CHAPTER 3 The Warning

Luke had seen war.

He had seen men split open by blade and beast alike but nothing had ever hollowed him the way this did.

He stood frozen in the doorway, hand clamped around the hilt of his sword, his eyes fixed on the grotesque centerpiece hanging from the ceiling.

The raven. The silver hairpins. The missing heart.

And the mirror.

He comes for you next. Scrawled in a jagged, unmistakable hand. Evelyne's.

"No…" Luke murmured, shaking his head. "No, you didn't write this. You couldn't have—"

He turned to her.

She was still. Like stone.

"Eve?"

She didn't answer.

Didn't scream. Didn't faint. Didn't move.

The screaming came from the hallway instead maids stumbling back, hands over their mouths, one retching into the curtains. The castle guards arrived seconds later, blades drawn, boots thundering against the marble.

"My Lady step back!" one shouted.

Luke barked over them, regaining command. "No one enters unless I say. Secure the hallway. Find out who's been in this wing since morning."

The butler, pale as snow, appeared behind the guards, clutching a scented kerchief to his nose. "What in the name of the saints is—"

He caught sight of the room and staggered.

"Get the royal cleaning staff here now!" Luke snapped.

"M-My Lord," the butler stammered, "this is this is desecration. An act of dark magic, surely! Perhaps we should consult the—"

"Do not involve the palace clergy yet," Luke warned. "Not until we know if this was meant as a threat… or a message."

He turned to Evelyne again.

She hadn't moved.

"Evelyne," he said softly, taking a step forward. "You're not alone. I'm here. You don't have to—"

"I didn't write it," she whispered, finally.

"I know."

"But it's my handwriting."

Luke looked at the mirror again, heart hammering in his chest.

"I've… dreamed it before," she admitted. "Waking up with ink stains. Quills snapped in half. Messages I don't remember writing. But never like this. Never in blood."

She turned to him now, her eyes dark and steady.

"This time," she said, "something else is writing through me."

"Take the princess out of the room," Luke ordered sharply. "We'll conduct the investigation without her present."

The maids hesitated.

Their hands trembled at their sides, eyes wide with fear. One took a step forward—then stumbled back as Evelyne turned to glance at her.

"I—I… I c-can't," she whispered.

The others didn't even try.

The butler stood beside the door, refusing to make eye contact, clutching his quill and ledger like a holy relic. One of the guards looked physically ill. The rest kept their eyes fixed on the floor, their hands twitching toward hilts they would never draw.

Luke's patience snapped.

"She is not a ghost. She's not a curse. She's your princess!" he shouted.

The room went silent at the sound of his voice, the air thick with shame and tension. But no one moved.

Until he arrived.

The doors opened with a low groan.

A tall, lean man in black and silver strode in with gloved hands and a sigil-ring glinting on his finger—the seal of the realm.

The Hand of the King.

Lord Maurel Thorne, elegant and cold as polished marble, regarded the room with disinterest, only the faintest twitch of a brow betraying his distaste at the scent of blood and soot still lingering in the air.

"What is this commotion?" he asked flatly, gaze sweeping over the shaken staff.

Luke stepped forward at once. "My Lord, an animal was found in the princess's chambers. Killed, posed… with a message written in blood. A threat. I saw it with my own eyes. She was with me the entire time."

Lord Maurel 's eyes shifted to Evelyne. Slow. Dissecting.

"Princess," he said, voice clipped, "did you do this?"

Luke's hand curled into a fist. "Sire, I just told you—"

Lord Maurel turned to him with a sneer. "A guard must stand behind a royal, not beside her like a favored dog."

Murmurs rippled among the servants like a foul wind.

Luke bit down a growl and stepped back, burning with fury, jaw clenched so tightly he nearly cracked a tooth.

And Evelyne—

She stepped forward.

Poised. Unblinking.

"Did my father summon me?" she asked, her voice a blade wrapped in velvet.

Silence fell like snowfall.

Lord Maurel narrowed his eyes, lips pursed.

"…No, Princess," he replied. "But the Hand of Duke Acheron Vale has arrived. He bears a message for you directly."

The room held its breath.

Evelyne's brow arched ever so slightly.

Lord Thorne clapped once, sharp and echoing.

"Clean this up," he barked to the servants. "And tend to the princess immediately. She is to be made presentable before she receives the northern envoy."

Maids rushed forward—but none met her gaze. None dared brush her gown or touch her skin. They hovered, trembling, like she was a statue blessed and cursed in equal measure.

One accidentally dropped a brush at Evelyne's feet and burst into tears, begging forgiveness.

Evelyne didn't flinch.

The maids dressed Evelyne in silence.

Layers of deep crimson and obsidian silk draped her like a funeral flame. No pins touched her skin. No fingers brushed her hair. They worked as if handling a corpse—careful, distant, reverent with fear.

When they finished, she stood before the mirror.

Unmoving. Pale. Regal.

A reflection of the perfect princess they all wanted… and dreaded.

Luke stood just beyond the chamber doors, arms crossed, glaring at every passing servant who dared whisper behind gloved hands.

A knock came.

Sharp. Deliberate. Cold.

Evelyne walked through the long, dim corridor of the palace, her gown whispering like silk secrets across the polished floor. The palace had never felt colder not even in winter. Every chandelier seemed dimmer, every portrait more judgmental, their painted eyes following her with silent suspicion.

Behind her, Luke walked in steady rhythm, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword—not out of fear of attack, but out of habit. The silence that surrounded them was unnatural. Not even a servant dared sweep past.

The grand doors to the Great Hall loomed ahead.

The firelight flickered in the solar, casting long shadows over the stone walls.

Evelyne stood still as the envoy—Lord Severin Marell, tall and draped in the dark northern garb of House Vale stepped forward. The servants remained outside, too afraid to enter. Luke lingered by the door, tense and watchful.

Severin bowed slightly, eyes cold and unreadable.

"I come bearing a message, Princess Evelyne. By order of His Grace, Duke Acheron Vale."

She did not blink. "Speak."

The envoy extended a scroll. The wax seal silver, cracked with frost was untouched.

Evelyne took it without hesitation.

Her gloved fingers broke the seal, and the parchment unfurled in silence.

She read.

Then read again.

Her eyes narrowed.

Luke stepped closer. "What is it?"

Evelyne slowly lowered the scroll.

"There is… no date," she murmured. "No instructions. Just one line."

Luke frowned. "One line?"

She handed it to him.

He read it aloud:

"The North does not ask. It takes."

The fire behind them hissed then sputtered out completely.

And in the silence that followed, Lord Severin smiled.