CHAPTER 11 The One Who Watches

I was still haunted by the riddle.

"Ask the man who carries fire but bleeds frost."

The words echoed in my skull like a bell rung in an empty hall, over and over, refusing to fade.

And the children… I couldn't stop thinking about them either.

Who were they, really?

The boy with the wounded forehead and the fierce little girl who stood guard like a wolf pup what secrets did they carry behind those wide eyes?

The way the headmistress shielded them, how the staff avoided their names... it gnawed at me like a dull blade.

Are they Acheron's children?

The thought made something twist inside me. Not pain exactly more like the slow unthreading of something I didn't know I was holding together.

Rinna hadn't been allowed to enter my chamber since that day in the garden. She tried. I heard her soft protests outside the door. But Madam Alira's voice, stern and composed, always sent her away.

"No one is to enter. It is for Her Highness's safety."

Safety? or safety for them

The word rang false. Like a lie spoken too often it began to lose meaning.

Still… I could not deny the difference.

The North treated me far better than the South ever had. There were no cold stone floors beneath my back.

No bitter nights of hunger biting through threadbare sheets.

Here, meals arrived warm. Books were brought when I asked tomes of history, of the Northern bloodlines, of fae legends and ancient gods who once carved kingdoms from storm light and snow.

I spent most of my days seated by the window, curled beneath heavy blankets, watching frost form on the glass. Sometimes, if I sat still long enough, the tiny snow fae would come.

Little creatures with silver wings like threads of moonlight, twirling in the wind.

I would press my fingertips against the glass, and they would mimic me curious, delicate. As if they remembered me.

But peace never lingered long in my life.

That afternoon, a sharp tap against the window pulled me from my reading.

My breath caught.

There perched on the stone ledge was the raven.

The same one. I knew it by the faint glint of violet hidden in its feathers. It stared at me, tilting its head, and I swore I saw something… familiar in its grey eyes.

I stood up so fast the book slipped from my lap.

I didn't even hesitate. I pushed the window open, letting the cold wind slap against my face.

And then—

The raven leapt.

But midair, it didn't flap its wings.

It unraveled.

Feathers scattered like ink in water, and in their place—a boy crashed onto the balcony floor, knees hitting the stone.

I gasped.

He was trembling, breathing hard, his cheeks wet with tears.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice tight and small. "It's our fault… all of it…"

I stared at him, stunned. "You…"

He looked up at me then, and my heart stuttered.

The same boy. From the garden. From the hedge. From the sky.

"You're the raven," I said, barely above a breath.

His shoulders slumped. He gave the tiniest nod.

I took a step closer. "You nearly broke my window the first time."

His face turned scarlet.

"I didn't mean to. I was… curious. You looked sad. I didn't think you'd see me."

I let out a breath of soft laughter.

"I did."

And then he said, almost like a secret,

"You're beautiful."

he's cheeks burned.

Before I could speak, a shout rang out from below.

"Riven!"

The boy startled.

I stepped to the edge of the balcony and looked down.

There she was the girl. Sprinting through the courtyard like a storm, hair wild, eyes wide.

"You feather-brain! You weren't supposed to go to her!"

Behind her, maids gave chase, skirts flying, shouts filling the air.

The boy Riven, she had called him panicked. I saw the faint shimmer of wings start to form again along his back.

But before he took flight, he turned back to me and pulled something from the inside of his coat.

A flower.

Pale blue, dusted in frost, still alive in the dead of winter.

He held it out with trembling hands.

"I… I wanted to say sorry. For the garden. For everything."

I took it slowly, brushing my fingers against his.

His breath hitched. So did mine.

For one strange, impossible heartbeat, I thought he looked like someone I should remember.

But then he stepped back.

Wings burst from his shoulder blades, black and gleaming.

And with one leap, he was gone.

Soaring off the balcony, disappearing into the clouds of snow.

I stood there for a long while, clutching the frost-touched bloom to my chest. The wind curled around me, but I didn't feel cold.

I looked out toward the sky, toward where he'd vanished.

Riven.

That was his name.

But who what was he?

That evening, for the first time in days, the door opened.

Rinna stepped into my chamber, eyes wide with relief and arms full of linens and hairbrushes.

"You're Highness," she said softly.

I nodded, setting down the book I had been pretending to read.

"They finally let you in?"

She grinned faintly.

"I begged. Twice. Maybe three times. I lost count after Madam Alira threatened to mop the hallway with me."

The warmth in her voice, however soft, felt like a balm. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed her until now.

As she helped me out of my gown and guided me to the chair by the fire, her hands gently moving through my hair, I took a breath.

"I need to ask you something," I said.

"Of course, Your Highness."

I turned slightly to look at her.

"The children. The boy and the girl do you know who they are?"

Rinna's hands slowed, her brows furrowing.

