CHAPTER 8 "Ashes Whisper Loudest"

The knock echoed like a drumbeat of dread.

Three sharp raps.

Then a fourth slow and deliberate.

Evelyne stood still, breath caught between ribs that refused to move. The fire behind her sputtered as though it, too, feared what waited beyond the door.

He dies before sunrise.

The whisper still lingered in the air, curling around her like smoke. She turned slowly, eyes darting to the door, then to the ring Acheron had left on the small table. It pulsed in the firelight silver and obsidian, unwavering and cold.

Another knock.

This time, it was softer. Quieter.

But no less threatening.

She took a step forward, barefoot on stone, her heartbeat a drum inside her chest. The palace was never truly silent, but tonight it felt as though the very walls were holding their breath.

"Who's there?" she called, voice steady despite the tremor she felt beneath her skin.

No answer.

She reached the door but did not open it. Instead, she placed her hand on the wood, feeling for a shadow, for a movement anything.

Still nothing.

Then, just as she began to turn away—

A voice, low and cracked, barely a whisper

"Too late… too late…"

Evelyne yanked the door open.

Empty hallway.

No one.

She stepped outside, the ring now gripped tightly in her fist. She looked down one side of the corridor, then the other cold stone and torchlight, nothing more. But the hair on her neck rose. Someone or something had been there.

And it knew.

She turned back into the room and shut the door behind her, bolting it.

Her eyes fell to the ring once again.

He dies before sunrise.

"Not if I can stop it," she whispered.

She didn't sleep.

The sun had risen, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose, but Evelyne had not slept.

She sat still, curled on the edge of the bed, her nightgown rumpled and pale against the dark velvet sheets.

In her hand, the ring from Acheron gleamed softly the mark of House Vale pressed into her palm like a promise, or perhaps a warning.

She hadn't let go of it, not even once.

The door creaked open as she stepped into the corridor, barefoot and hollow-eyed. There, waiting patiently outside, was Severin.

He greeted her with a bright smile. "

Good morning, Princess," he said with a teasing tone. "Slept well?"

Evelyne stared, lips parting in confusion.

"No," she replied, voice soft and tired. "I couldn't."

Severin tilted his head, as if he already knew.

"Well, best prepare yourself," he said, smirking. "It's going to be very loud this morning."

But his words made Evelyne's heart stutter. Loud. Did something happen? Had the Duke

As she remembers Luke cold body.

Without a second thought, she turned and ran, ignoring Severin's calls.

Her feet hit the cold floors like thunder, her nightgown flowing behind her like mist. She didn't care who saw her like this. She only wanted to find him.

In the grand hall, the air was thick with tension.

The nobles and servants had gathered, lining the marble steps and golden pillars. Their voices were hushed, but their stares were sharp.

At the center, beneath the sunlit glass, stood Acheron cloaked in black and power.

Alive.

Evelyne nearly collapsed at the sight. Relief flooded her chest so fast, so hard, it stole the breath from her lungs.

But on the floor, at Acheron's feet, was Lord Caeron, trembling and filthy. He knelt like a dog, blood on his lips and wine still staining his cuffs.

"She bewitched me!" he cried out, pointing a shaking finger toward Evelyne.

"The cursed princess she did this! She's poison!"

The nobles flinched, eyes darting to the duke. But Acheron remained calm.

"You have no title here," he said coldly. "You are no longer Lord of anything."

The room froze.

Acheron raised his hand, and one of his men stepped forward.

"Strip him of rank, land, and name. Let it be known that Caeron is no longer under the protection of House Vale."

Then, for the first time, Acheron saw her worrying.

Evelyne stood at the edge of the hall, barefoot, cloaked in shadows and dawn. Her lips trembled. Her eyes brimmed with tears not of shame, not of fear, but of something far deeper.

She didn't care about the whispers around her. 

She didn't care about the servants who mocked her, or the nobles who cursed her behind polished smiles.

She cared only that the man before her the one who caught her from death's edge was still alive.

Acheron stood motionless as Evelyne extended her hand delicate, trembling, yet certain.

The sigil of House Vale now adorned her finger, catching the first light of morning.

