CHAPTER 4 The North does not ask. It takes

The words fell like an executioner's axe sharp, final, and impossible to ignore.

Luke's jaw clenched. He stepped forward, hand halfway to his sword, rage flashing in his eyes.

"Watch your words, envoy," he growled. "She is a princess of this realm—"

But before he could finish, a commanding voice cut through the hall.

"Now, now… Sir Luke, do calm yourself."

Lord Maurel, ever the smooth-tongued viper in brocade, stepped between them with a smirk that played at the corner of his lips. He turned his head slowly first toward Luke, then toward Evelyne, amusement dancing in his eyes.

"There's no need to rattle your sword, brave knight. Surely Lord Severin isn't threatening our dear princess."

He glanced back to the envoy, voice dripping with feigned civility."Or is he?"

Lord Severin inclined his head slightly, lips curving in something just shy of a smile.

"Of course not, Lord Maurel."He shifted his gaze to Evelyne, his expression unreadable."His Grace sends only a message… not a threat."

"Then explain," Maurel said, gesturing grandly. "Some of us aren't fluent in Northern dramatics."

Lord Severin folded his gloved hands behind his back, eyes gleaming like polished steel.

"The duke merely grows impatient. He has waited long enough in silence. The engagement was declared by His Majesty himself, yet no preparations have begun. No response, no reply no bride."

He stepped forward just slightly, his boots tapping softly on the marble.

"This letter is not an ultimatum, my princess. It is… a reminder. A courtesy, if you will."

Then, his eyes flicked briefly to Luke, and back to Lord Maurel.

"And before anyone draws steel overshadows know that my Duke sends his respects. But he does not enjoy waiting."

The silence that followed Lord Severin's words was thick enough to suffocate.

Evelyne stood still, her expression carved from ice and moonlight. Not a flicker of fear. Not a tremble of hesitation.

She tilted her head ever so slightly, her voice smooth and cold enough to frost glass.

"So, the North grows restless."

A pause.

"Let the Duke know…"Her eyes narrowed calculated, calm, and cutting."…he is not the only one who's tired of waiting."

A murmur passed through the guards and lords, as if they had all just walked over her grave.

Lord Severin, to his credit, didn't flinch. But his jaw did tick barely.

"Then we are in agreement, Your Highness."

Lord Maurel gave a theatrical chuckle, fanning the awkward air with his embroidered sleeve.

"Oh, how thrilling! A princess who answers diplomacy with riddles."He leaned closer to Severin, stage-whispering,"Careful now, she might start talking in curses next."

Evelyne's gaze didn't even shift toward him. Instead, she walked down the hall with quiet poise, her voice trailing behind like a blade's echo.

"Tell your Duke: If he wishes to take…He'd best come ready to lose something first."

The doors closed behind her with a heavy finality.

Luke followed after her, casting a glare sharp enough to wound at Severin and Maurel both.

Only once she was gone did Lord Severin let out a breath, low and slow. As Evelyne's final words echoed through the grand hall, her heels clicking against the marble with chilling finality, the tension hung behind her like fog.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then, Lord Maurel broke the silence with a theatrical sigh and turned toward the servants gathered along the edges of the hall.

"Truly, she speaks like the ghost they all whisper about," he chuckled, loud enough for all to hear."Careful, Lord Severin, your Duke might drop dead the moment he kisses her hand."

A ripple of nervous laughter followed from maids, footmen, even a few of the guards. Whispered comments followed like snakes in the grass:

"She's cursed, everyone knows it."

"Maybe she's the one dragging their souls away."

"No wonder the North wants her. One monster deserves another."

Severin remained where he stood, still and unmoved, but the glint in his eye sharpened.

He turned his head slowly toward Maurel, who now basked in the attention like a spoiled jester.

Then, Severin smiled not kindly.

It was a grin with too many teeth, the kind one sees just before the bite.

"Ah, Lord Maurel…" Severin began silkily, his voice low and far too pleasant."Still desperate to be noticed by kings, I see. Pity your words carry less weight than your powdered wig."

The laughter stopped.

Dead silence.

Even the servants froze.

"As for Duke Acheron Vale…" Severin stepped forward, just one deliberate pace.

"You mock the man who broke the rebellion at Red Hollow, held the Northern pass through three winters of siege, and sent a general's heart back to the capital in a wine box."

Another step.

"So forgive me if I laugh when men like you who've never seen a battlefield mock curses and crowns in the same breath."

