PocketFullOfProse

The Dance Masterpost- A fic for The Boys

Veilbound Masterpost- A fic for Dragon Age the Veilguard

When the day started with a call from Wade Wilson, Scarlett knew exactly what to expect. Which was to say, the unexpected. Wade was exceptionally good at setting that particular precedent.

Today's ringtone was Careless Whisper. When and how he'd changed it to that, she wasn't sure. She had long since accepted that digital security simply didn't apply where Deadpool was concerned.

"What?" she groaned, her voice still rough from sleep.

"Hey snuggle-buns," he cooed, his voice dripping with insincere sweetness. "Still in bed at this hour?"

Shifting her phone, she squinted against the light of the display and frowned.

"Wade, it's 3:32 AM," she grumbled, scrubbing at her eyes.

"Perfect time for grilled cheese and hot chocolate, wouldn't you say?"

"…That is not a combo I'd have readily thought of."

Pausing, she inhaled deeply. She may not have thought of that combination, but her kitchen sure smelled like it.

"Are you in my house?"

"…Maybe."

Heaving the longest, most bedraggled sigh, Scar kicked off her covers and stared blankly at her ceiling. At least it was just inappropriately timed breakfast. Last time he'd showed up uninvited, he was just a torso looking for a place to hide from Juggernaut.

Or there was the time that he had pissed off Frank Castle and roped her into being mediator between them. That was after Frank had punched more holes in him than a block of Swiss Cheese. There were still blood stains in her carpet she insisted were part of the original design.

Actually…

Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she launched herself toward her door and scrambled for the kitchen. As she rounded the corner, she prepared herself for the worst. Grilled cheese could have been a peace offering for Kingpin, for all she knew.

Wade stood at the stove, fully suited up and, as best as she could tell, still in possession of all his extremities. Her favorite apron was tied neatly over the red-and-black suit. The cross sections of limes, oranges and lemons were a stark contrast against it. He was humming to himself while flipping over what looked to be a fourth grilled cheese.

Somehow, that was infinitely more suspicious.

"Cocoa is getting cold," he said, indicating a mug on the counter with a wave of his spatula.

Keeping Wade in the corner of her vision, she crossed to the mug he'd left waiting beside the toaster. The faintest wisp of steam lingered around the rim still, and six mini marshmallows floated in the shape of a smile on top of the cocoa. At least, she assumed it was a smile. She wouldn't be surprised if it was supposed to be some other image at one point.

Usually, the image was something phallic.

"Wade, what is going on here?" she sighed, massaging her temple.

"Breakfast!"

"You're about 4 hours too early," she said dryly. "And you're still wearing your mask."

The mask almost always came off the moment he walked through her door. Or climbed through her window. However he decided to break into her house that day.

"It completes the outfit," he insisted, assembling a fifth sandwich.

"The citrus apron rather undermines the intimidation factor."

Whirling around, he pointed a slice of cheese accusingly at her, and planted his free hand on his hip.

"You're just jealous that I fill it out better than you do."

Brows raised, she glanced down at her ample cleavage peering out from her pajama top, then back up at him.

"Statistically impossible."

Wagging the cheese at her, he opened his mouth to retort, then quickly shut it.

"…Touché."

Gathering the mug in both hands, she leaned back against the island. With an appraising glance, she tried to connect the dots. Breaking and entering. Hot cocoa and grilled cheese. The world slowly turning on outside. At least, she was pretty sure the world was still turning.

There was still a missing piece to the puzzle, but she wasn't about to start grilling him too. The cheese was enough for now.

"Which mix did you use?" she asked, breathing in the smell of the cocoa. "The one with the chili?"

"Spicy, just like you."

That earned him a soft laugh. Then all at once, his posture seemed to relax.

"Dork."

"That's why I'm your favorite."

"I never said you were my favorite," she snorted.

"Well it's not Logan, and that's good enough for me."

Hiding another smile from behind the rim of her mug, she shook her head. The cocoa was just the right temperature between her palms now. Taking a sip, her eyes shuttered closed. The cocoa was sweet first, then the slow warmth of chili settled at the back of her throat.

"I used mayo instead of butter," Wade informed her, sliding a plate her way.

"You monster," she said flatly, opening her eyes to narrow them at him.

"It crisps up better that way."

"Uh huh…"

A beat of silence passed between them. A rare thing.

"…I couldn't sleep."

"Hence the five grilled cheeses?"

Another beat passed. A rare and concerning thing. Slowly, her smile softened into something quieter as she watched him. Whatever brought him to her kitchen wasn't the sort of problem that Wade could joke into submission.

Setting down the cocoa, she gently took the spatula from him and brushed past to turn off the burner. Something told her that he'd run out of bread if she didn't stop him first. Five grilled cheese sandwiches were more than enough between the two of them.

Facing one another, they inhaled simultaneously to say something.

"You first," she rattled off before he could.

"It's nothing, don't worry about it."

"…Your mask is still on."

Before he could reach to pull it off, he paused. Scar followed his gaze to the calendar hanging on the side of the refrigerator. It was February 13th.

No. It was well past midnight now. Almost dawn. It was February 14th.

"It's Valentine's…" she murmured.

Wade gave a short, humorless laugh.

"Her favorite holiday." He pressed a hand to the back of his neck. "Just after International Women's Day."

Leaning back against the island again, her gaze dropped to her cocoa. She'd been doing her best to forget about the holiday herself. It wasn't an easy day to spend alone as it was.

Wade's fingers finally found the edge of his mask beneath his chin. He tugged it upward, hesitating only briefly before pulling it off. Even under his scarred complexion, Scar could tell he was flushed. Tossing the mask onto the counter beside the abandoned loaf of bread, he let out a long, steady exhale.

"…Shit."

"Shit," Wade agreed.

This time, the beat of silence needed no explanation. It lingered. Long enough to let them both sit side by side in it.

"It snuck up on me this year," he admitted finally. "I try to plan a job or something. Something loud. Something stupid." He gave a humorless huff. "Keeps my brain busy."

"Damn Leap Year."

"You said it, sister," he said, lips twitching into a fleeting grin.

Moving to open the dishwasher, Scar fished out another plate. Dividing three of the sandwiches from the stack and onto the clean plate, she offered it to him. She wasn't about to eat her feelings while he just watched.

"What did you get Vanessa for Valentine's usually?" she asked, tone light. "Was she a flowers girl, or a chocolate girl?"

He accepted the plate with a quiet nod before answering.

"First Valentine's, I actually got her one of those giant teddy bears."

"How big we talking?"

"It was taller than she was," he chuckled softly. "She named him Count Vladimirovitch Fuzzbutt."

Taking him by the elbow, she guided him toward the table.

"Vlad for short?"

"Never. It was always his full government name."

That earned a snort from her as she took a seat at the small, round table. Wade took the chair opposite hers, setting his plate far enough away that she got the feeling he probably had no intention of eating any of the sandwiches. Not that she could really blame him.

Tearing one of her sandwiches in half, she took a bite. Annoyingly, the mayo really did crisp it up better.

"Where does one put such a magnificent teddy bear?" she asked before taking another bite.

"Well, he lived on her bed for about a week before I got sick of sleeping on the couch." The sound he made was almost a laugh. "…I know what you're doing, Scar."

Swallowing, she maintained eye contact for a heartbeat. Then, she looked down at where her fingers gently drummed against the tabletop.

Before she could explain, or defend, he reached over to lay a hand atop hers.

"It's nice to tell someone about the good things." His hand lingered another moment before he added quietly, "I get the feeling that Valentine's snuck up on you too, huh?"

A soft, amused sound escaped her.

"Yeah…" Turning her hand over, she curled her fingers lightly around his. "But I didn't have a Vanessa."

Nodding, Wade's gaze fell to their joined hands.

"Yeah."

Somewhere beyond her kitchen window, there was the faintest hint of birdsong.

"So was there a Valentine's that topped Count Vladimirovitch Fuzzbutt?" she asked with a lopsided grin.

"Well obviously I had to go bigger the next year," he answered, mirroring her smile.

Once again, Wade had surprised her. It wasn't because he somehow had a copy of her house key. It wasn't because mayonnaise really did make a better grilled cheese. It was because she expected to spend Valentine's Day sitting with a grieving friend, and even so…

She found herself laughing over giant teddy bears and a sky-writing job gone sideways in the wildest way imaginable.

Cedric could not remember the last time he had felt this light. It was a deeply inconvenient sensation. For one thing, it made concentrating nearly impossible. For another, it felt suspicious. It was the sort of feeling one expected to discover later was actually a curse.

He stood very still in the middle of his workshop, watching Evaline sort through a stack of loose parchment with the sort of focused determination usually reserved for military campaigns.

The room remained a disaster. Arguably more of one than before they had started. Books occupied every available surface. Scrolls had migrated into entirely new and unexplained piles. A collection of crystals currently sat arranged across one worktable in what looked suspiciously like a smile.

Cedric had no memory of placing them that way.

Yet for the first time in days, perhaps weeks, he found he could not bring himself to care. His confession sat quietly in his chest now, no longer sharp around the edges. Not gone, but merely… settled.

He had finally told her. Merlin help him, he had actually told her. About the amulet, about the crown, about Wormwood, and about all the ugly, grasping ambitions he had spent years trying not to examine too closely.

And Evaline —

His gaze drifted toward her again before he could stop himself. Evaline was currently standing atop a small stool she had dragged across the room herself despite his repeated objections, attempting to reach a shelf neither of them had noticed before.

She caught him looking immediately, and a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “There is a very real possibility that half these unfinished notes are older than Sofia and the twins.”

Cedric felt something dangerously close to laughter threaten his composure. It escaped anyway.

"At least they're organized."

Evaline lifted another stack of parchment and immediately frowned.

“Cedric.”

He sighed. “What now?”

“I have found three separate drafts titled ‘Emergency Magical Contingencies.’”

“Entirely sensible.”

“One of them appears to be for hostile geese.”

“You say that as though hostile geese are uncommon,” he said, his mouth drawing into a lopsided grin.

Before Evaline could formulate a response, the distant sound of music drifted faintly through the workshop windows. Both of them paused. It had been present in the background for most of the afternoon, little more than scattered notes carried up from the castle grounds below. 

Now, however, it sounded closer. More deliberate.Strings, voices, the unmistakable bustle of several dozen people preparing for an evening event.

Evaline glanced toward the nearest window. “The banquet… I nearly forgot.”

Cedric followed her gaze automatically.

The castle grounds below had transformed while they worked. Lanterns now lined the garden paths in neat rows awaiting dusk. Servants crossed the courtyards carrying trays, linens, and floral arrangements with increasing urgency. Somewhere near the main hall entrance, musicians appeared to be conducting a final rehearsal.

His stomach immediately attempted to remember how anxiety worked.

Annoying. He had been enjoying his afternoon with Evaline all to himself.

“Ah,” Cedric murmured.

Evaline’s eyes narrowed immediately. “That sounded suspiciously unhappy.”

“I am thrilled.”

“Cedric.”

“Moderately thrilled.”

She laughed. 

Unfortunately, that was the precise moment a knock sounded at the workshop door. Three quick raps. The sort Baileywick reserved for emergencies, diplomatic incidents, and people who should have arrived somewhere twenty minutes ago.

Cedric closed his eyes. “Come in.”

The door opened immediately, and sure enough, Baileywick stood in the doorway. He took one look at the workshop,  another look at the two of them, and then a third look at the workshop.

“I see,” he said at last.

Cedric had absolutely no idea what that meant, which was usually a troubling sign.

“The banquet begins in less than an hour.”

Silence followed. Evaline glanced toward one of the workshop windows. Then toward the stacks of parchment surrounding them. Then back toward Baileywick.

“Surely that’s not possible.”

Baileywick’s expression remained perfectly neutral. “It is, unfortunately, extremely possible.”

Cedric frowned faintly. “We’ve only been working for a little while.”

“You began shortly after luncheon.”

“That cannot be right.”

“It is half past six.”

“Well,” Evaline said brightly, “that explains why I’m hungry.”

Baileywick stared at her for a long moment, but before he could formulate a response, another voice carried cheerfully from somewhere behind him.

“There you are!”

Sofia appeared around the doorway a heartbeat later, nearly colliding with Baileywick in her haste. Clover was tucked securely beneath one arm, looking more alarmed than he had any right to. The young princess stopped short upon taking in the state of the workshop, a look of alarm crossing her face as well.

Books, scrolls, dust, crystals… more books.

“…Oh,” she said.

“An appropriate reaction,” Cedric sighed, a sheepish look overtaking his face.

Sofia’s expression brightened with unmistakable purpose the moment she spotted Evaline. “Perfect! Amber’s been looking for you everywhere.”

Evaline blinked. “She has?”

“Mhm.” Sofia nodded emphatically. “She says if you don’t start getting ready now, she’s going to take it personally.”

She crossed the room immediately and took hold of Evaline’s wrist before she could protest. Sofia began steering her toward the door with all the determination of someone ready to give her friend the most over-the-top makeover. Halfway there, Evaline glanced back over her shoulder, and her smile found Cedric instantly. 

“We’ll finish this later.”

Something warm settled in his chest. “Yes,” he replied with a lovesick smile.

“Try not to reorganize everything before I get back.”

“I make no promises.”

Her laughter followed her into the corridor, and then she was gone.

The workshop felt noticeably quieter afterward. Baileywick watched the doorway close behind them before slowly turning his attention toward Cedric. He immediately disliked the look on the steward's face.

“Oh no,” he sighed.

Baileywick folded his hands neatly behind his back. “The banquet begins in forty-five minutes.”

Cedric let out a soft groan. The feeling of peace he’d been enjoying all afternoon promptly remembered it was sharing space with a royal function.

The next forty-five minutes passed with alarming speed and Cedric scarcely remembered most of it.

There had been robes, Baileywick, and at least one conversation regarding cufflinks. Also, a brief disagreement concerning whether a royal banquet truly required three separate layers of formal embroidery. Cedric remained convinced the answer was no. Baileywick remained convinced Cedric was wrong, and as usual, Baileywick won.

By the time Cedric found himself standing outside, the castle gardens had transformed entirely. Lanternlight spilled warm and golden across the finely manicured lawn. Music drifted from beyond a small alcove of topiaries, accompanied by the steady murmur of dozens of conversations already underway.

Nobles, diplomats, advisors, and guests from across the Ever Realm filled the corridors in clusters of rich colors and glittering jewels.

Cedric would have preferred a magical catastrophe, something manageable. A dragon, perhaps — one not from Thedas. Unfortunately, dragons were rarely invited to formal dinners.

Drawing a slow breath, Cedric stepped forward — then stopped. Someone had just emerged from the castle doors behind him. For one suspended heartbeat, the noise around him seemed to fade into the background.

Evaline.

The midnight-blue dress she had worn earlier had been exchanged for something altogether more elegant. Deep sapphire fabric swept gracefully to the floor, catching silver beneath the lanternlight whenever she moved. Part of her hair had been pinned back away from her face, though enough loose curls remained to frame her features softly.

Beautiful. The word arrived instantly,  hopelessly, and entirely without permission.

Evaline spotted him at almost the exact same moment, and her expression brightened immediately. Just like that, the nerves he’d been carrying since leaving the workshop loosened. Not completely, but just enough.

“You survived,” she said as she approached.

“Barely.”

She laughed. The sound settled warmly somewhere in his chest.

For a moment, they simply stood there beneath the lanternlight while the music drifted softly through the gardens around them. The evening air carried the scent of flowers and fresh-cut grass. Somewhere nearby, nobles mingled around sparkling fountains while servants moved quietly between clusters of guests carrying silver trays.

Peace lasted for approximately three seconds.

“Lady Evaline!”

Cedric closed his eyes.

Magnus, of course. The king crossed the gardens toward them with the confidence of a man who had never once doubted that people would be pleased to see him. Rich ruby and gold caught the lanternlight with every step.

To Cedric’s immense surprise, however, Magnus’s attention landed on both of them almost immediately. Not just Evaline. Both of them.

For a brief moment, something flickered across his expression. Understanding, perhaps. Or realization. Then it was gone beneath an easy smile.

“I’m relieved to see neither of you became trapped beneath a mountain of scrolls,” Magnus said warmly. “Baileywick told me that you spent the better part of the evening battling the clutter of Cedric’s tower.”

Evaline laughed. Cedric felt personally attacked.

“It nearly did happen,” she admitted.

“I knew it,” Magnus declared.

Before Cedric could formulate a response, another voice drifted lazily across the gardens.

“I told you.” Greylock emerged from somewhere near a topiary shaped suspiciously like a peacock. No one seemed particularly surprised by this.

