CHAPTER 2 The King's Gift

The throne room smelled of incense and rotting roses.

Lady Evelyne Rosenthal stood alone before the dais—draped in black velvet and silence. Her mourning veil trailed behind her like smoke, and her gloves were stitched so tightly they felt like skin. Above her, sunlight filtered weakly through stained glass, painting her in bloody hues of red and gold.

Her father, King Aldric IV, sat slouched on the throne like a man bored of power. Age had made him bitter, not wise. The steel crown on his head glinted in the pale light, and beside him sat his newest wife the lovely Queen Seraphina.

Barely twenty.

And very, very pregnant.

Her hand rested dramatically on her swollen belly as if cradling the next era.

"My dear Evelyne," Seraphina purred, voice as sharp as sugar glass. "You look so... morbidly elegant today. A widow again, are we?"

Evelyne didn't answer.

The King chuckled. "Four dead fiancés. A new record, even for our cursed little bloodline. Have you considered that perhaps marriage is not for you?"

"I hadn't realized it was optional," Evelyne said coolly.

"Oh, it's not." His voice turned hard. "Which is why you'll wed again. Before the next moon."

He tossed a letter toward her. It landed at her feet like an execution order.

"You'll marry Duke Acheron Vale," Seraphina cooed, stroking her stomach. "A perfect match. He courts death, and you bring it. Who knows you might even cancel each other out."

Evelyne raised her chin. "Or multiply."

The Queen laughed like a bell in a graveyard.

She left the throne room without bowing.

The courtiers fell into silence as she passed. The guards looked away. The servants stepped back as if she carried plague. One flinched when her shadow brushed his boot.

All except one.

"Eve."

A voice steady, warm, familiar.

Luke.

Her personal guard, and the only man left from her childhood who didn't flinch at her name.

His armor was scuffed, his hair wind-tossed, and his concern worn plainly on his face.

"What happened this time?"

She didn't answer at first. Just looked past him, out the tall windows toward the frost-kissed gardens.

"Walk with me," she said. "I'll tell you everything."

They strolled through the winter garden bare trees arching above them like cathedral bones, frozen vines clinging to statues of forgotten saints.

For a moment, she said nothing. Then, quietly:

"Luke… am I Death itself?"

He blinked, then gave a short laugh. "Maybe. But only to men who want the throne more than they want you."

She almost smiled. Almost.

He offered his arm without hesitation.

She took it—and then pulled away sharply. "Don't."

"What?"

"I don't want you to die tomorrow."

His brows furrowed. "Eve…"

She looked down at her gloved hands. "After the ceremony," she said, voice low, "I was taken to the bridal suite. The maids helped me change, but not one of them touched me. They were too afraid. One even wept while lacing my gown."

Luke's jaw tightened.

"And in the morning," Evelyne whispered, "I woke to find him."

A pause.

"Hanging from the ceiling. His body cold. And… and his heart—"

She swallowed hard.

"It was on the bed, Luke. Laid neatly on the pillow beside me. Like… a gift."

Luke's hand twitched, but he held still.

"I looked at my hands," Evelyne said. "I tried to remember. But what if it was me? What if something inside me did it without me knowing?"

He stepped forward, gently took her face in both hands, and pinched her cheeks.

She blinked.

"Luke—what—?"

"I've known you since you were the size of a cabbage and far less terrifying. If you were secretly a heart-ripping demon, I'd be dead by now."

She stared.

Then laughed.

A real, soft laugh like cracked ice melting for the first time in years.

He smiled. "See? Still alive."

They stood like that, two children grown strange in a kingdom that feared them, laughing quietly in a garden built for ghosts.

Unseen among the hedges, a figure in a dark cloak watched them.

Unmoving. Silent.

A spy, perhaps. Or something worse.

Its eyes glinted like obsidian.

And then it was gone.

Luke's smile faltered as he watched Evelyne's laugh fade into stillness.

"It was the same, wasn't it?" he asked softly.

She turned her face away.

"The way he died. The scene. The heart. It was like the others."

Evelyne said nothing. Her fingers clutched the folds of her cloak, trembling slightly.

Luke's voice dropped to a whisper, thick with grief and anger.

"You've seen too much, Eve. Far too much. You used to smile so bright, remember? You used to drag me up that old sycamore near the stables just to prove you could climb higher."