"I've seen them, but no… no one tells me anything. They treat them kindly, though. As if they're important. Protected."

"Important how?"

She shook her head.

"They eat with the high staff, they roam the manor freely during the day. The guards nod to them. Even Madam Alira softens when they're near."

That surprised me more than anything. "She softens?"

"Like snow on a windowsill," Rinna muttered. "Almost."

I fell quiet, letting her braid the rest of my hair in silence. But the weight in my chest pressed harder.

"I saw him again," I whispered.

"The masked man. The children saw him too."

Rinna's hands paused again. She looked at me through the mirror.

"Do you think he's why they're being kept from you?"

"I don't know," I said honestly.

"But something is being hidden. And I think it's time we stop waiting for someone to hand us the truth."

Rinna's expression changed—quieter, but more resolute. She nodded slowly.

"Then we find it ourselves."

I turned to face her. "Tonight?"

"Tonight."

She didn't hesitate.

As we gathered our cloaks and moved toward the door, something within me stirred. Not fear but focus. I wasn't a girl being carried by the tide anymore.

I would uncover the truth myself.

Who these children were.

Why the masked figure knew my name.

And what exactly I had walked into the night I said yes to a marriage that might have been fate… or a trap.

The eastern wing of the manor was quiet too quiet for a place housing children. Shadows stretched long across the walls as Evelyne and Rinna crept past shuttered doors and unlit chandeliers, their steps muffled against the thick carpets.

"This way," Rinna whispered, glancing over her shoulder.

"I think I saw one of the kitchen girls bring medicine down this hall earlier."

Evelyne said nothing, her heart a tight knot of nerves. She wasn't sure what they were about to find, but something deep inside her stirred an urgency that pulled her forward.

At the far end of the corridor, they found it.

A slightly open door. Warm candlelight spilled through the crack. Inside, the air was thick and heavy.

Rinna pushed the door gently.

The children's chamber was modest but well-kept soft quilts, a hearth burning low, plush toys and carved figurines lined on shelves. But the moment they stepped in, the air shifted.

The girl lay in bed, pale and drenched in sweat. Her breathing was shallow, lips cracked with fever. A bowl of half-melted ice sat forgotten on the bedside table.

"She's burning up," Rinna murmured, rushing to her side.

She pressed the back of her hand against the girl's forehead and winced.

"This isn't good. She needs a physician."

Evelyne stood frozen near the doorway, watching as Rinna adjusted the blankets and whispered soothing words.

She had faced lords, masks, and curses but the sight of the sick child, small and fragile, stirred something deeper than fear.

From the other bed, a soft gasp broke the silence.

The boy Riven sat up abruptly, his silver eyes wide with alarm.

"Syrin," he whispered, panic in his voice. "Is she—?"

"She's very ill," Rinna said gently, moving to calm him. "But we'll help her. I promise."

Riven's gaze shifted to Evelyne. Something in his expression worry, helplessness cut through her hesitation.

Evelyne moved.

Before she could think twice, she crossed the room, knelt beside the girl, and carefully lifted her into her arms. Syrin whimpered softly, her head lolling against Evelyne's shoulder. She was far too warm.

"Stay with her," Evelyne said to Rinna, already turning toward the door.

"I'll call for help."

Her voice echoed sharply down the corridor.

"Help! Someone get the head mistress!"

She didn't stop shouting until footsteps came thundering from the far end of the hall. Lanterns flickered in the darkness.

The head butler arrived first, robe half-fastened and eyes wide with alarm. Behind him, two maids trailed with anxious expressions.

Evelyne stood in the center of the hallway, the girl still in her arms.

"She has a fever," Evelyne said, voice steady despite her shaking limbs.

"She needs help. Now."

The butler blinked startled, but not unkind. He nodded swiftly.

"Bring the healer. Prepare a tonic. Quickly!"

As the servants moved, Riven stood at the doorway, clutching the frame, watching everything with guarded eyes.

And for the first time, Evelyne saw it clearly:

They weren't being hidden because they were dangerous.

They were being protected.

The manor stirred like a waking beast. Doors opened. Feet shuffled. The once-silent corridors now echoed with hurried steps and hushed commands.

Evelyne stood aside as the household healer arrived a stooped woman with quick, practiced hands.

She took Syrin from Evelyne's arms with a gentle nod of thanks and laid her down on a prepared cot just outside the children's chamber. Steam already rose from the nearby bowl of herbs, and a maid appeared with clean cloths and cool water.

Rinna hovered near Riven, trying to keep the boy calm as he watched everything unfold with growing distress.

"She's been coughing all day," he said softly, voice hoarse.

"She said her chest felt heavy, but she didn't want to tell anyone because—because we always cause trouble…"

Evelyne knelt beside him, meeting his gaze.

"You didn't cause trouble," she said, firm but kind.