“I distinctly recall saying there was a significant probability they would lose track of time.”

“You were taking wagers,” Cedric said flatly.

Greylock smiled. “I was winning wagers.”

Magnus sighed. “You see what I endure.”

“Constantly,” Cedric replied.

To his surprise, Magnus laughed. A real laugh this time. Not diplomatic or practiced. Just genuine amusement. And for perhaps the first time since the king’s arrival, Cedric felt some of the tension he’d been carrying ease slightly.

Because Magnus wasn’t looking at Evaline the way he had a few days ago. There was still admiration there, still interest, but now there was also acceptance. As though somewhere along the way he had finally received an answer to a question he had been asking since the moment they met.

“Well then,” Magnus said, gesturing toward the gardens beyond. “Shall we?”

Without thinking, Evaline’s hand found Cedric’s. The gesture was small, instinctive. Yet Cedric still felt his heartbeat stumble.

Magnus noticed. Greylock noticed Magnus noticing. And somewhere across the gardens, Cedric could have sworn he heard someone choke on a drink. He followed the sound instinctively.

Morrigan stood near one of the fountain terraces, a crystal goblet paused halfway to her lips. Beside her, Kieran looked entirely unbothered. For one long moment, Morrigan simply stared at the two of them. Then slowly lowered the goblet.

“…Finally.”

Magnus blinked, whereas Greylock looked delighted. 

Kieran accepted a small pastry from a passing servant. “Mother has been complaining about this for months.”

“I have not.”

The young boy considered this. “You said and I quote, ‘If those two circle one another any longer, I shall be forced to intervene personally.’”

A dangerous silence followed.

Morrigan closed her eyes briefly. “I was speaking hypothetically.”

“You were speaking loudly.”

Evaline had now covered her face with one hand. Greylock looked moments away from rocketing off into the night sky, absolutely giddy. Cedric briefly considered walking directly into the nearest fountain, all while Magnus glanced between them all.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. “You know,” he admitted, “this explains several things.”

“It explains all things,” Greylock corrected.

“Remarkable,” Morrigan murmured into her goblet.

Evaline sighed. “What now?”

The witch lowered her glass. “I traveled between worlds seeking answers regarding ancient magic, the disappearance of my mother, and forces older than kingdoms.”

A beat passed.

“And somehow this remains the most exhausting situation I have encountered all week.”

Kieran nodded solemnly.

“That is because it took longer.”

Laughter rippled through the gathered guests. Even Morrigan looked one sharp remark away from admitting defeat. Beside him, Evaline’s hand remained comfortably intertwined with his own. Warm. Certain. Real.

For months, Cedric had spent entirely too much time imagining all the ways this might go wrong. He had worried over kings and crowns, old mistakes and old ambitions, fears he had carried so long they had begun to feel permanent.

Now, standing beneath the lantern-lit gardens with Evaline beside him, Magnus laughing across from him, and Morrigan openly regretting every life choice that had led her here, those fears suddenly felt very far away.

For the first time in a very long while, Cedric found himself looking toward the future without immediately searching for the disaster hidden inside it. And Merlin help him, that might have been the most frightening miracle of all.

Reorganizing Cedric's workshop was more of an undertaking than Evaline initially expected. She was happy to help, of course, but the longer they worked, the more she felt like she was just making things a mess.

Towering stacks of scrolls and books were laid out on every inch of flat surface they could find. Jars of herbs and powders were pulled from cupboards, some labels faded and others fully worn off with time. Crystals of all shapes and sizes were gathered into baskets, casting colorful reflections all over the walls as they caught the sunlight.

Cedric stood in the middle of all the chaos, his arms full of miscellaneous scrolls and his brow drawn into an expression caught somewhere between determination and distress.

"Merlin's mushrooms," he muttered. "What have we gotten ourselves into? I'm beginning to think my old system was just fine."

Evaline blew a stray curl from her face and looked around at the battlefield of parchment and powders. “Your old system,” she repeated mildly, “involved hiding unfinished spells under teacups.”

“They were not unfinished,” Cedric protested. “They were… pending refinement.”

“Hm.” She slid a stack of books aside with her hip. “And what about the jar labeled ‘Probably Harmless’?”

“That was optimism.”

She huffed a laugh in spite of herself.

Moving one of the taller bookshelves proved more difficult than expected. The thing had likely not been shifted in years. Evaline braced her shoulder against the wood while Cedric, muttering incantations under his breath, lifted just enough of its weight to help her drag it a few inches across the stone floor.

It scraped loudly, dust billowed, and something small and wooden clattered down behind it.

Evaline coughed and waved the dust from her face. “I think we’ve unearthed a relic.”

Cedric peered through the haze. “Please tell me it’s not about to pounce.”

She crouched to investigate the fallen object. It wasn’t quite a relic. Not in the way she initially meant. 

It was a perch. Simple, and made of dark wood, smoothed by years of talon scratches.

Evaline’s fingers stilled and Cedric held his breath. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“…Oh,” Evaline finally uttered softly.

He set the scrolls down very carefully.

“I thought I’d thrown that out,” he murmured.

But he hadn’t.

 She could almost hear the sharp, impatient rustle of wings. The indignant little croaks. Wormwood had spent countless hours there — watching, assisting, judging.

Evaline ran her thumb along one of the deeper gouges. “He used to sit here while you worked.”

“Yes.” The word was barely more than breath.

She stood slowly, holding the perch between them. “I never understood why he left you. Why he joined with Grimtrix and The Horned King.”

Cedric’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away this time.

“He didn’t leave without reason,” he said quietly.

A beat of silence passed between them.

Brow slightly furrowed in concern, Evaline set the perch aside to gather Cedric's hands in hers. She tilted her head to try and meet his eyes, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her. For a moment, his hands sat limply in hers before he gave them a gentle squeeze.

“I always knew,” Cedric said at last, voice low, “that if I ever stopped wanting what we planned… he would leave.”

Evaline’s brows furrowed more, and she reached up to brush his hair from his forehead. “Planned?”

He swallowed hard, eyes darting toward hers for just a second. After a moment of consideration, he began to lead her to the nearby armchair. It was one of the few surfaces in the room that hadn't been overtaken by bottles or books.

"I think it's best that you sit for this," he murmured. Evaline didn’t laugh. Rather, her look of concern only deepened.

That, more than anything, told him he had already misstepped.

Still holding his hand, she allowed him to guide her to the armchair. The cushions gave softly beneath her as she sat, eyes never leaving his face. Cedric did not sit. He paced once, twice, as though rehearsing words he had avoided for far too long.

“Cedric,” she said gently, “whatever this is—”

“It concerns Princess Sofia’s amulet.”

Evaline blinked. Cedric had told her about the battle at the Horned King's castle, and how Sofia's amulet— The Amulet of Avalor— had helped them win the day. It was a powerful artifact indeed, and the implication that hung between them was one that weighed heavy in the air.

"Go on," she encouraged.

Cedric stopped pacing.

For a long moment, he simply stood there, hands clasped in front of him as if he were trying to hold himself together. Sunlight spilled in from the windows above, catching in the floating dust stirred up by their earlier efforts. The workshop, so recently chaotic and almost playful, felt strangely cavernous now.

"I've known about it and its power for quite a long time," he began, choosing his words carefully. "Long before it came into Sofia's posession."

Evaline's posture shifted— subtle, but perceptible. Not defensive. Simply alert.

"I imagine it was an object of fascination then?" she asked lightly.

"It was."

"And?"

He drew in a slow breath, then released it just as slowly.

“And I intended to take it from her.”

The words did not echo, but they seemed to settle into every corner of the room all the same. Evaline did not move. Her expression did not shatter into outrage. It simply… stilled.

“Take it?” she repeated, her brow crinkling.

“Yes. I wanted it for myself.”

Cedric straightened, though he still did not look at her. His gaze fixed instead on Wormwood’s perch, standing as a stark reminder.

"But why?" Evaline pressed, sitting forward in her seat just a touch more.

"Because…" With a sharp intake of breath, his hands balled into fists at his sides. "I thought it would give me power. Power to take over the kingdom."

The words fell between them like something fragile and irretrievable. For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Not the dust in the air. Not the light on the walls. Not even Cedric.

"You wished to rule Enchancia," Evaline said after a long pause, her expression still carefully neutral.

“I did.”

The answer was immediate. Unadorned.

Cedric finally tore his gaze from the perch and forced himself to look at her. There was no triumph in his expression. No nostalgia for a lost opportunity. Only something raw and entirely ashamed.

“I was tired of being small.”

The admission was soft, but it carried far. He took a step backward toward a nearby worktable, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“I was tired of being dismissed. Of being the sorcerer people tolerated rather than respected. I thought if I wore the crown—if I commanded instead of asked—no one would ever laugh at me again.”

Evaline’s chest tightened.

“And Wormwood knew,” she murmured.

Silence stretched between them. It wasn't sharp, but it was heavy with recognition. Evaline’s eyes drifted briefly to the perch again. She could almost picture the raven there, head tilted, dark eyes sharp and knowing.

"But you changed your mind, yes?" she asked, rising from her seat.

Cedric did not answer immediately.

The silence stretched — not evasive, but searching. His hands braced against the edge of the worktable behind him, knuckles paling as though he were steadying himself against something that still had the power to tilt him.

“Yes,” he said at last.

Evaline watched him carefully.

“But not all at once,” he added.

Her brow softened slightly.

“It was not some grand moment of clarity,” he continued. “There was no lightning strike. No sudden moral awakening.” His mouth twitched faintly, humorless. “It was quieter than that.”

He drew in a slow breath.

“I began to realize that every time I imagined myself wearing that crown… I was alone.”

The words hung there.

“Alone?” she echoed.

“Yes. Above everyone. Feared. Obeyed.” His gaze flickered up to hers. “But alone.”

Evaline’s heart gave a subtle, painful pull.

“I thought ruling would make me feel larger,” he went on. “But the higher I placed myself in my imaginings, the further away everyone else became. Respect born of fear leaves very little room for affection.”

His eyes drifted again to Wormwood’s perch.

“Wormwood did not understand that,” he said quietly. “He believed power was the answer to every humiliation. He believed that if I rose high enough, the past would shrink beneath me.”

“And you stopped believing it?” she asked.

Cedric hesitated.

“I stopped wanting to become someone who needed others to kneel in order to feel whole.”

The distinction mattered.

Evaline took a slow step closer. “When?” she asked gently.

He swallowed. “When I realized I cared more about who stood beside me than who stood beneath me.”

The confession was soft, but it settled warmly rather than heavily.

Evaline felt her throat tighten.

“You were part of that realization,” he admitted, not quite meeting her eyes. “You did not treat me as small. You did not need me to be grand. And I found that I preferred that.”

A faint flush crept into his cheeks—not embarrassment at the affection, but at how simple the truth was.

“I still felt the ache,” he continued. “Still heard the echo of laughter some days. But I began to understand that taking a throne would not silence it. It would only teach me to make others feel the same.”

Silence fell again, but it was different now. Less brittle. More reflective.

"I see," Evaline finally said, reaching to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. It was a simple gesture. A tender one. One, that Cedric didn't anticipate.

"You're not angry?"

Shaking her head, Evaline's lips curved into a smile.

"Of course not, Cedric," she said, slipping her hands into his.

He searched her face for hesitation, for the faintest crack in her composure. He found none, however.

“But I imagine,” she continued softly, “you are wondering why.”

A faint, uncertain huff of breath left him. “It had crossed my mind.”

Evaline’s gaze drifted past him. Not to the perch this time, but somewhere further back. Somewhere years away.

“When I was quite a bit younger,” she began, “I was told that I was responsible for the death of a king.”

Cedric’s brows knit immediately. “Evaline —”

“It was not true,” she assured him gently. “But it did not matter. The accusation was enough.” Her fingers tightened slightly around his. “I learned very quickly how easy it is for others to decide who you are before you have ever chosen it for yourself.”

The workshop seemed to shrink around them.

“Later,” she continued, “on my travels to stop the Blight, I met a man who had been sent to kill me.”

Cedric’s expression sharpened in surprise.

“He was an assassin,” she said calmly. “A talented one. Efficient. Raised to believe that survival justified cruelty. He tried to take my life, and failed.”

Cedric blinked once. “And you are telling me this in a tone that suggests he is not dead.”

“He is not.”

Cedric stared at her.

“You spared him?” he asked, incredulous.

“I did.”

“Evaline —”

“I spared him because when he looked at me,” she said gently, “I did not see a monster. I saw a man who had been shaped by pain. By betrayal. By being told his only worth lay in what he could take from others.”

Cedric went very still.

“He did not know how to be anything else,” she continued. “No one had ever offered him another path.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his.

“So I did.”

Silence bloomed between them, warm and steady.

“He chose to walk it,” she said. “Not perfectly. Not easily. But he chose.”

Cedric swallowed.

“And you trusted that?” he asked quietly.

“I trusted that people are more than the worst thing they once intended,” she replied. “Zevran became one of my nearest and dearest friends because of that.”

The words hung between them, gentle but unyielding.

“When you told me you wanted the throne just now,” she went on, her thumb brushing lightly across his knuckles, “I did not hear a tyrant confessing ambition. I heard a wounded man admitting he mistook power for healing.”

Cedric’s throat tightened.

“I have stood beside men who were ready to kill me,” she said softly. “I have watched them choose something different when given the chance.”

Her gaze softened further.

“You did not take the amulet. You did not take the crown. You changed.”

A faint, almost disbelieving breath escaped him.

“And that is what matters to me.”

He studied her as though seeing her anew. She was not just the steady presence beside him, but now he saw her as the woman who had looked into darkness before and chosen mercy.

“You are remarkably forgiving,” he murmured.

Evaline’s smile tilted, faint but knowing.

“I am practical,” she corrected gently. “If I condemned every person who had once made a terrible choice, I would have very few allies left. And perhaps no friends at all. People are not defined by the worst road they nearly walked. They are defined by the one they choose instead.”

Cedric’s grip on her hands tightened. The gesture wasn’t one of desperation, but of gratitude.

Across the room, Wormwood’s perch stood quietly in the afternoon light. A relic of a path abandoned.

Cedric had slept perhaps two hours. That may even have been generous. At some point during the night he had apparently drifted face-first onto an open spellbook in his workshop, only to awaken sometime before dawn with ink smeared across one cheek and a deeply concerning crick in his neck. 

The spellbook itself had fared little better. One entire page now bore the faint outline of his sleeve and what looked suspiciously like half a tea stain. Cedric stared at it for a long moment.

“…Well,” he informed the ruined page hoarsely, “we have all suffered greatly.”

The page, perhaps wisely, offered no opinion.

With a weary sigh, he pushed himself upright from the worktable and rubbed both hands down his face. Outside the tower windows, the first traces of morning sunlight had only just begun to spill across the castle gardens below. Far too early for coherent thought.

Unfortunately, coherent thought had not visited him once all night regardless. Every time he closed his eyes, the previous day replayed itself in agonizing clarity. 

Magnus standing comfortably inside Evaline’s chambers surrounded by enough flowers to bankrupt a small kingdom. Morrigan stepping through the Eluvian looking moments away from hexing someone on principle alone. Kieran quietly peering into Cedric’s soul with the unsettling precision only strange magical children seemed capable of possessing.

You look at her correctly.

 Cedric groaned softly and dropped his forehead back against the table. That sentence had lodged itself somewhere deep behind his ribs and refused to leave. Because the truly unfortunate thing was that Kieran had sounded sincere.

Not teasing. Not cryptic for the sake of chaos, though the boy certainly possessed the capacity for it. Simply observant in that strange, disarming way children occasionally were.

And yet… Cedric closed his eyes briefly. If the boy knew everything, he doubted he would sound nearly so approving.

A sharp rap against the workshop door startled him upright before his thoughts could wander further into catastrophe.

“Go away,” Cedric called automatically.

The door opened anyway. Greylock strolled inside carrying two cups of tea and the unmistakable expression of a man who had already decided someone else’s morning was about to become his entertainment.

“Oh good,” Greylock said brightly. “You’re conscious. Barely, admittedly, but we must celebrate small victories.”

“You’ve brought tea," Cedric observed, eyes narrowing immediately. "That means you intend to say something upsetting.”

“Please,” Greylock snorted, handing him the teacup. “I can say upsetting things entirely without refreshments.”

Suspicion remained warranted, but Cedric accepted the tea anyway. Mostly because without it he risked physically collapsing where he stood. Greylock leaned casually against the nearby shelf, gaze drifting meaningfully across the workshop.

“You slept here.”

“It seemed preferable to throwing myself from the tower.”