A flicker of something crossed Evelyne's face nostalgia, maybe. Maybe pain.

"And every time," Luke continued, "your father would send the steward to scold us. Said a princess shouldn't get dirt on her hands. Said she was supposed to learn how to be a princess, not a child."

"I remember," Evelyne murmured. "He said bruises looked common. I had a scrape on my cheek once, and he ordered the maid flogged for 'neglect.'"

Luke exhaled sharply. "And your mother… she was still alive then."

A silence fell between them like winter snow—soft, cold, too heavy for words.

Evelyne stepped toward a frost-covered statue of a saint and traced her gloved hand along its arm.

"She tried," Evelyne said quietly. "She truly did. But every time she failed to give the King a male heir, she slipped further from his heart. And me the first born his 'useless daughter' he just… gave up on her."

Luke looked down, jaw clenched.

"She taught me how to curtsy. How to speak to diplomats. How to hold my cup without trembling even when my hands were too small." Evelyne smiled faintly. "But she never kissed me goodnight. Never once called me my little girl."

"She cared," Luke said. "In her own way."

"She did," Evelyne agreed. "But she didn't love me. Not truly. I was her mistake. A piece of the King's disappointment."

She stared into the frozen distance. "And then she died."

Luke looked up, startled. "I never heard how."

"No one did." Evelyne's voice turned quiet, flat. "They said she fell ill suddenly. But I saw the tea tray in her room the night before. I saw the cup. The ring of red powder along the rim."

Luke's eyes widened. "You think—?"

"I know." Her gaze met his. "But I said nothing. I kept quiet. I was twelve, and already I understood what silence could protect."

Luke reached for her again, but stopped just short this time.

"You've carried too much," he whispered. "You should have been dancing in sunlit halls, not memorizing the list of poisons in the royal archives."

"I wanted him to be proud," Evelyne said, the words breaking free like ice cracking underfoot. "I studied harder than anyone. The nobles praised me. 'Perfect Princess Evelyne,' they called me. Graceful. Obedient. A jewel for the throne."

She turned to him.

"And then came the first marriage."

The wind rustled through the bare branches, hissing like a ghost between them.

"I remember," Luke said quietly. "You returned from the ceremony in silence. I thought it was just nerves. But then they found him. The same as the others."

Evelyne nodded, barely.

"And it's only gotten worse," she whispered. "I no longer know what I am. A cursed woman? A vessel for power? Or… something darker? I wake up with blood beneath my nails and no memory of sleep."

Luke stepped close.

"I don't care what they call you, Evelyne. I know you."

She looked at him, eyes searching.

"I've known you since you were an infant," he said, softly but firmly. "And I'm still here. Still breathing."

A beat of silence.

Then Evelyne, blinking through tears she didn't know she still had, gave a tired, fragile laugh.

Luke grinned. "See? Still not dead."

They stood in the cold, two broken hearts trying to remember warmth.

Far beyond the hedges, the spy still watched and this time, he turned away.

As if the moment he witnessed was something even a shadow did not dare interrupt.

They stood in silence beneath the pale winter sky, laughter fading into the brittle cold. Evelyne looked at Luke her last tether to the girl she used to be and for a moment, she forgot the thorns wrapped around her name.

But the peace shattered in the next instant.

A scream tore through the stillness sharp, panicked, and close.

Luke moved first, his hand on the hilt of his blade. Evelyne followed, her skirts slicing through the frost-laced garden paths.

They turned the corner toward the west corridor and stopped.

A servant girl stood shaking violently, eyes wide, pointing toward Evelyne's chambers. "Th-The room—your room, my lady—there's blood—"

Luke pushed past, Evelyne close behind.

The door to her private wing was ajar. The scent hit her first: copper, thick and cloying. Her breath caught as Luke slowly pushed the door open.

The bedchamber was a massacre.

Blood painted the walls in sweeping arcs. Crimson soaked the silk sheets. And hanging from the ceiling—

Not a man.

A raven.

Dead. Gutted. Heart missing.

Its wings were pinned open with silver hairpins. And beneath it, scratched onto her mirror in something dark and wet, were words written in jagged strokes:

HE COMES FOR YOU NEXT.

Evelyne froze.

Not from fear—

but recognition.

Because the handwriting… was her own.