But it wasn't the ring that struck him speechless.

It was her smile.

Not a forced grin or a mask of survival but a genuine, fragile, radiant smile that bloomed like spring after a long, merciless winter.

Acheron's breath caught. For a moment, he forgot the charred remains of the night, the nobles cowering behind him, the scent of smoke and ruin lingering in the air.

"You're smiling," he whispered, more to himself than to her.

Evelyne's eyes shimmered, not with sorrow but with something unfamiliar.

"I'm glad," she said quietly.

Then she looked down at the ring on her finger. For the first time… she doesn't feel the curse. 

Behind them, Severin barked orders to the soldiers in Northern black, their faces expressionless as they seized the traitorous lord and gathered the trembling servants who had once mocked their future queen.

Acheron turned to Evelyne. "What shall be done with him?"

She hesitated. Her fingers curled slightly.

"Let him live," Evelyne said at last, her voice calm.

Achron ordered his soldier "Take everything. Burn what he loves. Leave him with ashes."

And so, the North obeyed.

As Evelyne stood wrapped in Acheron's cloak, barefoot and crowned in sunrise, Northern soldiers stormed the estate.

The mansion that once stood as a symbol of privilege and pride was reduced to rubble and flame.

Fire licked through the windows, devouring portraits, velvet drapes, and silk-covered lies. Smoke billowed into the sky like the ghosts of the past rising, then vanishing with the wind.

Some of the servants, now solemn and silent, bowed as they approached Evelyne. By Acheron's order, they tended to her with quiet reverence not out of fear, but respect.

Gentle hands wrapped her in fresh linens, offered warm water and balm, as though she were a wounded queen after war.

But Evelyne's thoughts lingered.

She remembered the cold weight of Luke's body. The blood that stained her hands. The silence that followed his last breath.

For a moment, her fingers tightened on the cloak wrapped around her shoulders, and the shine in her eyes dulled.

Acheron noticed.

Without a word, he stepped closer. His presence solid, steady reminded her that she wasn't alone.

Not anymore.

As they turned to leave the burning ruin behind, the sun rose higher, casting golden light over the wreckage.

And through it all, the girl once called cursed walked forward—not as a victim, but as something new.

Something rising.

The carriage rocked gently over the stone path, its wheels humming as morning light streamed through the embroidered curtains.

Evelyne sat silently, her fingers brushing the soft velvet of the seat, eyes wide as she gazed out the window.

Forests stretched endlessly beyond them tall pines kissed with frost, rivers that shimmered like silver threads, and rolling hills untouched by city dust.

It was unlike anything she had ever seen from the cold, gilded confines of the southern palace.

Severin, seated across from her, chuckled softly. "Is this your first time out of the palace, Princess?"

She blinked, still mesmerized by the landscape. "Yes… It feels like another world."

He leaned back, grinning. "Then welcome to the real world. It stinks less of perfume and lies out here."

She let out a small laugh, surprising even herself.

"The North is cold, yes," Severin continued,

"but come summer, you'd think the gods themselves painted the fields. Flowers bloom like fireworks, and the air smells like berries and pine." He paused, growing a touch more animated.

"Sometimes, when the moon's full and the wind stills, mythical beasts come down from the hills—griffons, the moss elk, even whispering wolves. Friendly, too, if you don't go poking swords at them."

"You believe in such creatures?" Evelyne asked, genuinely curious.

"I believe in things I've seen," Severin said, his eyes briefly distant.

"And some I'd rather not see again."

The mirth in his tone faded as Evelyne's gaze dropped.

"There's been… a raven. Since I was a child. Always watching me. It appears before and after terrible things—before each death."

Severin blinked, now fully serious. "A raven?"

She nodded. "I saw it again… the night Luke died."

For a moment, Severin didn't answer.

Then, slowly, he said, "Acheron does have a raven. Name's Riven. Mischievous little thing. But I don't think he's capable of something like that. He's just a fledgling still learning to speak."

Evelyne turned to him. "A child?"

Before Severin could elaborate, the carriage jolted to a stop.

The door swung open and Acheron stepped inside. His presence was like the sudden hush before snowfall.