“Mm.” Greylock sipped his tea thoughtfully. “And how dramatic are we feeling this morning on a scale from one to tragic poetry?”

Cedric scowled into his cup. “I am not discussing this with you.”

“Discussing what? The king in love with Evaline? The Lady Morrigan appearing through an inter-dimensional mirror? Or your expression last night, which resembled a man watching his own execution unfold in real time?”

“Wonderful,” Cedric muttered, closing his eyes for a brief, merciful moment. “My suffering has become publicly observable.”

Greylock hummed sympathetically without sounding remotely sympathetic. “To be fair, you do suffer very loudly.”

Opening his mouth to retort, Cedric paused as he caught movement beyond the workshop windows. Down in the gardens below, castle staff hurried between pathways carrying fresh bundles of flowers already being arranged throughout the courtyard. He stared incredulously.

“There are more?”

Greylock followed his gaze. “Ah. Yes. His Majesty apparently sent additional arrangements at sunrise.”

A sound of genuine despair left Cedric before he could stop it.

Studying him over the rim of his cup, it was a moment before Greylock’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “You do realize,” he said carefully, “that she did not exactly appear swept away by him.”

Cedric laughed once under his breath, humorless. “That hardly matters.”

“It matters rather a lot, actually.”

“No,” Cedric replied quietly, setting his untouched tea aside. “What matters is that Magnus is precisely the sort of man someone like Evaline deserves.”

The words settled heavily between them.

Greylock’s brows lifted slightly. “And what sort of man is that?”

Cedric gestured vaguely toward the windows as though the answer ought to be obvious. “A king,” he said flatly. “Confident. Accomplished. Someone who does not accidentally fall asleep on unstable spellwork because he is too busy unraveling over flower arrangements.”

The other sorcerer considered him for a beat. “You know,” Greylock said at last, “I genuinely cannot decide whether your self-awareness is admirable or deeply irritating.”

There was a deliberate choice to ignore him as Cedric continued.

“She has already endured enough uncertainty for several lifetimes,” he said quietly. “War. The Blight. Court politics. Ferelden nobility.” His mouth tightened faintly. “Me.”

Greylock straightened slightly at that. “Oh, now we’ve reached the dangerous part.”

Cedric frowned. “What dangerous part?”

“The part where you begin speaking as though Evaline’s affections are some unfortunate clerical error.”

Cedric looked away. Silence stretched for a moment too long. Then, far more softly than before, he admitted something aloud that took more courage than he was sure he had. 

“There are things she does not know about me.”

Greylock’s expression shifted almost immediately. Less teasing now. More attentive.

“Cedric —”

“I know precisely what I am,” he interrupted quietly. “And I know what I once wanted.” His hands tightened faintly around the edge of the worktable. Down in the courtyard below, servants continued arranging Magnus’s flowers beneath the morning sun, and he could not stop staring at them.

“I simply suspect,” he murmured, “that if Evaline knew the entirety of it… she might look at me differently.”

Greylock was quiet for a long moment after that.

 “Well,” he began gently after a long moment. “That sounds remarkably like a problem destined to become worse the longer you avoid it.”

Cedric exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yes,” he admitted. “That is what concerns me.”

With things decidedly more serious than he was willing to deal with, Greylock sipped his tea in silence. He couldn't even bring himself to finish the cup entirely before he decided to make his exit. There wasn't even a parting shot as he closed the door behind him. That probably unnerved Cedric more than anything.

Rather than dwell on it Cedric did what any sensible man confronting emotional catastrophe would do. He buried himself in work with such alarming intensity that by midday even Baileywick had begun eyeing him with concern.  Which, admittedly, should perhaps have been his biggest warning sign.

The castle itself seemed determined to remain impossibly alive around him no matter how thoroughly he attempted to disappear into his workshop. Servants hurried through corridors carrying linens and polished silver. Somewhere in the gardens below, musicians had apparently begun rehearsing for Magnus’s evening banquet. The faint sound of strings drifted intermittently through the tower windows in maddeningly cheerful bursts.

Cedric contemplated hexing the lute.

Instead, he reorganized potion ingredients with the sort of rigid concentration usually reserved for defusing magical explosives.

“Lavender,” he muttered, shoving another jar onto the shelf with perhaps slightly more force than necessary. “Chamomile. Dried elfroot. All ingredients for sleep tonics. How fitting.” A soft knock interrupted his thoughts entirely, and Cedric straightened immediately.

“Come in.”

The workshop door opened just enough for Baileywick to step carefully inside, balancing a silver tray laden with fresh tea and several pastries.

“Ah. There you are.” Baileywick visibly relaxed upon spotting him. “The castle staff had begun taking wagers on whether you’d vanished through the eluvian, or something of the like.”

Cedric blinked once. “They what?”

Baileywick gave a soft snort. “You have not attended breakfast. Or luncheon.”

“I have been occupied.”

“With what?” Baileywick asked, surveying the workshop pointedly. “Because from here it appears you have re-alphabetized your herb jars three separate times.” Cedric glanced instinctively toward the shelves.

“…The thyme was behaving suspiciously.”

Baileywick stared at him for one long suffering moment before setting the tray down atop the nearest clear surface. "Well, regardless of thyme-related emergencies, you are expected at dinner this evening," he said, his tone more matter-of-fact than stern.

Cedric immediately looked ill at the prospect of sitting down to dinner with Magnus and Morrigan both in attendance. And Evaline… The longer he sat on the heavy truth that had been weighing on him, the more unbearable it became to be around her.

Which was its own special kind of torture.

"Oh dear," Baileywick sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"What?" Cedric responded, pulled from his brief, internal lamentations.

The castle steward folded his hands neatly in front of himself. Just seeing the way Baileywick's posture adjusted made him want to wince.

"Cedric," he began. Something in the older man's tone finally pulled Cedric's attention fully away from the shelves. Baileywick regarded him carefully for a long moment before speaking again. "You do realize that Lady Evaline has spent nearly all morning asking after you, yes?"

"She has?" he asked before he could stop himself. Of course she had. He had seen the way she had been looking at him all day yesterday. It just made his stomach sink deeper.

"Repeatedly," Baileywick informed him. Another beat passed between them. Cedric opened his mouth to respond. Thought better of it, and closed it. He looked away at once, gaze falling instead toward the scattered parchment across his worktable.

"Oh, you poor, foolish boy," Baileywick sighed, his expression turning to something so painfully soft. Immediately, Cedric's lips drew into a deep frown.

"I am not a boy," he snapped.

"No," Baileywick agreed. "You are an egregiously anxious grown man, which is significantly more difficult."

Cedric opened his mouth, this time to protest this deeply unfair characterization, but stopped short. Footsteps drifted faintly from the corridor beyond. Someone was winding up the steps to his workshop. He stiffened instantly.

Baileywick, however, glanced toward the doorway and visibly relaxed. “Oh,” the steward murmured. “Much better.”

Cedric frowned. “What does that mean?”

Before Baileywick could answer, a familiar voice carried softly through the still-open doorway.

“Cedric?”

His stomach dropped straight through the floor. Evaline stepped into the workshop a heartbeat later, curls slightly windswept from climbing the tower stairs. She paused immediately upon spotting Baileywick still standing beside the worktable.

“Ah,” she said. “Am I interrupting something?”

"Not at all," Baileywick answered far too quickly. "In fact, I was just leaving." He continued smoothly, already moving toward the door. Though, he offered Cedric a look containing entirely too much sympathy for Cedric's liking before disappearing into the corridor without another word.

Silence settled briefly in his wake.

Evaline's gaze drifted slowly across the workshop. He watched as her eyes moved from the reorganized shelves, the scattered parchment, the stack of books teetering dangerously near the edge of the worktable… Then, finally, her gaze found him amidst it all, and her expression softened almost immediately.

"You look exhausted."

"I'm feeling rather fine, actually."

"There's ink smudged on your cheek," she said with a soft laugh, reaching into the pockets of her skirts to procure a handkerchief.

Reflexively, his hand lifted to his cheek, only smearing it further. Evaline's lips twitched as she tried to keep her smile from spreading too wide. Gently, she swiped away as much of the ink as she could.

"So, who is it you are trying to avoid today?" she asked, her tone light. "King Magnus? Greylock? Morrigan perhaps? Or… me?"

“…That feels like an unfairly comprehensive list.”

Evaline’s smile widened immediately. “Ah. So it is one of us.”

“It is not you,” he answered far too quickly.

The words slipped free on instinct alone. For one terrible heartbeat, Cedric wished desperately to snatch them back before she noticed. Unfortunately, Evaline noticed everything. Something softened in her expression almost immediately.

“Cedric,” she said more gently now.

He looked away at once, retreating toward the nearest shelf under the deeply flawed assumption that physically moving elsewhere in the workshop might somehow improve the situation. Much to his chagrin, it did not.

“I merely had work to do,” he muttered.

Evaline followed at an entirely unreasonable pace for someone not actively hunting him. “Your workshop does look like it’s overdue for an overhaul. Where are we starting, then?”

Before Cedric could formulate a suitable objection, Evaline had already crossed toward one of the nearest worktables. She surveyed the clutter for a moment before lifting a stack of loose parchment threatening to slide onto the floor.

“You have three separate piles labeled ‘important.’”

“They are different categories of important.”

“Of course they are.”

Cedric opened his mouth and stopped short, the words dying in his throat. To his horror, he could not think of a single reasonable argument that would convince her to leave. Not a single one. Evaline, meanwhile, appeared entirely untroubled by this development.

“Now,” she said, carefully straightening another stack of papers, “where are we starting?”

He looked around his workshop. The partially reorganized shelves, the overflowing cupboards, and the scattered books, everything desperately needing help. Then at Evaline herself, already rolling up her sleeves as though she had every intention of helping him sort through years of accumulated magical nonsense.

Merlin’s mushrooms.

She wasn’t going anywhere. A strange mixture of relief and dread settled heavily in his chest. Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? Evaline had crossed worlds, survived Blights, faced demons, darkspawn, and court politics.

And still she kept choosing him. Still she kept looking for him. Still she climbed tower stairs and inserted herself directly into his catastrophes with infuriating determination.

She deserved honesty.

The realization settled uncomfortably somewhere beneath his ribs. Not today, perhaps, but soon. Very soon.

Cedric released a slow breath. Then, with all the resignation of a man surrendering to forces far beyond his control, he pointed toward the nearest bookshelf.

“Fine,” he muttered. “We are starting with the east wall.”

Evaline smiled. The sight of it did absolutely nothing to help his situation. She looked entirely too delighted by that answer.

True to both what Baileywick and Greylock had said, more floral arrangements had indeed been delivered throughout the day. When Evaline opened the door to her room, it smelled more like greenery than the greenhouse had. Blossoms of all shape, size and color lined the room almost floor to ceiling.

While she hadn't anticipated the sheer volume of flowers, nothing could have prepared her for what else was waiting in her room.

"Milady Evaline," Magnus exclaimed warmly, his whole face brightening as he moved to greet her. "I am pleased to see you at last."

Evaline stopped short in the doorway, and for one deeply bewildered moment, she simply stared at him.

Magnus approached from the center of the room looking entirely too comfortable amidst the sea of flowers, dressed impeccably as always and smiling as though appearing unannounced inside a lady’s chambers was a perfectly ordinary occurrence. Somewhere beside her, Cedric made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a man choking on air.

“I do hope you do not mind," Magnus said, something eager in his tone. "The servants informed me the arrangements had become difficult to navigate, and I thought perhaps you might require assistance.”

A soft, incredulous laugh escaped her before she could fully rein it in.

"Your Majesty, this is so thoughtful but —"

“But perhaps excessive?” Magnus offered hopefully.

“Wildly excessive,” she agreed.

To his credit, he at least looked mildly sheepish.

“Ah. Yes. I did begin to suspect as much around the seventh arrangement.” His gaze drifted briefly toward an enormous collection of white roses occupying nearly the entirety of her writing desk. “Though in my defense, the florist became disturbingly enthusiastic once informed that the flowers were for you.”

Cedric, still standing somewhere near the doorway, folded his arms tightly across his chest.

“Naturally,” he muttered.

Magnus either failed to notice his tone entirely or chose to graciously ignore it. “I had intended only a small gesture initially, but every arrangement seemed lacking compared to the last.”

“Most people stop after one bouquet,” Cedric informed him flatly.

Evaline shot him a quick warning glance before the conversation could veer directly into disaster.

Magnus, meanwhile, only smiled. “And deny myself the opportunity to see Milady Evaline laugh at my poor judgment? Never.”

Maker, preserve me, she thought wearily to herself.

The man wielded charm like a siege weapon.

Carefully stepping around a cluster of lilies threatening to overtake her bedside table, Evaline finally set down the basket of herbs she still carried from the greenhouse.

“You truly did not need to go to all this trouble,” she said more gently.

Magnus’s expression softened almost immediately.

“I wished to,” he answered simply.

That, unfortunately, was harder to deflect. For one awkward heartbeat, silence settled over the room beneath the heavy perfume of flowers and greenery. Evaline became suddenly, painfully aware of Cedric beside her, quiet in the way he only became when trying very hard not to reveal what he was thinking.

Before she could figure out how to navigate any of this with dignity intact, the air in the room shifted.

It was subtle at first. The candles flickered, not with ordinary draft or movement, but with something heavier. Older. Cedric straightened instantly, and Evaline felt it a heartbeat later.

Magic.

Not the bright, melodic warmth woven through Enchancia’s halls, nor Cedric’s carefully structured spellwork. This felt ancient, sharp against her senses like cold water against bare skin. Somewhere behind the wall opposite the windows, deep within the hidden chamber housing the eluvian, something pulsed.

Once. Twice. Then the mirror awakened.

A low thrumming vibration rolled through the floor beneath their feet.

Magnus blinked in alarm. “What in the world was—”

Evaline did not wait for him to finish. She was already moving.

The hidden chamber sat tucked behind the far wall of Evaline’s bedroom, concealed so seamlessly within the castle architecture that most guests would never have realized it existed at all. One moment, it was embroidered curtains, polished wood, flowers crowding every available surface. The next, ancient elven magic hummed quietly behind a concealed stone doorway.

A subtle pulse of magic beneath Evaline’s fingertips awakened the warding sigils hidden within the carved stone paneling. Golden light threaded through twisting ivy patterns before the wall slid inward with a low rumble. Cool air spilled into the room immediately. 

Cedric moved beside her at once, tension sharp in every line of his posture.

The chamber beyond was dimly lit, circular stone walls lined with shelves overflowing with spellbooks, loose parchment, crystals, and various magical instruments Cedric had insisted were necessary for “catastrophic dimensional emergencies.” At the center of the room stood the Eluvian itself. Its gilded frame curved upward into an elegant arch, silver-green light already rippling violently beneath the mirror’s surface.

Evaline barely had time to register how active it looked before the magic surged. The glass flashed bright emerald-green, and wind burst outward hard enough to send loose parchment scattering across the room. Magnus stumbled backward with a startled curse while Cedric immediately threw an arm in front of Evaline on instinct alone.

Then a figure stepped through the mirror.

Tall. Dark-haired. Cloaked in deep maroon with more clothing than Evaline was used to. Magic still crackled faintly around her as her boots struck stone with effortless confidence, as though traversing ancient dimensional mirrors was no more troublesome than walking through an ordinary doorway.

Morrigan took one sweeping look around the chamber, and her eyes landed on Evaline first. Relief flickered there so briefly it may as well never have existed. Then her gaze shifted past her shoulder toward the open bedroom beyond.

Toward the flowers. Toward Magnus. Toward Cedric.

One elegant eyebrow lifted slowly. “…Well,” Morrigan drawled. “Clearly I have interrupted something.”

A second figure appeared within the Eluvian’s glow a heartbeat later.

“Kieran,” Morrigan warned without turning, “mind your footing.”

The boy stepped through carefully, one hand briefly brushing the edge of the mirror’s gilded frame as the magic settled behind him in rippling waves of green light.

Evaline felt her expression soften immediately.

It had not truly been that long since she had last seen him. Months, perhaps closer to a year. Yet children had a way of changing all at once in the spaces between meetings. Kieran had grown slightly taller since last she’d seen him at Skyhold, the childish roundness beginning to fade from his face little by little. Dark hair fell untidily across intelligent eyes far too observant for someone his age.

Though perhaps that had always been true.

Kieran glanced around the hidden chamber quietly at first, taking in the scattered parchment, glowing crystals, and strange magical instruments with solemn curiosity before his attention drifted toward the open doorway leading into Evaline’s bedroom.

He paused. “…That is a concerning number of flowers,” he observed at last.