Maurel's smile cracked like cheap porcelain. His mouth opened, then closed.

Severin's grin deepened, but his voice was barely above a whisper now:

"And as for your King—" he said, eyes flicking upward toward the grand portrait of the monarch on the wall,"—I do hope he understands the difference between marrying off a daughter... and provoking the North."

Maurel turned. "What did you say?"

Severin didn't answer at first. He stepped toward the middle of the hall, folding his gloved hands behind his back, smiling like a well-fed viper.

"I find it amusing," he said calmly, addressing no one and everyone."

That the princess is mocked for surviving misfortune… while the rest of you wear cowardice like medals."

He let the silence settle.

Then, slowly, his eyes turned to Maurel, who stiffened.

Maurel flushed with rising fury.

"Mock her all you want, Lord Severin—but you will not speak against the King in his own court! This is our realm, not some frostbitten ruin!"

Severin stepped forward graceful, composed, and smiling like a serpent preparing to strike.

"Ah. And now I understand," he said, voice like warm poison."

It's acceptable to mock a grieving daughter. Acceptable to laugh at a woman who's lost more than half this court has ever had the courage to risk…"

He tilted his head.

"But the King—ah yes, he's sacred."

The air turned colder.

Severin's eyes gleamed with something darker than contempt. Something close to predatory joy.

"Do remind your King of this, Lord Maurel," he said softly, dangerously.

"The North does not fear curses, nor Kings, nor courts of trembling men. We fear only weakness."

He paused, and when he spoke again, his smile was gone.

"Tell him the North will take what it is owed."

And with that, Severin bowed not to the court, but toward the doorway Evelyne had vanished through before turning on his heel and walking away, cloak slicing through the silence.

The laughter had died.

Even Maurel didn't speak.

Evelyne walked through the dim corridor of the palace, the heels of her boots clicking softly against the marble floor.

Luke followed a few steps behind, his hand always near his sword, ever vigilant.

The cold stone walls were lined with tapestries and golden sconces, but the warmth they once gave her in childhood had long since faded.

As she turned the corner leading toward the grand hall, Queen Seraphina appeared from the opposite direction.

Her golden hair was braided intricately, her delicate hands resting over her swollen belly as she rubbed the unborn heir with pride.

She was surrounded by her ever-giggling ladies-in-waiting, their silken gowns whispering with every step.

"Oh, Evelyne," Seraphina cooed with a saccharine smile.

"How did it go? Has the grim North found you suitable, or will they return you in a casket too?"

Evelyne met her gaze with practiced calm, her voice honeyed but cold. "The North does not return what it claims, Your Majesty."

There was a moment of pause before the ladies-in-waiting burst into laughter, whispering cruel nothings behind painted fans.

Queen Seraphina's smile sharpened. "Ever the perfect tongue, dear Evelyne. But no silver words can cleanse your name of its… decay."

The mockery in the hallway was thick, and yet Evelyne stood unshaken. It was Seraphina who flinched first, her smug face twisting slightly in irritation.

Seraphina turned her gaze to Luke. "Sir Luke," she said sharply. "

Escort your Queen to her chambers. The corridor feels... cursed."

Luke hesitated, his brows drawing together.

He looked to Evelyne, uncertain.

"Now," Seraphina ordered, her voice laced with royal command.

With clenched fists and quiet reluctance, Luke bowed slightly to Evelyne.

She gave the faintest nod, dismissive, understanding yet heavy with unspoken hurt.

She stood still as they walked away together, the Queen's mocking laughter echoing through the corridor.

Turning to the tall window beside her, Evelyne looked out at the slowly darkening sky. A raven perched on the sill, watching her with uncanny stillness. Her breath caught in her throat.

Her memory twisted A raven. On her windowsill that night.

Her husband's lifeless body, hanging from the rafters.

His heart. On the bed.

The air turned colder.

She pressed her gloved hand to the glass, whispering as if to the raven.

"Is it you… again?"

As the last trace of Luke's footsteps faded with the Queen's entourage, Evelyne stood alone in the vast corridor her reflection staring back at her in the tall stained-glass windows.

She turned to leave… but stopped.

A sound.

Drip.

She looked down.

A thin trail of dark red streaked across the marble floor… leading toward her chamber door.

Her eyes followed it, unblinking, her breath caught in her throat.

Then she heard it.

A whisper.

Faint.

From behind her chamber door.

Not a voice she knew. Not a voice she should hear.

But it said her name.

"Evelyne."