"Severin," he said quietly. "Take the horse."

Severin frowned. "I just got off the bloody horse. I'm exhausted."

Acheron looked at him.

Just one look.

Severin groaned, dramatically rolling his eyes. "Fine, fine. Make me ride with a sore back and a broken heart."

He shuffled past Acheron, muttering something about cruel lords and unpaid overtime, before swinging onto the horse outside.

Acheron stepped fully into the carriage, closing the door behind him.

Acheron took the now-empty seat and crossed his arms, eyes briefly closing. The tension seemed to shift in the carriage, from airy curiosity to something quieter, heavier.

Evelyne watched him, studying the sharp lines of his face how the fading sunlight played across his lashes, how his brow furrowed slightly as if burdened by things unsaid.

He opened one eye.

"Tell me more about this raven," he said.

Evelyne hesitated, then shared everything how it watched from ledges, from spires, from the shadows. How its presence always lingered like an omen.

Acheron listened without interruption.

At last, he spoke. "Last night, I felt it too. Something watching. The shadows moved as if they had eyes."

Evelyne's hands gripped the edge of her skirt.

"I don't think you're cursed, Evelyne," he said gently.

"But someone or something is following you."

Her eyes dropped. "Then I'll find the truth. Not just for me, but for the kingdom that still calls me its daughter."

Acheron's lips curled into a faint grin, as the wind howled softly outside.

"We will," he said. "Once we settle the storm that's coming."

The great hall of the royal court pulsed with unrest.

The king's wrath echoed off cold stone walls as news of Acheron's actions arrived how he had burned a nobleman's estate to ashes, stripped a southern lord of name and power, and dared to defy the throne by protecting the so-called cursed princess.

"Traitor!" the king bellowed, throwing the scroll of Acheron's sealed decree across the chamber. It clattered at the feet of his advisors.

"Your Majesty," one of the high lords spoke cautiously,

"was it not you who gave the girl's hand to the Duke of the North? Why now this rage?"

The court quieted. Eyes turned to the throne.

The king's fingers twitched. "I did not choose him. He forced my hand."

"But the betrothal was signed under your seal," Landrice murmured, though gently.

The king inhaled sharply, chest rising with restrained fury.

"He had asked for her years ago. Evelyne was only fourteen, not yet married, barely a woman. He sent a letter from that frostbitten realm. Said he would take her. Said he would protect her. I—" the king's face twisted, voice rising

"I laughed. House Vale? A broken, northern relic with wolves for guards and nothing but snow in its coffers."

He stood from his throne, his voice dark with disdain and regret.

"So I married her off to Lord Thorian of House Greymont. A boy born of wealth, land, and southern loyalty. I needed gold. And I thought the North would rot in its mountains."

A cold silence fell.

Some of the older lords exchanged uneasy glances, remembering Thorian's fate found dead with blood blooming on his wedding sheets. The first of three husbands.

"And now," the king spat,

"the wolf returns with fire."

"But we cannot send war northward," said one of his generals.

"Their mountains would eat us alive. House Vale commands the passes to the Eastern Trade, and their army—"

"I know what they command," the king cut in.

Suddenly, the chamber doors opened.

Maurel stepped forward and bowed low. "Your Majesty. There is… a man in the hall."

The king growled, "Another message from Vale?"

"No sire," Maurel replied.

"He does not carry a banner. He only says this—'I know Acheron Vale weakness.'"

A hush fell. The court froze.

"Bring him in," the king said at once.

The doors creaked open.

And through them stepped a man in a dark traveling cloak, face shadowed, boots coated in ash. He bore no sword, but something colder lingered in his presence.

He bowed slightly never fully lowering himself.

"I have seen what lies beyond the Vale," the man said, voice low and clear.

"I have seen the death that walks behind Acheron's shadow."

"And?" the king asked, leaning forward.

"I can give you the only weapon that can destroy him."

The king's eyes narrowed. "What's your price?"

The stranger smiled slow and grim.

"Not gold. Not land. I want something far more… cursed."

The stranger smiled.

"Just her."

A pause.

"Evelyne."

"I want the princess."