Cedric made a sudden noise behind her that sounded very much like a strangled laugh. Magnus, meanwhile, straightened faintly beneath the collective scrutiny now settling upon him. Morrigan’s gaze slid briefly toward the bedroom beyond before one eyebrow arched with slow, dangerous elegance.

“Well then…” she sighed dryly.

Evaline resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands.

“It became somewhat difficult to stop them once the florist realized who they were for,” Magnus explained, with the air of a man attempting very hard to salvage his dignity.

“A tragic mistake,” Morrigan murmured.

To Magnus’s considerable credit, he did not retreat beneath the full force of Morrigan’s attention. If anything, he seemed to recognize immediately that he was being assessed. Kieran, however, remained focused elsewhere now. On Cedric.

The boy regarded him thoughtfully for one long, quiet moment in a way that made Cedric visibly uncertain what to do with himself.

“…You are the sorcerer,” Kieran said eventually. “I remember you.”

“I remember you too,” Cedric answered carefully.

Another pause settled between them. Then Kieran nodded once, seemingly satisfied by something only he understood.

“You look at her correctly.”

Silence fell so abruptly the chamber itself seemed to still around them. Evaline blinked, surprised. Cedric looked outright stunned, and Magnus appeared deeply confused.

Morrigan closed her eyes briefly, already exhausted. “I have told you repeatedly that speaking to people in riddles is unsettling.”

“I was being clear,” Kieran replied mildly.

“You were being alarming,” Morrigan corrected.

Kieran considered this briefly. “Those are sometimes the same thing.”

Cedric, still looking faintly as though his soul had temporarily departed his body, managed a weak, “I appreciate the distinction.”

Evaline finally gave up and laughed softly into one hand, some of the tension bleeding from the room at last. “It is good to see you too, Kieran.”

That at least earned her something warmer. The strange solemnity softened from the boy’s expression almost immediately as he crossed the remaining distance toward her.

“I wished to visit sooner,” he admitted quietly as she drew him into a brief embrace. “Mother was occupied.”

“I was investigating something to do with my connection to the Well of Sorrows,” Morrigan said dryly. “A process which proved both irritating and deeply concerning.”

The humor faded from the room almost instantly. Evaline pulled back just enough to properly look at her friend now, and only then did she notice what the dramatic entrance and general chaos had initially obscured.

Morrigan looked tired. Not physically. Morrigan had always carried herself too proudly for exhaustion to settle easily into her posture. But something beneath her composure felt strained. Frayed carefully around the edges.

Cedric noticed it too. Evaline saw the exact moment his expression sharpened from awkward jealousy into genuine concern.

“…Something has happened,” he said quietly.

Morrigan’s gaze flicked toward him briefly, reassessing. “Quite a lot, unfortunately.”

The chamber seemed colder suddenly. Even Magnus, who still clearly had no understanding whatsoever of who exactly had just emerged from the glowing magical mirror hidden behind Evaline’s bedroom wall, had enough sense to remain silent now.

Evaline stepped closer instinctively. “Morrigan?”

For the first time since arriving, uncertainty flickered visibly across Morrigan’s face. Tiny,  brief… but there. It unsettled Evaline more than anything else could have.

“My mother is gone,” Morrigan said at last.

The words landed heavily within the chamber. Gone. Not dead… not precisely. No one who knew Flemeth would ever use so simple a word for someone like her. Yet the grief beneath Morrigan’s carefully controlled voice remained unmistakable.

Evaline’s heart ached immediately. Whatever complicated history existed between Morrigan and Flemeth, whatever resentment or fear or anger had lived there over the years, none of it erased what this truly was.

Loss.

Slowly, carefully, Evaline reached for her hand.

Morrigan stiffened instinctively beneath the contact. Not pulling away, but clearly unaccustomed to comfort offered so openly. For all the years Evaline had known her, Morrigan had always worn solitude like armor.

Yet after the briefest hesitation, her fingers tightened once in return.

“I am sorry,” Evaline said softly. And she meant it. Not because she had ever trusted Flemeth completely. Maker knew few people did. But because grief was grief, no matter how complicated the person left behind may have been.

For a long moment Morrigan said nothing.

The chamber remained unnaturally quiet around them, the last faint traces of Eluvian magic still crackling softly through the air. Even Magnus, who had stumbled blindly into a situation involving ancient mirrors, grieving witches, and what was very clearly an entirely different world hidden behind Evaline’s bedroom wall, wisely refrained from speaking still.

It was Kieran who moved first.

Without a word, he stepped closer to his mother’s side and rested one hand lightly against her arm. The gesture was small, instinctive, and somehow more comforting than anything else could have been. Something in Morrigan’s expression softened almost imperceptibly as she glanced down at him.

“I am not falling apart before an audience,” she informed the room with what dignity she could still salvage.

Cedric, perhaps wisely, nodded immediately. “An excellent policy.”

To Evaline’s mild surprise, that earned the faintest hint of a smile from Morrigan. Then, inevitably, her gaze shifted toward Magnus once more.

“…And who precisely,” she asked with dangerous calm, “is this would-be suitor buried beneath all the flowers?”

Evaline couldn't have felt more at peace there in the castle greenhouse. Not because it was grand. Or magical. Or particularly impressive by royal standards. But because nothing here demanded anything from her.

No court politics lingered between the rows of drying herbs. No nobles postured beneath the warm filtered sunlight spilling through the curved glass overhead. No one expected heroics from her among the lavender bundles hanging quietly from the ceiling beams.

Just warmth. Soil. The faint scent of rosemary crushed beneath fingertips.

And Cedric.

She glanced sideways as he carefully tied off another small bundle of chamomile stems beside the worktable, his long fingers moving with practiced precision. The sleeves of his robes had been rolled neatly back to his forearms sometime within the last half hour, exposing faint ink stains and traces of dried soil along his skin.

It was unfairly endearing. Especially because he still looked faintly dazed every time she reached for his hand.

“You’re staring again,” Cedric informed the bundle of herbs very sternly.

Evaline smiled immediately. “You noticed?”

“I notice everything you do,” he replied before he could stop himself.

Silence followed as Cedric froze mid-motion. Very slowly, he lowered the chamomile onto the table with the careful attention of a man attempting to convince reality not to react to what had just come out of his mouth. Evaline blinked once. Then warmth bloomed slowly across her expression so suddenly that Cedric looked as if he was considering throwing himself directly into the nearest compost bin.

“Well,” she said softly after a moment, “that was probably the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

He covered his face with one hand. “Merlin’s mushrooms… Preserve me.”

Her laughter drifted warmly through the greenhouse, and she watched as something in his posture loosened. She stepped closer to the worktable, fingertips brushing lightly across the scattered herbs between them.

“You really do notice everything, though,” she murmured. “You always have.”

Cedric lowered his hand cautiously. “That sounds vaguely accusatory.”

“It wasn’t meant to.”

Sunlight caught softly along the loose waves of her hair as she leaned one hip against the edge of the table. Comfortable. Relaxed. Entirely at ease beside him in a way that still felt miraculous.

For a few quiet moments, neither of them spoke.

Outside the greenhouse glass, castle life continued somewhere far beyond the gardens below. Faint movement passed occasionally along distant courtyard paths, servants crossing between wings beneath the late morning sun. But inside the greenhouse itself, the world felt pleasantly removed from all of it.

Evaline reached for another sprig of lavender before speaking again.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “Amber seemed very convinced we’ve been courting for months.”

He nearly dropped an entire tray of drying mint leaves.

“That child,” he said hoarsely, “has inherited an alarming instinct for dramatics.”

Her mouth twitched. “Mm. I don’t think she was entirely wrong, though.”

Cedric stilled. The shift was subtle. Barely there. Yet Evaline felt it immediately all the same. He felt careful now. Vulnerable, like a door quietly cracking open.

He set the tray down with deliberate precision before glancing toward her again. “You don’t?”

Evaline tilted her head slightly, considering him for a long moment.

“Cedric,” she said gently, “you bring me tea every morning. You know how I sleep by how many sugars I put in it afterward. You learned how to braid my hair because you said I looked tired after training.” A faint smile softened her mouth. “You built me an enchanted heating stone because I complained once about castle floors being cold in winter.”

He looked faintly stricken now. “I… yes, well,” he muttered weakly, “those all sound rather incriminating when listed together.”

She laughed softly beneath her breath.

“You kissed me after the Horned King fell,” she said quietly after a brief pause.

Cedric’s gaze snapped toward hers immediately, all remaining composure dissolving outright beneath the gentleness in her voice. There was no embarrassment in her expression. No uncertainty.

Just honesty.

“You kissed me,” she repeated softly, “and afterward you still sought me out every day like nothing between us had changed.” Her fingers brushed absently through the lavender stems in her hands. “I think somewhere along the way, I simply assumed we already belonged to each other.”

The silence stretched between them, tender and devastating all at once.

Then, a familiar voice from the greenhouse doorway drawled, “Well, this certainly explains the luncheon incident.”

Cedric closed his eyes instantly.

Of course.

Of course it was Greylock.

The other sorcerer leaned comfortably against the open greenhouse door with all the insufferable ease of a man who had absolutely overheard enough to sustain him emotionally for the next decade. Sunlight gleamed against his monocle while one brow arched in unmistakable delight.

Evaline couldn’t help but look more amused than horrified.

Greylock’s gaze swept between them once before settling knowingly on their expressions. “Oh, don’t mind me,” he said lightly. “Please continue dismantling Cedric’s emotional stability. I’m fascinated.”

“I despise you,” Cedric informed him flatly.

“Mm. Yes. Very moving.”

Greylock pushed away from the doorway at last, though something sharper lingered quietly beneath his amusement now. His attention drifted briefly toward the greenhouse windows overlooking the distant palace gardens beyond.

“Unfortunately,” he sighed, “you may have a slight complication.”

Cedric immediately frowned. “What sort of complication?”

Greylock looked back toward them both, his expression wavering between mischief and perhaps even mild regret.

“Magnus,” he said simply, “appears to believe this is a competition.”

Evaline’s brows lifted faintly. “A competition?”

Greylock made a soft humming sound beneath his breath, the sort one made while observing an approaching storm from a safe distance.

“Yes,” he sighed. “Unfortunately, Magnus has always approached romance the same way he approaches diplomacy.” His mouth twitched slightly. “Aggressively. With confidence. And usually while wearing considerably more finery than necessary.”

Cedric looked immediately exhausted. Evaline, meanwhile, felt something bordering on incredulous amusement stir beneath her ribs.

 “I declined his invitation,” she stated with a soft snort.

“You did,” Greylock agreed. “Which Magnus likely interpreted as interesting rather than discouraging.”

Cedric let out a quiet groan into one hand.

Evaline glanced sideways toward him. “That bad?”

Greylock answered first.

“Oh, considerably worse, actually.” He folded his arms loosely while leaning one shoulder against the greenhouse doorway. “You must understand, Lady Evaline, His Majesty is very accustomed to people wanting things from him. Power. Favor. Influence. Attention.” His expression softened into something almost apologetic. “Someone entirely unmoved by any of that is… novel.”

Evaline frowned slightly. “I’m not unmoved. Not entirely.”

Greylock blinked once, and Cedric looked vaguely alarmed.

“Oh?” Greylock asked carefully.

Evaline gestured vaguely with the lavender still resting between her fingers. “He seems perfectly fine.”

Cedric looked as though she had personally struck him with a shovel. Greylock, meanwhile, appeared moments away from collapse.

“Oh, you poor man,” he whispered to Cedric with genuine sympathy.

“I am aware,” Cedric muttered hollowly.

Evaline stared between them both. “What?”

Greylock straightened slightly before answering with the careful patience of a man attempting to explain advanced magical theory to particularly emotional woodland creatures.

“What you seem to mean,” he said delicately, “is that Magnus is ‘fine’ in the way one might describe a decorative bonfire moments before it spreads to the surrounding forest.”

Cedric nodded once. “Exactly.”

“That seems dramatic.”

“He sent you six floral arrangements before noon,” Cedric replied flatly.

“There are eight,” Greylock corrected helpfully.

Cedric stilled. “Eight?”

“Oh yes. Two more arrived downstairs while I was coming here.” Greylock glanced thoughtfully toward the greenhouse ceiling. “One involved peonies, I believe. Very symbolic.”

Cedric closed his eyes. Evaline bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to stop herself from laughing outright. Mostly because Cedric looked genuinely distressed now rather than merely flustered.

“Cedric,” she said gently.

“No, it’s perfectly fine,” he replied immediately in the tone of a man who was very clearly not fine at all. “Why shouldn’t a king attempt to court you through increasingly aggressive horticulture? Entirely reasonable behavior.”

Greylock barked a laugh.

Evaline stepped closer instinctively, touching lightly against Cedric’s forearm until he finally looked at her again. The tension there beneath his composure tightened something unexpectedly protective in her chest.

“You do realize,” she said carefully, “that I’m not comparing the two of you.”

Cedric’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.

Evaline continued before he could dismiss it. “You keep speaking as though this is really is a contest. A contest I haven’t already made a decision about.”

Silence fell and Greylock went very still beside the doorway. Cedric simply stared at her. And suddenly Evaline understood something she perhaps should have realized far sooner. 

Cedric genuinely believed Magnus was the more logical choice. The safer choice. The more impressive choice.

A king.

While Cedric was only—

Oh.

The realization struck her so suddenly it almost hurt.

Not because she hadn’t known Cedric struggled with confidence. She had. Of course she had. But she had not understood the depth of it until now. Had not realized some part of him truly believed she might someday wake and realize she could do better.

Her chest tightened painfully.

“Cedric,” she said more softly this time.

He looked almost wary now, which made it so much worse.

Before she could decide exactly what to say next, Greylock abruptly straightened away from the doorway with the unmistakable expression of a man sensing his continued presence might shortly become emotionally hazardous.

“Well,” he announced briskly, adjusting his cuffs, “I believe I have now contributed exactly enough psychological damage for one morning.”

“Coward,” Cedric muttered.

“Survivor,” Greylock corrected smoothly.

Evaline barely heard either of them. Because she was still looking at Cedric. And suddenly, with startling clarity, she realized that for all his magic, all his brilliance, all the quiet devotion he offered so freely, Cedric genuinely hadn’t fully grasped how deeply loved he already was.

Greylock’s departure should have eased the tension lingering inside the greenhouse. Instead, silence settled strangely in his wake.

Warm sunlight still filtered softly through the curved glass overhead. Somewhere deeper among the hanging herbs, water dripped steadily into the irrigation basin with quiet rhythmic taps. The scent of lavender still lingered warmly between them.

And yet something had shifted.

Cedric busied himself immediately after Greylock disappeared through the greenhouse doors, gathering loose sprigs of rosemary that did not remotely require gathering. Evaline watched him for a long moment without speaking.

He was retreating. Not physically. Cedric rarely did that anymore with her. But emotionally? Yes. Carefully. Quietly. Like someone already bracing for disappointment before it arrived.

The realization tightened painfully in her chest.

“Cedric.”

His hands stilled briefly against the rosemary stems before continuing again. “Mm?”

Evaline stepped closer slowly, watching the way his shoulders drew subtly tighter beneath his robes. “Look at me.”

He hesitated, but ultimately relented. There it was again — that carefulness she’d noticed earlier. That uncertainty. As though some part of him was already preparing himself to be compared against a king and found lacking.

It felt absurd.

It was heartbreaking.

“You truly think I’d choose Magnus over you?” she asked quietly.

Cedric’s expression shifted immediately. “I didn’t say that.”

“No,” Evaline agreed softly. “You didn’t.” But she knew him well enough now to hear the things he avoided saying aloud.

Sunlight caught faintly against the plum threading along his cuffs as he lowered the rosemary onto the worktable with unnecessary precision. When he finally spoke again, his voice sounded carefully neutral.

“He is a king.”

Evaline stared at him.

Cedric looked away first. Not defensive. Not angry. Just tired suddenly. Tired in a way that had very little to do with Magnus himself.

“He is charming,” Cedric continued quietly. “Confident. Politically respected. Entire kingdoms revolve around his favor.” His mouth twitched faintly without humor. “And unlike Ferelden, Enchancia would not object to you standing beside him publicly.”

The words landed hard.

Perhaps harder than he intended.

For one long moment, Evaline simply looked at him as understanding unfolded sharp and aching beneath her ribs.

This wasn’t only about Magnus. This was about Alistair. About crowns and courts and being told she was unworthy of standing beside someone she loved because the world valued bloodlines more than devotion.

Her chest tightened painfully.

“Cedric,” she said more gently this time.

He laughed softly beneath his breath before she could continue, though there was no real amusement in it.

“I know it is irrational.”

