evelyne's mind turned to Cristina. Her sister's final words, the urgency in her gaze as she thrust the Vargas crest into Evelyne's hands, haunted her. "Go north," Cristina said. But why here?
Evelyne rose from the bed, her bare feet soundless against the plush carpet as she paced before the crackling fire. The Ardane family were distant allies, powerful yet isolated. Their northern dominion, while formidable, lacked the obvious safety of her mother's western Count family, who were supported by the Noble's Faction, the strongest opposition to the Imperial Faction.
"Why not send me there, Cristina?" Evelyne murmured, her breath fogging in the chilly air. She paused before the frosted window, her fingers brushing its icy surface as if searching for answers.
Her gaze dropped to the silver crest resting on the bedside table, its intricate tree entwined with golden vines gleaming faintly in the firelight. Evelyne's fingers hovered over the crest.
Her mind drifted back to the day her father placed it in her hands. Even as a child, Evelyne had been captivated by the precision of numbers and the intricacies of trade. She had stood in the factory that day, not overwhelmed but utterly fascinated by the organized chaos around her—the rhythm of machinery, the calculations her father scribbled on ledgers, and the strategies woven into every decision. "This crest is our promise to the world," her father said, his voice steady yet warm. "Let it remind you, that trust is the rarest currency in business. Lose it, and even the finest gold is worthless." Evelyne had taken the crest with pride, understanding even then the weight it carried. It became a symbol of her father's trust in her and a beacon for her own ambitions.
Now, as her fingers brushed its familiar edges, the memory felt distant, almost fragile, against the storm of uncertainty enveloping her. Evelyne's chest tightened as the question resurfaced, unrelenting, 'Was it truly the safety you sought for me, Cristina? Or was it something else entirely?'
The memory of Aldric's softened expression when he spoke of Cristina earlier returned unbidden. The way his sapphire eyes warmed with recollection, there had been more than mere courtesy in his words. 'Did you know him well, Cristina? Is that why you chose this frozen bastion for me?'
The fire hissed, a log collapsing into embers. Evelyne wrapped her arms around herself, her silver hair catching the faint glow of the flames. Her thoughts spiraled further. 'Cristina must have known something I don't. But what?'
The weight of her uncertainty settled heavily. Telling Aldric the truth now risked suspicion. Remaining silent left her vulnerable to entanglement in her own deceptions. Neither choice seemed without peril.
She returned to the bed, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the crest. Its cool surface grounded her in the moment. "I cannot falter," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, steadying herself against the storm within.
Evelyne's eyes flicked back to the window. The frost mirrored the conflict in her heart—harsh, unyielding, yet fragile under close scrutiny. She swallowed hard. 'If I am to survive this, I must uncover the truths buried in the ashes of Vargas myself.'
Resolving to keep her secrets for now, Evelyne drew the blanket around her. The dim embers of the fire cast shifting shadows across the room, their movements like unseen hands pulling at her doubts. Sleep still felt elusive, but tomorrow held a new purpose.
She would weave truths of her own—ones that shielded her vulnerabilities while hiding the embers of her vengeance. And if the fire threatened to consume her, she would ensure that none would see its flames reflected in her eyes.