"You did nothing wrong."

He looked at her for a long moment really looked at her. Then, very quietly, he asked, "Why do people look at us like we don't belong?"

Before she could answer, Madam Alira arrived.

Her expression was unreadable, though her eyes swept quickly over the scene the sick girl, the attending servants, Evelyne crouched on the floor beside a frightened child.

"You were not given permission to enter this wing, Your Highness," she said coolly.

Evelyne rose, slow and deliberate.

"If I hadn't, the girl might have died."

Alira's mouth tightened, but she said nothing. Instead, she turned to the healer.

"Is it serious?"

The healer didn't look up from her work. "She'll live, if the fever breaks by morning. It's a deep chill likely caught from the gardens. She's small. Her body's fighting hard."

A tense silence fell.

Alira exhaled slowly and finally addressed Evelyne again.

"You shouldn't be here."

"But I am here," Evelyne replied, her voice calm but iron beneath.

"And I will not stand by if a child under this roof is suffering."

Something flickered in Alira's gaze, a rare moment of pause. Then she turned to Rinna. "Take the boy back inside. Let him rest. No more wandering tonight."

Rinna obeyed, gently guiding Riven back into the room. But before he disappeared behind the door, the boy looked back at Evelyne.

"Thank you," he whispered.

When the hallway had cleared and the servants had resumed their duties, Evelyne remained, standing beside the flickering lantern and watching the healer's hands move with quiet precision.

Madam Alira lingered a moment longer, as if wrestling with a choice.

Then, in a rare soft tone, she said, "They're not his, if that's what you're wondering."

Evelyne turned sharply.

"The children," Alira added.

"They're not Duke Acheron's. Though they are bound to him, in ways that go deeper than blood."

"Then who are they?"

Alira looked away. "That is not for me to tell."

And with that, she walked off, her footsteps lost in the growing hush of midnight.

Later, back in her chamber, Evelyne sat by the fire, arms wrapped around her knees, the frost-kissed flower the raven-boy had once given her still lying atop a book she never finished reading.

Not Acheron's children. But bound to him.

The riddle returned to her mind like a whisper in the dark.

"Ask the man who carries fire but bleeds frost."

The masked figure. The raven. The shadows. The silence.

Everything was connected.

And she was done waiting for answers.

Tomorrow, she would find them. One way or another.

A sound tore through the silence.

Not thunder.

Not wind.

But something deeper—primordial.

A low, gurgling snarl that built into a roar so vast it shook the frost from the manor's walls. Windows trembled.

Ice cracked along the garden paths. Somewhere in the distance, dogs began howling and then stopped, as if strangled by the cold itself.

Evelyne froze; her breath caught in her throat.

From beyond her window, the snow shifted as though something enormous moved beneath it.

A monstrous silhouette loomed just past the edge of the enchanted forest. Pale light broke across its form: jagged spines of ice protruded from its shoulders, steam rising from where its clawed feet touched the ground.

The Cryvolar.

A creature of ancient winter.

A deathless herald of the North's forgotten gods.

Its breath fogged the horizon like thunderclouds. Where it looked, ice bloomed. Trees withered.

And then, as if pulled by fate itself its head turned toward the manor.

Toward her.

"Evelyne…"

The whisper came again—like silk dragged over stone.

She stumbled back from the window.

"Evelyne…"

It came from behind her now.

Her name echoed again and again close, then far, then close again. Whispers from the shadows. From her thoughts. From the wind.

"Stop," she whispered.

But it didn't.

"Evelyne… Evelyne… Evelyne…"

It was a warning. A threat. A prophecy.

Her vision blurred. She clutched the edge of the dresser for balance, heart thundering.

And then a thought sharp and cold stabbed through her:

Syrin.

A child with a fever. A girl who had looked at her with trust.

What if the whispers meant death?

What if it had come for her?

"No—no, no—" Evelyne gasped, already running.

She tore open her door, feet bare against the freezing floor. Rinna's shout echoed behind her, but she didn't stop.

Down the hall. Through the half-dark corridors lit only by trembling lanterns. Her hands slammed against the children's chamber door.

"Syrin!" she cried, breathless.

She burst in.

Rinna was already there, halfway out of her seat, startled. "Your Highness—?"

Evelyne didn't answer. Her eyes went straight to the cot.

Syrin was there still.

Too still.

Her face flushed with heat, sweat glistening at her brow, breaths shallow and strained.

"No," Evelyne whispered, moving to the girl's side.

Her hands trembled as she touched her forehead.

Burning.

Riven stirred at the sound and sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes.

"What's… happening?"

But Evelyne couldn't form words.

The Cryvolar's cry roared again—this time closer.

Syrin whimpered, twisting in her sleep.

"Something's wrong," Evelyne whispered. "Something's coming…"