“No,” Evaline answered immediately. “No, it isn’t.”

That finally pulled his gaze back toward hers. The greenhouse suddenly felt very quiet around them.

“You lost him because he became king,” Cedric said softly.

Evaline swallowed hard. For a brief moment, memories rose unwanted and vivid behind her eyes. Gold banners snapping in the wind at Denerim. Nobles whispering behind jeweled masks. Alistair standing before a throne he had never truly wanted while the Landsmeet decided what sort of woman was worthy to stand beside a king.

Not her.

Never her.

And afterward… the slow, devastating understanding that love alone had not been enough to survive the weight of Ferelden’s expectations.

Then the Fade. The Nightmare Demon. Loss layered atop old grief until sometimes she scarcely knew where one heartbreak ended and another began.

Cedric watched her carefully now, immediate regret flickering across his expression. “I should not have brought him up.”

“No,” Evaline said quietly. “I’m glad you did.”

Because now she understood. Not just the jealousy. Not just the insecurity, but the fear beneath it. Some part of Cedric genuinely believed she had once chosen a king over love. And Maker, that could not have been further from the truth.

She stepped closer until barely any space remained between them at all. Cedric went very still.

“When Alistair became king,” she said softly, “I didn’t lose him because he was somehow better than me.” Her fingers curled lightly against the fabric of Cedric’s sleeve. “I lost him because Thedas demanded sacrifices from both of us neither of us were ready to make.”

Cedric said nothing.

Evaline searched his face carefully before continuing.

“And if I’m being honest?” A faint, sad smile touched her mouth. “Part of me hated crowns for a very long time afterward.”

Something flickered across his expression then. Surprise perhaps. Or heartbreak on her behalf.

Maybe both.

“Magnus is not Alistair,” she continued gently. “And Enchancia is not Thedas.” Her thumb brushed lightly against his wrist beneath the edge of his sleeve. “No one here is asking me to trade love for status.”

Cedric’s breathing had gone shallow again.

Evaline stepped even closer. “And even if they did,” she murmured, “I already know which I would choose.”

The silence that followed felt almost unbearably tender.

For one long heartbeat Cedric simply stared at her, all composure stripped quietly away beneath the weight of her honesty. Then, very slowly, something in him softened.

Not completely, but just enough. Enough that the tension in his shoulders eased slightly beneath her hands. Enough that he finally looked less like a man bracing for loss.

And when he spoke again, his voice came quieter than before. “You make it sound very simple.”

Evaline’s smile turned gentler still.

“It is simple,” she said softly. “I love you, Cedric.”

Everything stopped. The drifting water, the rustling leaves overhead, the distant movement beyond the greenhouse glass. It all went quiet, and Cedric forgot how to breathe entirely.

For one long, disquieting moment, nobody moved.

The absolute stillness that fell over Evaline's bedroom was heavy with many things. Amber stared openly between them with both hands clasped against her mouth as though physically restraining herself from screaming. Sofia looked scarcely better, bright eyes impossibly wide above the edge of Clover’s fur while the rabbit himself blinked with vague confusion at the emotional devastation unfolding around him.

Baileywick stood frozen beneath the weight of Magnus’s enormous floral arrangement, looking very much like a man mentally drafting several formal apology letters at once.

And Cedric…

Well Cedric suddenly looked unsure of what to do with his hands. His hands, his gaze, his very being. The weight of his words, of Evaline's declaration, came crashing down on top of him with the most suffocating weight.

Yet, he was happy to bear it, even if it meant threat of a grisly, public execution. Whether Magnus flew into a rage, or took the news with subtle disappointment, Cedric found he didn't particularly care. Not while Evaline was smiling at him like that.

Baileywick recovered first, if only through years of calamitous royal incidents already navigated. He’d surely survived worse. “Very good then,” he said carefully. “I shall… inform His Majesty.”

“Yes, do that,” Amber said immediately, still sounding strangled as she reined in another squeal.

“Amber,” Sofia hissed beside her, scandalized and delighted all at once.

“What?” Amber whispered fiercely. “This is the most romantic thing that has happened since Mom met Dad.”

Baileywick cleared his throat with the careful gravity of a man attempting to regain control of a carriage already halfway over a cliff. “Well then,” he said, adjusting the enormous arrangement in his arms, “I shall leave these here, then ensure His Majesty receives the message promptly.”

“Yes,” Cedric heard himself say faintly. “Excellent. Promptness is important.”

Amber made another muffled noise into Sofia’s shoulder.

The entire room had become actively uninhabitable. And still Evaline smiled at him. Not politely. Not out of pity or obligation or careful diplomacy. Warmly. Like she truly meant what she had said.

Cedric abruptly became aware that his pulse had migrated somewhere into the general vicinity of his throat.

Before he could embarrass himself further by saying something so incredibly foolish, Evaline rose smoothly from the bed and crossed the room toward him. Cedric straightened instinctively as she approached, only to immediately regret it when she stopped close enough for him to catch the faint scent of lavender lingering against her skin.

Far too close.

Entirely too close.

Her smile softened further as she carefully turned the flowers he had gifted her in her hands. Not Magnus’s roses. His. That realization alone nearly finished him outright.

“Thank you for these,” she murmured. “I’ll have to find a vase to put them in so I can enjoy them a little longer.”

He swallowed hard. Behind them, Amber looked moments away from rocketing off into another plane of existence. Evaline either mercifully ignored this or had simply accepted chaos as inevitable before breakfast.

“Now,” she said lightly while reaching to brush a lock of hair from his forehead, “give me a minute to get dressed and we’ll be off.”

Cedric remained perfectly motionless long after Evaline disappeared into the adjoining dressing room.

Her bedroom, unfortunately, did not disappear with her. Silence lingered for approximately two full seconds.

Then Amber screamed.

It was not a loud scream, precisely. Baileywick likely would have fainted outright had she truly committed to it. Instead, it emerged as a violently restrained sort of shriek muffled immediately into Sofia’s shoulder while the younger princess dissolved into helpless giggling beside her.

Clover kicked once in alarm before deciding none of this involved him personally and settling back down again.

Cedric closed his eyes briefly.

“Yes,” Amber hissed dramatically the moment she regained enough composure to speak. “Yes, finally. Thank the stars.”

“Amber,” Sofia whispered through her laughter.

“No, absolutely not. Do you have any idea how painful this has been to witness?” Amber demanded, turning both hands outward toward Cedric as if presenting evidence before a royal court. “Months. Months of longing stares and dramatic silences and magically charged emotional repression —”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Cedric informed her at once.

Unfortunately, his voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

Amber pointed at him triumphantly. “There! That! That exact tone!”

Cedric considered vanishing into another realm entirely.

Baileywick quietly began inching toward the door with Magnus’s arrangement still balanced carefully in his arms.

“A wise decision,” Cedric muttered without opening his eyes.

“I heard that,” Baileywick replied primly.

“I intended for you to.”

Sofia, at least, took mercy on him first.

“I think what Amber means,” she said gently while smoothing Clover’s ears back down, “is that we’re happy for you.”

That somehow didn’t ease the tension in his chest. Cedric opened his eyes again only to find both princesses looking at him with varying degrees of delighted affection. It was deeply unsettling.

“…Right,” he said weakly.

Amber stared at him for one long moment before her expression abruptly softened into something almost suspiciously sincere. “You know she absolutely likes you too, right?”

Cedric forgot how to breathe for roughly the fourth time that morning.

The worst part was that Amber asked it so casually. As though the answer were obvious. As though Cedric had not spent the better part of several months attempting very carefully not to examine the possibility too closely for the sake of his own emotional stability.

Before he could formulate a response that was not complete nonsense, Evaline’s voice drifted lightly from behind inside the dressing room.

“Amber, my dear...” she laughed lightly.

Amber lifted both hands immediately. “I’m just saying.”

Cedric very suddenly became fascinated by a supposed crack in the ceiling molding.

Baileywick finally escaped while the opportunity still existed, offering Cedric one final look that carried the exhausted sympathy of a man witnessing a magical disaster unfold in slow motion.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Before long, Evaline stepped back into the room with her hair loosely pinned away from her face and midnight-colored fabric draped softly beneath her cloak. Simpler than the gowns she wore for court. Easier to move in. Comfortable.

Beautiful.

Entirely beautiful.

Cedric’s brain stalled somewhere between one heartbeat and the next.

Evaline, mercifully unaware of the catastrophic damage she continued inflicting upon his nervous system, reached for his hand, lacing her fingers loosely with his. “Ready?”

No. Absolutely not.

“Yes,” Cedric answered anyway.

Amber made another strangled sound into her hands. Evaline laughed softly beneath her breath before pulling him toward the door. Cedric nearly forgot how to walk in that moment, and still, somehow, he followed her.

The castle corridors felt strangely quieter than usual. Or perhaps Cedric simply struggled to hear much of anything over the sound of his own heartbeat. Evaline’s hand remained loosely intertwined with his as she guided him down the winding hall, entirely unbothered by the occasional servant they passed along the way. 

A few offered polite bows. Others smiled with varying degrees of poorly concealed curiosity. One kitchen maid nearly dropped an entire basket of linens.

 Cedric considered turning himself into a mouse or something of equal size. He was almost ready to scurry off to the nearest small hole he could find to hide. He wasn’t used to being perceived quite like this. That, and he was terrified of running into King Magnus.

 Beside him, Evaline merely squeezed his hand lightly as though none of this were particularly unusual. The worst part was how natural she made it seem. Not performative. Not overly deliberate. Just easy. As though walking hand in hand beside him through the castle halls was something she had always intended to do.

Maybe she had. 

Maybe that was something he had taken for granted these last months.

 “You truly didn’t have to do that,” Cedric heard himself say quietly after several moments.

Evaline glanced sideways toward him. “Do what?”

“Decline Magnus.”

The words felt absurdly inadequate for what he actually meant.

You didn’t have to choose me. You didn’t have to say it out loud. You didn’t have to make this real.

Morning light spilled gold across the floor between them as they walked, catching softly along the edges of Evaline’s dark hair. He could see the faintest trace of red in her tresses. And for a moment, she simply looked at him with that same steady warmth that had been quietly dismantling his emotional defenses since the moment they met.

Her thumb brushed lightly against his knuckles. “I wanted to,” she said simply.

Cedric nearly walked directly into a decorative suit of armor.

Before disaster could strike, Evaline caught his arm and gently steered him away from catastrophe without so much as breaking stride.

“Careful,” she laughed softly.

“Yes,” Cedric replied faintly, staring at absolutely nothing. “Excellent suggestion.”

The warmth of her laughter lingered beside him for the remainder of the walk. By the time they reached the royal greenhouse, the frantic noise in Cedric’s thoughts had softened into something quieter. Not gone entirely. Likely never gone entirely. But quieter.

Warmth greeted them immediately the moment Cedric pushed open the tall glass door.

The scent hit first.

Fresh soil. Lavender. Rosemary drying in neat bundles from the ceiling beams overhead. Damp earth still carrying traces of morning watering.

Sunlight filtered green-gold through curved glass panels arching high above them, illuminating narrow stone pathways winding between raised garden beds and climbing ivy. Bees drifted lazily among blooming herbs near the far windows while somewhere deeper inside, water dripped steadily into a shallow irrigation basin.

Nothing inside glittered with dramatic magical enchantment. 

No carnivorous vines, no glowing blossoms, no ancient mystical artifacts humming ominously beneath the flowerbeds. Just plants. Ordinary things carefully tended and kept alive through patience, routine, and quiet care.

Evaline stepped inside slowly beside him, her gaze wandering across the greenhouse with unmistakable wonder softening her expression.

“Oh,” she murmured.

Cedric glanced toward her automatically. “Oh?”

A small smile touched her mouth. “It’s peaceful.”

Something in Cedric’s chest eased unexpectedly at the sound of it. Yes, that was exactly the word for it. Peaceful.

Not grand. Not impressive. Not particularly royal. Just warm sunlight filtering through the glass, and growing things, and the steady comfort of familiar routines.

He had spent years cultivating the greenhouse into something useful rather than decorative. Half the plants growing here ended up in healing draughts, sleeping tonics, or remedies for various castle ailments. The castle healers frequently borrowed ingredients from him whenever supplies ran low.

There was practicality in it. Purpose.  And somehow, impossibly, Evaline looked at it as though it were something miraculous.

“I should warn you,” Cedric said while reaching for two empty gathering baskets hanging beside the worktable, “most of what grows here is entirely ordinary.”

Evaline accepted one of the baskets from him with an amused sort of warmth still lingering in her eyes. “Cedric,” she said gently, “I fought darkspawn for most of my life.”

His mouth betrayed him with the beginning of a smile.

“I’m about due for something entirely ordinary.”

The words settled somewhere deep inside Cedric’s chest with startling gentleness. And for a moment, neither of them moved. Sunlight spilled warmly across the greenhouse floor between them while somewhere overhead, leaves rustled softly against the glass ceiling. The entire world beyond the greenhouse walls suddenly felt very far away.

No kings. No court politics. No expectations. Just the steady scent of herbs and flowers lingering in the warm air between them.

Evaline shifted first, setting her basket against one hip before stepping toward the nearest raised planter bed. Long fingers brushed lightly through a cluster of flowering chamomile while Cedric watched her with helpless fascination.

“You use this in sleeping tonics?” she asked.

Cedric cleared his throat softly, forcing his thoughts back toward something marginally functional. “Among other things,” he said, moving to kneel beside the planter. “It’s useful for calming draughts, headaches, mild fevers—though the petals need to be dried properly first or the bitterness becomes unbearable.”

Evaline crouched beside him without hesitation, her shoulder brushing lightly against his as she examined the tiny white flowers more closely.

The contact was brief, entirely innocent. It still nearly stopped his heart.

“And how do you properly dry chamomile petals?” she asked solemnly. 

Cedric glanced sideways toward her only to find unmistakable amusement dancing in her eyes.

Ah… She was doing this on purpose now.

Dangerous woman.

“You hang them upside down in small bundles,” he informed her carefully, attempting to maintain at least the illusion of composure. “Away from direct sunlight.” Evaline nodded thoughtfully as though this were deeply vital information.

“I see.”

“You already knew that, didn’t you?”

That earned a quiet laugh from her, warm and soft enough that Cedric felt it somewhere behind his ribs. And as the two of them settled there together beneath the golden morning light, surrounded by growing things and ordinary comforts, Cedric found himself thinking that perhaps Amber had been right.

Maybe this really had been inevitable all along.

Night inside Kinloch Hold sounded nothing like night in the alienage. There were no distant conversations through thin walls, no barking dogs, and no laughter drifting up from crowded streets. Only echoes.

Wind howled faintly somewhere beyond the high tower windows while footsteps carried endlessly through distant corridors. Doors opened and shut far away with hollow thuds that seemed to linger forever in the stone. Everything about the tower felt too large, too cold, and much too empty. 

Evaline sat curled tightly atop the narrow bed she had been assigned in the apprentice dormitory, clutching her blanket and carved halla against her chest while trying very hard not to cry again. Around her, other children settled into beds arranged in long orderly rows across the chamber. Some whispered quietly, while some ignored her entirely.

 One little boy several beds away had already fallen asleep sideways across his blankets with his mouth open. A girl near the far wall was crying softly into her pillow. Nobody seemed surprised by it, and that made it all the worse.

Evaline looked down at the unfamiliar nightdress folded around her knees. Circle robes sat neatly at the foot of the bed waiting for morning. Not her clothes. Nothing here was hers.

A lantern glowed dimly near the dormitory door, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Somewhere overhead, thunder rumbled faintly beyond the tower walls. Evaline missed home so badly it physically hurt. She missed the smell of herbs, the creak of floorboards, her father’s terrible medicinal tea… Her mother humming while she braided herbs beside the hearth.

She wanted to go home.

The thought struck so hard her eyes burned immediately.

No. No crying. Not here.

She pulled the blanket tighter around herself instead. A mattress creaked nearby and Evaline looked up sharply. A boy stood beside the neighboring bed watching her uncertainly. Older than her, she guessed. Maybe eight or nine.

His dark hair stuck up unevenly as though he’d cut it himself at some point and regretted the experience immediately afterward. Freckles dusted across his nose. His robes hung slightly crooked… And he looked deeply nervous.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

Evaline stared.

The boy shifted awkwardly. “I’m Jowan.”

“…Hello,” Evaline answered cautiously.

Jowan glanced around the dormitory before lowering his voice conspiratorially. “You’re the new one.”

Evaline frowned slightly. “I know.”

“Oh. Of course.” He looked embarrassed immediately.

Evaline decided after several long seconds that he did not appear dangerous. Mostly because dangerous people probably spoke with more confidence.

Jowan pointed awkwardly toward the empty space beside her bed. “Can I sit?”

She hesitated before nodding once. Jowan sat carefully atop the neighboring mattress, and for a moment, neither child spoke. Then, quietly, Jowan found his voice again.

“Does your stomach hurt too?”

Evaline blinked. “What?”

Jowan shrugged awkwardly. “Mine did the first night.”

The simple honesty startled her enough that she answered before thinking. “…A little.”

“Yeah,” he nodded knowingly. “That happens.”

Evaline looked at him more carefully now. “You’ve been here long?”

“Couple years.”

That sounded impossibly ancient.

Jowan must have seen the horror cross her face because he laughed quietly. “It’s not all terrible.”

Evaline remained unconvinced.

Jowan leaned closer slightly. “The library’s nice.”

She blinked again.

“There’s a huge window on the upper floor where you can see the lake.” His expression brightened faintly. “And one of the senior enchanters sneaks biscuits to apprentices if templars aren’t nearby.”

“…Really?”

“Mmhm.”

Jowan lowered his voice further. “And First Enchanter Irving lets the tower cats into his office even though he pretends he doesn’t.”

“A cat?”

“Three cats.”

That almost sounded impossible enough to be interesting. Almost. The crying girl across the dormitory sniffled harder suddenly, and Evaline looked over instinctively.

Jowan’s expression dimmed slightly. “She came last week,” he whispered quietly. “Everybody cries the first night.”

Evaline immediately looked down at her blanket again, while Jowan pretended not to notice. After a moment, he reached into the pocket of his robe and awkwardly held something out toward her. A small biscuit wrapped carefully in cloth.

Evaline could only stare.

“I saved it from dinner,” he explained quickly. “You looked sad.”

Maker. The lump in her throat hurt suddenly.

“You can have half,” she whispered after a moment.

Jowan grinned immediately. “Deal.”

They broke the biscuit carefully between them beneath the dim lantern light while wind moaned softly beyond the tower windows.

It still hurt. Everything still hurt. But for the very first time since arriving at Kinloch Hold, Evaline no longer felt entirely alone.

Then, after another long silence, Jowan glanced toward the carved halla tucked tightly beneath her arm.

“My mother made it,” Evaline said quietly before he could ask.

Jowan nodded once. “I had a wooden knight once.”

Evaline looked up. “What happened to it?”

“…I forgot what it looked like,” he said after a moment of hesitation.

The words settled heavily between them. Evaline’s grip tightened instinctively around the little halla. As though she might lose that too if she loosened her hold even slightly. Across the dormitory, the lantern flame flickered softly while one by one the younger apprentices drifted toward uneasy sleep beneath the ancient stone walls of the tower.

Eventually Jowan stood reluctantly beside her bed. “You can wake me up if you get scared,” he offered awkwardly.

“I’m not scared,” she insisted with a faint frown.

Thunder cracked loudly overhead, and she jumped violently. Jowan pretended very hard not to notice.

“…Right,” he said solemnly. “Me neither.”

The boat ride across Lake Calenhad felt endless.

Evaline sat wedged tightly between her mother's folded blanket, and the side of the small Chantry boat while gray water stretched in every direction around them. Wind tugged constantly at her curls, carrying the sharp scent of lake water and rain. She hated every second of it.

Not because the lake was frightening, but because every time she looked back, the shoreline grew smaller, and the tower ahead loomed larger.

Denerim had disappeared days ago. The templars spoke little during the journey. The younger one occasionally glanced toward her like he wanted to say something comforting, but never quite managed it. The older templar simply remained quiet, hands folded over the pommel of his sword as they neared the base of the tower.

Kinloch Hold was massive, cold, impossible-looking. Evaline stared up at the monolithic tower with widening eyes as the boat drifted toward the docks beneath it. It rose straight from the lake like something out of a story, all dark stone and narrow windows disappearing into the cloudy sky above.

Birds wheeled around the upper spires, while waves crashed softly against the ancient foundations below. It did not look like a place where children lived. It looked like a fortress.

The boat scraped gently against the dock.

One of the templars stepped out first before turning back toward her. "We're here."

Evaline didn't move. The older templar simply waited for her, patiently. Finally, she gathered her blanket tighter around herself and climbed carefully from the boat.

The wind felt colder on the docks. Stronger even, and everything smelled like wet stone.

The templars guided her silently through the enormous wooden doors, and into the tower proper. That's when the world suddenly felt like nothing more than echoes. There were footsteps. Voices. Distant doors opening and shutting somewhere far above. All the noise was swallowed strangely by the tower.

Clutching her little carved halla tighter, Evaline swallowed hard as she walked alongside the templars.

Mages in strange robes passed them occasionally through the halls. Some were old, some young. A few glanced toward her with quiet sympathy. Others barely looked at all.

The templars eventually stopped outside a pair of heavy doors near the lower levels. The younger one knocked twice.

"Enter," came a tired voice from beyond. The voice was older, warm even, but tired nonetheless. As the templars moved to push the doors open, the room beyond surprised her.

It was still enormous, like everything else in the tower, but warmer somehow. Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, while candles glowed softly atop cluttered desks overflowing with parchment, loose books, strange instruments, and half-finished cups of tea.

Near the tall windows stood an elderly man in robes of rich olive-green. His beard was mostly silver with streaks of snowy-white. His shoulders stooped slightly with age, and his eyes… His eyes were kind.

"Ah," he said softly upon seeing her. "You must be Evaline."

She immediately hid half behind the templar beside her.

The old man smiled gently. "A sensible response," he mused. "The tower can be rather intimidating at first."

The templars exchanged brief glances before the older one spoke.

"First Enchanter Irving—"

Ah, even at seven, Evaline recognized authority when she heard it. The old mage approached slowly, careful not to crowd her.

"Would you like to know a secret?" he asked quietly.

Evaline blinked uncertainly.

Irving leaned slightly closer. "The first day frightened me too."

Her brow furrowed. "But you're old."

The younger templar choked violently on absolutely nothing. A startled laugh burst from Irving immediately, rich and genuine enough that even the older templar's mouth twitched.

"Yes," Irving admitted gravely. "An unfortunate condition."

Evaline stared suspiciously as though trying to determine whether old age was contagious or not. Something softened in Irving's expression then. Something about the small, elven girl seemed to enchant him.

"You have had a very difficult day," he said gently. "Would you care for some tea?"

Evaline hesitated before nodding once.

"Good," Irving said warmly. "I find most tragedies become at least marginally more tolerable with tea." He moved about the room with the slow familiarity of long habit, preparing a small cup while Evaline remained rooted nervously near the doorway. The templars lingered awkwardly nearby until Irving finally waved a hand toward them.

"You've done enough frightening for one afternoon, gentlemen. Off with you now."

The younger templar looked relieved.

The older one hesitated briefly before inclining his head toward Evaline. "Good luck, little one."

And with that said, they were gone. The heavy door shut behind them with a low, final thud, and Evaline flinched. Irving couldn't help but notice. He set the teacup gently before her atop a low table near the hearth.

Lavender. The scent hit immediately and Evaline's throat tightened. Irving lowered himself into the chair opposite hers with a soft groan of aging knees.

"My apologies," he sighed. "Everything aches after fifty."

Evaline considered him for a long moment, her nose wrinkling in thought. "You're much older than fifty."

"I am devastated by your accuracy," Irving said, his voice dry in spite of the twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

A tiny laugh escaped her before she could stop it. And just for a second, there she was. A child beneath the fear.

Irving smiled softly. "There we are."

Watching him curiously, she finally sank into the cushions of the offered chair. Her eyes never left him, not for the slightest moment. Even as she curled her hands carefully around the warm teacup.

"…Mamae makes tea too."

"I imagine hers is significantly better than mine."

"Probably," she answered, quick and honest. That didn't stop her from taking a ginger sip of the tea, however. The old enchanter chuckled quietly before his expression softened again.

"You miss them already, don't you?"

Her eyes flitted down immediately. The carved halla sat tightly clutched against her blanket, beneath one arm. She couldn't help but frown into her reflection in the teacup.

"Mamae said the stars guide people home," she murmured. The words came very small. Incredibly fragile. Irving was silent for a long moment after that.

When he finally spoke, his voice had gentled considerably. "She sounds like a wise woman, your mother."

"When do I go back?" she asked, her eyes suddenly brimming with tears.

She wasn't the first child to ask the question. She most certainly wasn't going to be the last. Maker only knew…

Folding his hands slowly in his lap, Irving turned his gaze out the window. Outside, Lake Calenhad stretched endlessly beneath the darkening sky.

"This place will become part of your home too, in time," he answered carefully. It was not a lie, but… It wasn't the full truth either. The truth hurt far too much, and too much had already been inflicted upon the little girl already.

Evaline lowered her gaze quickly before tears could spill free. He pretended not to notice. Instead, he reached for the small plate beside the tea tray and nudged it toward her. Strawberry scones, freshly baked that morning. Evaline stared at them uncertainly.

Then slowly — very slowly — she picked one up.

The alienage had not recovered from the shock by the time the templars arrived.

Evaline could still hear it outside — whispers, arguments, the frightened edge beneath every voice. And one word she hardly knew the meaning of was spoken with the most fear she had ever known.

Mage.

The word followed her all the way home.

Inside the apothecary, the air felt wrong somehow. It was too still. Too quiet. The shattered remains of the stolen draught still clung sticky against Tavian's boots where he had tracked it inside after the chaos in the square.

Evaline sat at the little table near the hearth with both hands curled tightly in her lap. No one had scolded her. That frightened her more than anything.

Linaya moved quickly through the room gathering things with trembling hands she was trying very hard to steady. A folded, linen dress. A small, woolen blanket. A small carved halla toy from beside the bed. Tavian stood near the front window pretending to reorganize herb jars while watching the street outside every few seconds.

Waiting.

Evaline swallowed hard. "Mamae?"

Linaya looked up immediately. "Yes da'len?"

"… Are people angry with me?"

Linaya crossed the room at once, kneeling in front of her so quickly their knees bumped together.

"No," she said gently. It was a lie. Evaline could hear the fear outside herself. Linaya cupped her face anyway, warm hands trembling slightly against her cheeks. "You did not do anything wrong."

"I scared them."

For half a heartbeat, Linaya's expression broke before she smoothed it away again. "You were trying to help," she whispered.

A heavy knock struck the door. Three sharp blows.

Tavian closed his eyes as Evaline jumped violently in her chair. Linaya stood so fast the stool beside her scraped harshly against the floorboards. For one terrible moment, nobody moved. They scarcely even dared to breathe.

Then, crossing the room, Tavian opened the door. Two templars stood beneath the fading afternoon light. Armor, weapons, and the image of a flaming sword emblazoned on their breastplates. One older, and the other much younger. Neither looked particularly cruel.

That almost made this harder.

The older templar removed his helmet slowly as Tavian stepped aside. His gaze landed immediately on Evaline. She shrank instinctively against the chair. There was no hatred in his expression. Only resignation.

"Evaline Surana?" he asked quietly.

Her throat tightened, and the words wouldn't come even as she opened her mouth. Linaya answered in her stead.

"She's frightened."

The templar's jaw shifted slightly before he nodded once.

"I know."

No one spoke after that. Not for a long beat. The silence stretched unbearably through the tiny apothecary while distant voices carried faintly through the alienage streets outside.

It was finally Tavian that broke the stillness, clearing his throat.

"How long do we have?"

The older templar hesitated, but only for a brief moment. "We should leave now."

Linaya inhaled sharply beside the hearth, and Evaline looked between them all in confusion.

"Leave where?"

Nobody answered quickly enough. Fear began curling slowly in her stomach. The younger templar looked away as the older one crossed the room to approach her. He crouched to meet her eyes, unsuccessfully trying to appear less intimidating in full plate-armor.

"There is a place for children with magic," he explained carefully. "You'll be taught there. Protected."

Evaline's lips curved into a small frown, her bottom lip fighting not to tremble.

"I don't want to go."

Linaya made a small, strangled sound behind her.

The templar continued gently, "I know this is frightening —"

"She's Seven," Tavian snapped suddenly, his voice breaking.

The room went still. Evaline had never heard that tone from him before. Not anger, but desperation. Tavian pressed both hands hard against the counter edge as though physically holding himself together.

"She cannot fall asleep unless there's a lantern lit, because she's afraid of the dark."

The younger templar swallowed visibly, throat bobbing. Linaya crossed the room immediately then, sinking beside Evaline's chair and pulling her close against her side.

"You're going on a journey," she whispered softly into her curls.

Evaline looked up at her, startled. "A journey?"

Linaya smiled. It trembled around the edges, but it was still a smile. "Yes, da'len."

"You're coming too, right?"

The question shattered the room apart silently. Linaya's breath caught. Tavian turned away completely toward the shelves. The older templar looked down at the floorboards.

And Evaline… Evaline stared between them all, confusion beginning to twist toward panic.

"Mamae?"

Linaya gathered her quickly into both arms before the fear could fully take hold. "Oh, da'len," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Listen to me."

Evaline threw her arms around her mother, clinging tightly to her. Linaya pressed kisses frantically into her curls, her forehead, her tiny hands.

"You are brave," she whispered. "Do you understand me? So brave."

"I don't want to leave you."

"I know."

"Please, you come too."

Eyes full of tears, Linaya clenched them shut, willing herself not to let them spill over.

"I can't."

The words barely existed.

Evaline began crying then. Not loudly, or wildly. That was somehow worse. Small, frightened tears soaked into Linaya's shoulder. Tavian stood utterly motionless with his back turned, because if he looked at them right now, he might completely fall apart.

The older templar finally spoke quietly. "We can give you a moment."

Tavian laughed once under his breath, the sound hollow and broken. "A moment," he repeated faintly.

Still… The templars stepped back outside and the door closed behind them. In an instant, Tavian crossed the room in three, quick strides before dropping to his knees beside his wife and daughter. Evaline launched herself into his arms.

"I don't want to leave," she sobbed.

Tavian pulled her so tightly into his arms that she squeaked. "I know, lethallan. I know."

He held her like he could somehow keep the world from taking her if he just refused to let go hard enough. Linaya brushed trembling fingers through Evaline's curls while tears finally slipped freely down her tattooed cheeks now.

"You remember what I told you about the stars?" she whispered softly.

Evaline hiccuped against her father's shoulder. "They guide people home."

Linaya nodded, her hands still trembling. "No matter where you go… No matter how far away…" Her voice nearly broke entirely. "You look for them, and you remember home is still beneath the same sky."

Evaline could only cry harder.

Tavian pressed his face briefly into her hair. "You write to us whenever you can," he whispered roughly. "And when they teach you things, you learn them. You hear me?"

She nodded weakly.

"Good girl."

Linaya reached for the little carved halla sitting nearby and pressed it carefully into Evaline's hands. "So you won't be lonely."

Evaline stared down at it with a small sniffle, her little body quaking.

Then another knock came at the door. Softer this time, and the room seemed to shatter completely.

The summer sun shone bright that day. Beads of sweat rolled down Tavian's neck and face as he scribbled a note in the corner of his ledger. The heat had settled thick over the alienage by midday, clinging stubbornly between crowded buildings and narrow streets with nowhere to escape.

Even the herbs hanging from the apothecary rafters seemed wilted beneath it.

"Babae."

"Mhm."

"Babae."

"Hmm?"

"Babae."

Tavian finally glanced up from the ledger with exaggerated weariness only to find Evaline leaning dramatically across the counter with her chin in both hands.

"Yes, lethallan?"

"I'm helping."

A small, helpless smile bowed his lips. "Are you supervising?"

"I am!" she declared, perking up with a grin. From the back room came the unmistakable sound of Linaya laughing softly to herself. Tavian couldn't help but laugh as well, ruffling Evaline's hair affectionately.

"Babae, stop!" she giggled, waving his hand away. "You're messing up my hair!" Hair, that was only partially brushed earlier that morning before she abandoned the task to play with her dolls instead. The oppressive heat had sapped the bounce of her curls some time ago, making the tangles less noticeable at least.

"Perhaps you should have Mamae help you with it," he offered, waiting to see if Linaya would sweep in to keep their precocious little girl occupied.

Before either Evaline or Linaya could answer, there was a rustle at the doorway as the curtain was pushed aside. Squinting against a beam of sunlight that stretched toward them, Evaline's expression brightened. She especially loved to help Babae with his customers.

The apothecary remained busy even in summer. Sun sickness, spoiled food, headaches, cuts and scrapes from children climbing trees. There was always something.

Tavian moved automatically through the familiar motions of gathering jars and bundles while Evaline remained stationed proudly atop the stool beside the counter 'helping' by handing him ingredients. Occasionally, even the correct ones.

"Elfroot," Tavian requested absently.

Evaline handed him dried lavender.

"Close enough," he sighed.

Linaya appeared from the back room moments later carrying fresh cloth wrappings beneath one arm. Sweat dampened loose strands of dark hair around her temples, though she still smiled immediately upon seeing them.

"There's my hard workers."

Evaline straightened proudly. "I'm supervising!"

"Ah," Linaya nodded solemnly. "A very important position."

Pointing an accusatory finger at his wife, smiling in spite of himself, Tavian's voice lowered. "You're the one encouraging her."

"Of course I am."

The curtain rustled again before Tavian could respond. This time, however, the newcomer did not linger near the counter. Evaline noticed him first — A human man, thin, nervous, and sweat-slicked from the heat.

His eyes moved too quickly around the room.

Tavian noticed a second later. “Can I help you?” he asked carefully.

The man startled slightly as though dragged from thought. “What? No. Just looking.”

Linaya’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly beside the shelves. Evaline felt it immediately. That quiet adult tension children always noticed even when they did not understand it.

The man drifted farther along the shelves while Tavian resumed helping another customer, though Evaline noticed he kept glancing back toward him now. Then, suddenly the man’s hand shot toward the cooling shelf near the back wall where several expensive healing draughts rested in shaded water.

Glass clinked sharply.

Linaya inhaled. “Hey—!”

The man bolted straight out the door.

“Maker’s breath,” Tavian cursed, already moving around the counter.

Evaline saw the stolen draught clenched tightly in the man’s hand as he shoved through the crowded square outside. People shouted. Someone stumbled aside. The thief ran, and before Evaline fully understood what she was doing, she reached after him.

Not with her hands. With something else. Something cold.

The world snapped still for one terrible moment.

Then frost exploded across the sunbaked stones. Ice raced forward in glittering white veins beneath the fleeing man’s feet. The square erupted in screams. The thief barely had time to yelp before both boots froze solid against the ground. He pitched forward violently with a startled cry, the stolen draught flying from his hand before shattering harmlessly across the cobblestones.

Silence crashed down afterward. Complete and terrible.

The heat of summer vanished beneath sudden unnatural cold. Frost crackled outward across the square stones and people stared openly now. At the ice, at the trapped man… at Evaline…

Her tiny outstretched hand still hovered frozen in the air. “Oh…” Evaline whispered faintly.

The thief began shrieking. “Magic! She’s a mage!”

The word struck the square like a slap.

Mage.

Whispered conversations stopped and faces changed. Fear spread faster than the frost had. Evaline looked around in confusion as strangers suddenly stepped backward from her. One woman grabbed her child immediately and pulled him behind her skirts.

“No,” Tavian said sharply. He was beside her instantly, between her and everyone else. Linaya reached them a second later, one arm wrapping protectively around Evaline so quickly the little girl nearly stumbled.

“It’s alright,” Linaya whispered, though her voice shook.

But Evaline barely heard her, because people were staring now. Not kindly. Not the way they used to.

The thief continued struggling uselessly against the ice while panic spread through the square. “Someone get the templars.”

“No—”

“She froze him!”

“She’s dangerous—”

“She’s just a child,” Linaya snapped suddenly, fierce enough that several people fell silent in shock. Evaline had never heard her mother sound like that before.

Tavian crouched quickly in front of her, both hands gripping her shoulders gently but firmly. “Evaline,” he said carefully. “Look at me.”

Her wide eyes finally lifted toward his.

“You did not mean to hurt anyone,” he said steadily.

Evaline’s lower lip trembled. “I just wanted him to stop.”

Tavian nearly broke right there in the middle of the square. Because she sounded so confused. So small. 

And behind him, the ice still gleamed brilliantly beneath the summer sun.

Divider credit to @/saradika-graphics

The alienage always sounded different after dark. During the day, it breathed with noise and movement. Vendors shouting across narrow lanes, children darting between crowded homes, arguments spilling from open windows alongside laughter and music alike.

But at night, the world softened. Lanternlight glowed warmly through thin curtains. Footsteps quieted. Conversations dropped to murmurs meant only for family.

Above the apothecary, the Surana home sat wrapped in the comforting scent of steeping herbs and rain tapping gently against the shutters. Evaline sat cross-legged atop the bed with all the intense concentration of someone performing extremely serious work.

Unfortunately, the work in question was attempting to braid one of Linaya’s long dark hair ribbons around her stuffed mabari toy. The ribbon had become hopelessly tangled.

Evaline frowned at it with deep offense. “It keeps moving.”

Linaya, seated behind her against the headboard, smiled faintly over the book resting in her lap. “I do not believe the ribbon is responsible, lethallan.”

“It is.”

“Mm. A troublesome ribbon indeed.” From across the room came Tavian’s distracted voice as he sorted herbs beside the hearth. “You should charge it rent if it plans on causing that much trouble.”

Evaline gasped softly. “Can ribbons pay rent?”

“No,” Tavian answered gravely. “That is why they are terrible tenants.”

Linaya laughed quietly under her breath. The sound always made the room feel warmer somehow.

Evaline abandoned the ribbon battle a moment later with the solemn dignity of a defeated general before crawling across the blankets toward her mother instead. “Story?” she asked immediately.

Linaya closed the book in her lap. “Another one?”

“Yes.”

“You already had two.”

Evaline considered this carefully. “…Three?”

Tavian snorted softly from the hearth.

Linaya shook her head with fond resignation. “Very well. One more.”

Evaline beamed triumphantly and immediately curled against her mother’s side beneath the blankets. Rain continued tapping softly against the windows while Linaya smoothed gentle fingers through her daughter’s curls.

“What sort of story tonight?” she asked softly.

“The wolf.”

“The wolf again?”

Evaline nodded vigorously. Linaya exchanged an amused look with Tavian across the room before settling deeper against the pillows.

“Very well,” she murmured. “Long ago, before humans crossed the sea, the People traveled beneath the guidance of the Creators…”

Evaline listened intently while Linaya spoke of ancient forests and wandering clans, of halla moving like pale ghosts beneath moonlight, of clever Fen’Harel and the dangers of pride. Though young, Evaline always listened to Dalish stories differently than other children listened to fairy tales. As though some hidden part of her already recognized them.

“The Dread Wolf was lonely,” Evaline decided quietly halfway through the story.

Linaya blinked softly. Tavian glanced up briefly from his herbs.

“Lonely?” Linaya echoed.

“He keeps leaving," she said, her lips bowing into a small frown.

The simple observation struck harder than it should have, and Linaya smiled sadly. “Yes,” she admitted quietly. “I suppose he does.”

Evaline nestled closer beneath her arm, warm and sleepy now. “Mamae?”

“Mm?”

“What’s this?”

Tiny fingers reached upward toward Linaya’s face. More specifically, toward the delicate vallaslin branching across her temples and cheekbones. Linaya went very still. Evaline touched the markings carefully, tracing one curved line with the reverence only children possessed.

“They’re pretty.”

Linaya’s throat tightened unexpectedly. Most people in the alienage tried not to stare at her tattoos. Others stared too much.

But Evaline looked at them simply because they belonged to her mother. Nothing more.

“They mean something,” Linaya explained softly.

“What?”

The question lingered a long moment in the dim candlelight. Outside, rain pattered steadily against the roof while Tavian quietly continued bundling herbs nearby, giving them the privacy of pretending not to listen.

Linaya covered Evaline’s tiny hand gently with her own. “They tell a story about where I came from,” she said.

Evaline’s eyes widened immediately. “Like a book?”

Linaya smiled faintly. “A little.”

“Do I get some?”

The question landed softly. Painfully, even. Linaya’s breath caught before she could stop it.

Creators.

Tavian’s hands stilled near the hearth. Evaline looked between them in innocent confusion. Linaya recovered first, smoothing a thumb carefully across her daughter’s cheek.

“Only the Dalish wear vallaslin, da’len.”

Evaline frowned thoughtfully. “But you’re Dalish.”

“I was born Dalish.”

“Then I’m Dalish too.”

The words were spoken with such absolute certainty that Linaya nearly broke all over again. Because yes. And no. And neither answer felt fair.

“You are many things,” Linaya whispered softly instead.

Evaline accepted this answer immediately in the way children often did, already distracted by another thought.

“Can you draw them on me?”

Tavian barked out a startled laugh before coughing into his hand to disguise it. Linaya shot him an unimpressed look.

Evaline gasped. “Babae laughed at me.”

“He absolutely did not.”

“He did.”

“I would never.”

“You did too.”

Linaya finally laughed despite herself, warm and quiet and tired. Then Evaline yawned so hard her entire tiny body curled with it.

“There is my sleepy girl,” Linaya murmured softly.

“Not sleepy.”

“Mmhm.”

Evaline’s eyes were already drifting shut again as Linaya eased lower beneath the blankets with her tucked safely against her chest.

“Mamae?”

“Yes, da’len?”

“…Tell me another story tomorrow.”

Linaya pressed a lingering kiss against the top of her curls.

“Always,” she whispered.

Divider credit to @/saradika-graphics

Snow drifted softly beyond the small window of the Surana apartment, muffling the distant sounds of the alienage beneath a blanket of winter quiet. Somewhere farther down the lane, someone laughed loudly before being hushed. A dog barked once. Then silence settled again.

Inside, warmth clung stubbornly to the little apothecary home above the shop.

Bundles of drying herbs hung from the ceiling beams, their scents mingling with woodsmoke and steeping tea. Near the hearth, Tavian sat slouched in a chair with an open ledger resting against one knee, though his eyes had long since drifted shut sometime in the last several pages.

Linaya smiled faintly from where she sat cross-legged beside the low table, carefully grinding dried elfroot with a mortar and pestle.

“You’re drooling on your records,” she informed him softly.

Tavian’s eyes cracked open immediately. “Mm. Adds character.”

“You said that yesterday too.”

“And yet business continues.”

A quiet laugh escaped her before she shook her head fondly and returned to her work.

It had been a long day.

A difficult birth in the lower quarter of the alienage had kept Linaya away most of the afternoon, followed by an elderly cobbler with a worsening cough that refused to loosen no matter what remedy Tavian brewed for him. Between patients and customers and endless winter ailments, exhaustion had settled heavily into both of them.

Still… Linaya’s gaze drifted toward the small cot tucked near the hearth.

Little Evaline slept curled beneath patched blankets, one tiny hand tucked beneath her cheek. Her dark curls spilled wildly across the pillow despite Linaya braiding them before bed only an hour earlier.

“She fought sleep again,” Tavian murmured quietly without looking up from his ledger.

“She inherited that from you.”

“That is slander.”

Linaya huffed another quiet laugh. Then she paused. The mortar stilled in her hands.

“…Tavian.”

Something in her voice immediately pulled him upright.

“What?”

Linaya stared toward the window. Frost crawled slowly across the inside of the glass. Not outside… but inside. Thin crystalline patterns spread delicately from the corners, branching wider and wider in shimmering white veins.

Tavian frowned. “Maker… is the fire dying?”

“No.”

The word came barely above a whisper.

Cold brushed against Linaya’s skin. Not winter cold. Fade-touched cold.

Her heartbeat lurched sharply.

Very carefully, she rose to her feet. Another soft crack sounded nearby. The bowl of water resting beside Evaline’s cot had frozen solid. Tavian stood immediately now, confusion giving way to unease as he followed Linaya toward their sleeping daughter.

The air grew colder with every step. Tiny flecks of frost glittered across the blankets. Along the wooden bedframe, against the floorboards, and in the center of it all, Evaline slept peacefully, warm-cheeked and unaware.

A soft puff of white mist escaped her lips with each tiny breath.

Tavian stared.

“No,” he whispered instinctively. “No, she’s too young—”

Linaya knelt beside the cot so quickly her skirts tangled beneath her knees.

“Vhenan…” Tavian said helplessly behind her.

Evaline stirred faintly at the sound of their voices and the frost along the blankets thickened. Linaya reached out immediately, gathering the little girl’s tiny hands between both of hers. They were freezing. But Evaline only sighed softly in her sleep, leaning instinctively toward the warmth of her mother’s touch.

And just like that — The frost stopped spreading and silence filled the room. Tavian stood utterly motionless behind her. Linaya lowered her head slowly over Evaline’s small hands, pressing trembling fingers against her mouth.

No. No no no. Not this. Not her. 

Tears burned suddenly at the corners of her eyes before she could stop them.

Across the room, Tavian finally found his voice again. “There has to be another explanation.”

But neither of them believed it. Linaya had seen magic before. She had traveled beside Keepers, and watched apprentices kindle flames from nothing but trembling hands. She knew exactly what this was.

And worse — She knew what would come next.

Evaline blinked awake sleepily beneath the blankets. “Mamae?”

Linaya inhaled sharply and forced every ounce of fear down so quickly it hurt. “Yes, da’len,” she whispered.

Tiny fingers curled trustingly around hers. “Why’re you sad?”

That nearly broke her. Linaya managed a trembling smile anyway, brushing dark curls gently back from Evaline’s forehead.

“I’m not sad,” she lied softly.

Behind her, Tavian turned away abruptly, one hand covering his mouth.

Evaline yawned.

Outside, snow continued falling silently over the alienage rooftops while frost still clung like spiderwebs to the inside of the glass.

Divider credit to @/saradika-graphics

Dinner preparations should not have felt like preparing for battle. And yet Cedric found himself pacing his workshop for the third time in as many minutes, one hand buried in his hair while the other adjusted a half-finished ward crystal sitting crookedly on his desk.

The crystal sparked.

Cedric narrowed his eyes at it. “You are reflecting my mood,” he informed it sternly. “Stop that.”

The crystal fizzed in open defiance.

From somewhere behind him came the unmistakable sound of someone helping themselves to his tea.

Cedric closed his eyes slowly. “I did lock that door.”

Greylock hummed thoughtfully around a sip. “Mm. And it was very educational.”

Cedric turned to find the other sorcerer already sprawled comfortably across the small sitting couch near the window as though he had always belonged there. One ankle rested atop his knee, posture infuriatingly elegant despite the blatant trespassing. Wormwood’s old perch beside the shelves sat empty now, though Greylock hardly seemed to notice the heaviness lingering around it.

Cedric noticed.

He noticed everything tonight.

“You know,” Greylock mused, examining the teacup, “I had forgotten how aggressively you steep your tea.”

“It discourages visitors.”

“And yet here I am.”

“Like mold.”

Greylock grinned over the rim of the cup. “There he is.”

Cedric exhaled sharply through his nose and turned back toward the workbench before he could be baited into a proper argument. The ward crystal still glowed unevenly beneath his fingers. Too much force poured into it. Sloppy.

Annoyingly sloppy. Another thing he blamed entirely on Magnus. Or perhaps on himself for reacting at all.

Behind him, Greylock watched in silence for approximately three whole seconds. Then —

“Oh, he’s interested.”

Cedric’s hand slipped. A sharp crack snapped through the room as the crystal split cleanly in half. Silence followed.

Greylock blinked once. “Well that certainly answers that question.”

Cedric stared down at the ruined crystal with the exhausted resignation of a man being personally persecuted by fate.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said flatly.

Greylock barked a laugh loud enough to echo off the workshop walls. “Oh, this is magnificent." He set his teacup down with far too much satisfaction for someone who had just witnessed the magical destruction of an expensive crystal.

Cedric pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t even —”

“You’re jealous.”

“I am not.”

“You shattered a ward focus.”

“It was already unstable.”

“Cedric,” Greylock said gently, “you once spent four hours recalibrating a self-stirring soup charm because the spoon rotation felt ‘aggressively uneven.’”

Cedric opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“…That is entirely unrelated.”

Greylock leaned back against the couch cushions like a man settling in for a stage performance. “Mm. Yes. Clearly.”

The workshop lights flickered faintly overhead, reacting to Cedric’s irritation before slowly settling again. Outside the tall tower windows, the last warm gold of sunset had begun slipping behind the hills surrounding the castle grounds, staining the room amber.

Cedric refused to pace again. Mostly because Greylock was watching him enjoyably every time he did.

“It does not matter,” Cedric said at last, far too quickly.

Greylock’s brows lifted. Cedric immediately hated how defensive that had sounded.

“He is a guest,” Cedric continued stiffly, turning back toward the remains of the ruined crystal as though it required intense scholarly evaluation. “A politically important one. Magnus is charming with everyone. That is practically his entire diplomatic strategy.”

“Oh no,” Greylock murmured.

Cedric frowned. “What now?”

“You’re rationalizing. That means you’ve already accepted it emotionally.”

“I have accepted nothing emotionally.”

“That sentence alone proves my point.”

Cedric considered several possible responses. Most involved transfiguration. Instead, he reached for another crystal from the shelf with perhaps slightly more force than necessary.

Greylock watched him for a long moment before speaking again, this time with noticeably less mockery beneath his voice. “You know,” he said lightly, “Magnus doesn’t pursue many people seriously.”

Cedric’s fingers paused against the crystal. “I fail to see how that information improves anything.”

“It wasn’t intended to.”

Cedric shut his eyes briefly. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.

Greylock sighed dramatically and rose from the couch at last, wandering toward the workbench with lazy, unhurried steps. Up close, the differences between them felt especially obvious tonight. Greylock wore elegance carelessly, effortlessly polished in a way that suggested he never doubted how he occupied a room.

Cedric had spent years teaching himself how.

“You’re thinking too loudly again,” Greylock observed.

Cedric scowled faintly. “That is not a real affliction.”

“It is when one has known you this long.”

Greylock picked up one half of the shattered crystal, examining the fractured center thoughtfully.

“He likes her because she doesn’t care who he is,” he said after a moment.

Cedric looked away first. That, more than anything, felt dangerous. Because it was true.

Evaline spoke to kings the same way she spoke to stablehands, servants, scholars, or soldiers. Calmly. Honestly. Without scrambling to impress them.

Magnus would find that intoxicating. It seemed most powerful men did.

“She saved his life,” Cedric muttered.

Greylock snorted softly. “Please. Simple gratitude is not what this is. She impressed him. That is not an easy feat.”

Cedric’s jaw tightened. The worst part was that Greylock was not being cruel about it. Simply observant. And Merlin help him, Cedric hated that even more.

Greylock set the broken crystal down carefully before glancing toward him again, sharper now beneath all the amusement. “Does she know?”

Cedric blinked. “Know what?”

“That he’s interested.”

Cedric hesitated. “No,” he admitted quietly after a moment. “I don’t think so.”

“Hm.” Greylock folded his arms loosely. “And does Magnus know about the two of you?”

Cedric stared at him. Greylock stared back.

Then, slowly, realization dawned across his expression. “Oh, Cedric.”

The pity was unbearable.

“We are not —” Cedric started automatically.

“Ah.” Greylock pointed at him at once. “See, now that is a fascinating claim.”

Cedric wished briefly for the sweet release of being struck by lightning. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Because suddenly the workshop felt much too small. Because Evaline reached for him without thinking.

She sought him out instinctively. She smiled differently at him than anyone else. He knew the shape of her laughter and the sound of her footsteps and how many sugars she took in tea depending on how badly she slept.

But had they ever truly defined any of it aloud?

The silence stretched just a fraction too long.

Greylock’s eyes widened with dawning horror and delight all at once. “Oh, you catastrophic fool,” he breathed.

Cedric stared at Greylock in mute shock. Greylock, unfortunately, looked thrilled.

“Oh, this is spectacular,” he said softly. “You’re in love with her, she’s clearly in love with you, and somehow the two of you have failed to communicate any of this in actual words.”

Cedric drew himself up at once. “That is an outrageous oversimplification.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

Greylock tilted his head. “Have you kissed her?”

Cedric froze. There was no denial. No outrage. Just one terrible, fatal second of hesitation.

Greylock’s eyes widened instantly. “Oh my stars, you have.”

Cedric looked away first, which was answer enough.

“Well now,” Greylock breathed, delighted. “That is significantly more interesting.”

“It was not —” Cedric began.

Greylock gasped softly. “You don’t know what it meant.”

Cedric’s silence condemned him completely. And suddenly Greylock looked less entertained and more profoundly alarmed.

“Oh, Cedric.” Once more, the pity in his voice was unbearable.

“It happened after the battle with the Horned King,” Cedric muttered defensively, which somehow only made everything worse. “Emotions were elevated. There was a great deal happening.”

“Mm,” Greylock said carefully.

“Sera was shouting. A-and Varric would not stop making comments.” Cedric folded his arms tightly. “The circumstances were hardly conducive to a measured discussion afterward.”

Greylock stared at him for a very long moment.

“You are telling me,” he said slowly, “that you kissed the woman you are devastatingly in love with, survived the near end of the world together, and then simply… never clarified any of it?”

Cedric’s expression tightened. Greylock blinked once. Then shook his head slowly in open disbelief.

“Oh, you truly are the most catastrophic fool.”

A knock sounded sharply against the workshop door before Cedric could formulate a response sufficiently scathing to reclaim even a fraction of his dignity.

Then James’s voice carried through the wood with characteristic sincerity. “Mister Cedric? Baileywick says if you aren’t downstairs in five minutes, he’s going to start dinner without you.”

A beat passed.

“Also Sofia says you’re spiraling.”

Greylock folded in on himself laughing.

Cedric closed his eyes briefly. “I am surrounded by traitors.”

“That sounds like a problem,” James called back helpfully.

Greylock was still visibly recovering when Cedric swept toward the door with all the rigid determination of a man marching toward his own execution.

“You are enjoying this far too much,” Cedric informed him darkly.

“My dear friend,” Greylock sighed, following easily behind him, “this is the most entertained I have been in years.”

Cedric opened the workshop door before he could say something regrettable.

James stood waiting outside in formal evening attire of royal green and gold, though one side of his collar sat crooked as though he had lost a battle with it moments earlier. His expression brightened immediately upon seeing Cedric.

“Oh good,” he said. “You’re dressed already.”

Greylock glanced meaningfully toward Cedric’s robes. Cedric glared at him.

James looked between them once before frowning faintly. “Why do you both look strange?”

“We always look strange,” Greylock assured him.

“That’s true,” James admitted after brief consideration.

Cedric exhaled through his nose. “Thank you, James.”

“You’re welcome.” James then leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice with absolutely no actual subtlety. “Sofia says King Magnus keeps asking where Evaline is.”

Cedric went still. Greylock made a small sound of delight behind him.

James blinked. “…Was that bad?”

“No,” Cedric lied instantly.

“Yes,” Greylock said at the exact same time.

James looked between them again, increasingly concerned. “You know,” he said carefully, “I think maybe adults make things more complicated on purpose.”

“An astute observation,” Greylock replied.

The corridors leading toward the grand dining hall glowed warm beneath enchanted lanternlight, gold spilling across polished floors while servants moved in final careful flurries around the evening preparations. Somewhere deeper in the castle, musicians had already begun playing softly enough that the melodies drifted through the halls like perfume.

Cedric barely noticed any of it. Because the moment they rounded the final corner, Evaline came into view. Conversation around the hall seemed to dull at the edges instantly.

She stood near the entrance beside Queen Miranda, one hand loosely pressed to her back while the queen adjusted something small along the sleeve of her dress. Deep sapphire fabric swept elegantly around her frame, rich enough to catch silver beneath the lanternlight without looking ostentatious. Part of her hair had been pinned back away from her face, though soft curls still framed her cheeks.

Beautiful, some distant part of Cedric’s mind supplied helplessly.

Then Evaline glanced up and smiled immediately the moment she saw him. The tension in Cedric’s chest loosened on instinct before he could stop it. 

Greylock noticed, because of course he did.

“Oh, you are hopeless,” he murmured fondly.

Before Cedric could respond, another voice cut smoothly across the hall.

“Lady Evaline.”

Magnus.

Cedric watched the king approach with effortless confidence, rich ruby and gold catching the light with every step. Magnus’s expression warmed the instant Evaline turned toward him, that easy charisma settling naturally into place. Yet there was nothing false about the interest in his eyes.

That was the problem.

“I was beginning to wonder if Enchancia intended to hide its greatest hero from me all evening,” Magnus said warmly.

Evaline chuckled softly. “That seems unlikely. Sofia would never allow it.”

Magnus laughed immediately.

And beside the doorway, Cedric felt something deep in his stomach sink all over again.

Because Magnus had already shifted slightly as he spoke to her. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough to angle his body fully toward hers with the easy instinct of a man accustomed to commanding someone’s complete attention.

As though the rest of the room had ceased to matter. 

Evaline, thankfully, seemed entirely unaware of it. Unaware of the look on Magnus’s face and the gravity of it.

It was full of interest. Heavy with admiration. It was an unmistakable spark of someone who had already decided they wanted more time with her.

Cedric had worn that same expression from the moment he laid eyes on her.

The castle had a way of knowing when something important was about to happen.

It started subtly.

A little more polish on the banisters. Fresh flowers appearing where there hadn’t been any the day before. Footsteps that moved just a bit faster along the corridors, voices kept just a touch quieter, as though the walls themselves were listening.

By midday, subtle had given way to unmistakable.

Servants hurried through the halls with armfuls of linens and polished silver. Baileywick stood at the center of it all like a general on a battlefield, directing traffic with crisp efficiency and the occasional, deeply offended gasp when something was not to his exacting standards.

“No, no, no, those are the formal napkins, not the state napkins! Honestly, one would think there was no distinction at all!”

A footman froze mid-step, looking as though he might vanish on the spot.

From the edge of the grand staircase, Evaline watched it all unfold with bright curiosity, her hands clasped behind her back.

“Is it always like this?” she asked.

“Only when dad is trying to impress someone,” came a sigh from beside her. Sofia had just returned from school, but seemed unsurprised by the hustle and bustle.

Evaline moved to lean lightly against the banister, arms crossed, her gaze following the flurry of movement below. There was something almost familiar about it. Something close to home in this controlled chaos, this sense of something looming just beyond the horizon. It reminded her, in a distant, uncomfortable way, of preparations before a battle.

Only here, the weapons were polished floors and pressed linens.

Evaline tilted her head. “Do you think it’s someone important?”

Sofia hummed a quiet, thoughtful sound. “Important enough that everyone’s trying very hard not to make a mistake.”

“King Magnus is extremely important,” Cedric cut in, sweeping up the stairs with an armful of scrolls that looked moments away from escaping his grasp. “You met him once before, as I recall. King of Rudistan, one of Enchancia’s oldest allies, known for his extensive influence across the Ever Realm and — Merlin’s mushrooms, where is my —”

One of the scrolls slipped free. Evaline caught it without looking, handing it back to him with practiced ease.

“You were saying?” she prompted.

Cedric sniffed, straightening as much as one could while holding a precarious tower of parchment. “As I was saying, his visit is not something to be taken lightly. King Roland will be eager to ensure everything proceeds flawlessly.”

“And you?” Evaline asked, one brow lifting slightly.

Cedric hesitated.

Just for a second.

“I,” he said, a touch more stiffly than usual, “will be ensuring that the magical wards around the castle are properly aligned. It is only sensible, given the… unpredictability of visiting dignitaries.”

Evaline’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary.

“Mm,” she hummed. “Sensible.”

Sofia glanced up at him, her lips quirking faintly. “King Magnus isn’t unpredictable.”

Cedric made a noncommittal sound that was just shy of a scoff.

“He is consistent,” Sofia amended diplomatically. “He likes to be impressive.”

“Ah,” Evaline said lightly. “That explains the napkins.”

Sofia stifled a laugh behind her hand.

Cedric did not.

“In his defense,” he said, shifting the scrolls in his arms as though they had suddenly grown heavier, “King Magnus is accustomed to a certain… reception. It would reflect poorly on Enchancia if we failed to meet those expectations.”

Evaline’s gaze flicked back toward the bustle below, watching Baileywick redirect a servant with the intensity Cullen might have with the Inquisition forces at Skyhold.

“I don’t think that’s likely,” she said.

“No,” Cedric agreed after a moment. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”

But he didn’t sound entirely convinced. Evaline noticed. Of course she did.

She pushed off the banister, stepping closer to him. “You’ve met him more than I have,” she said. “Should I be worried?”

Cedric opened his mouth. Paused. Closed it again. Sofia looked between them, suddenly very interested.

“He is —” Cedric began, then stopped, as though weighing his words more carefully than the question seemed to require. “He is a man who knows exactly who he is.”

Evaline’s brow lifted slightly. “That’s not usually a bad thing.”

“No,” Cedric said quietly. “It isn’t.”

Another beat passed.

“He also assumes,” Cedric added, almost as an afterthought, “that everyone else should know it as well.”

Sofia tilted her head. “You mean he’s a little full of himself.”

Cedric drew himself up. “I would never phrase it so crudely.”

Evaline’s mouth twitched. “But you wouldn’t argue it either.”

Cedric looked at her. And there it was again, that brief, flickering hesitation that hadn’t quite been there before.

“…No,” he admitted.

The noise below shifted then, less frantic now and more deliberate.

Baileywick’s voice rang out across the hall, crisp and commanding. “Positions, everyone! His Majesty’s procession has been sighted at the outer gates!”

The words seemed to ripple through the castle. Servants stilled. Straightened. Then moved with purpose instead of haste.

Sofia’s eyes lit up instantly. “They’re here!”

Evaline felt it then, that quiet hum beneath her ribs, the one she couldn’t quite name. Not danger. But not nothing, either. She exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders as though settling into armor she could no longer see.

Cedric adjusted his grip on the scrolls, then seemed to realize he was still holding them at all. With a small, frustrated sound, he thrust them into Sofia’s arms.

“Hold these.”

“Mister Cedric —!”

“Carefully!”

Sofia huffed but clutched them anyway, watching as Cedric smoothed down his robes with quick, precise movements that did very little to disguise his nerves. Evaline watched him for a moment. Then, quietly—

“You’ll be fine,” she said.

Cedric glanced at her, something unreadable flickering across his expression.

“Yes,” he said.

A beat.

“…Of course.”

He turned toward the grand hall, then stopped. Just for a moment.

“…Greylock will be with him,” he added, almost absently.

Sofia blinked. “Oh! I forgot about him.”

Evaline tilted her head. “Greylock?”

Cedric exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Greylock the Grand,” he said. “Royal sorcerer of Rudistan.” There was something in the way he said the name, tight and measured. Familiar.

“And?” Evaline prompted.

Cedric hesitated. Then, with forced casualness —

“He and I have… crossed paths.”

Evaline opened her mouth, no doubt preparing another question, but before she could ask it, the deep sound of trumpets rolled through the castle halls below.

The entire atmosphere shifted. Not frantic now, but ceremonial.

The great doors at the far end of the hall groaned open as sunlight spilled across polished floors in long golden bands. Beyond them, the royal procession swept into view with all the grandeur Cedric’s warnings had implied.

Rudistan’s colors hung richly from polished spears and banners, deep sapphire trimmed in gold that shimmered in the afternoon light. Knights in immaculate armor lined the entryway as attendants moved with rehearsed precision around them. Even the footsteps seemed coordinated somehow, measured and deliberate against the marble floors.

At the center of it all strode King Magnus.

He carried himself with the easy confidence of someone deeply accustomed to being watched. Broad-shouldered and sharply dressed, Magnus wore his finery as comfortably as most men wore sleepclothes. Rings flashed at his hands as he greeted the gathered court with a bright, practiced smile that somehow managed to feel both charming and performative all at once.

“Roland!” Magnus boomed warmly before he had even fully crossed the threshold. “You’ll forgive me if I say Enchancia looks even finer than when I last visited.”

Near the foot of the staircase, King Roland descended to greet him with the steady patience of a man already bracing for an exhausting conversation.

“Magnus,” Roland greeted with a diplomatic smile. “We’re honored to host you again.”

Behind Magnus, the rest of the procession filtered inward.

Advisors. Guards. Attendants. And then —

A man in dark blue robes stepped easily through the crowd with all the languid confidence of someone entirely uninterested in all the pomp and ceremony despite participating in it perfectly.

Greylock.

Evaline would not have known him on sight had Cedric not gone completely still beside her.

Where Magnus filled a room by demanding attention, Greylock seemed to command it by accident. His eyes wandered lazily across the hall, amused by something only he understood. A simple wand spun once between his fingers in a motion too practiced to be unconscious.

Then his gaze lifted toward the staircase. Straight to Cedric. And his smile widened immediately.

“Oh no,” Sofia whispered under her breath.

Cedric made a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a preemptive regret. Greylock raised one hand in a slow, delighted wave. The scrolls Sofia was holding abruptly unraveled themselves. 

All at once.

Parchment cascaded down the staircase in an avalanche of carefully organized magical notes.

Cedric closed his eyes.

“Good,” he said flatly. “Wonderful. He's been here less than thirty seconds.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose with the air of a man reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this exact moment, Cedric tried to rein in his frustration as best as he could. Below them, Greylock looked positively radiant with satisfaction.

“Still organizing your scrolls by color, are we?” he called up the staircase, his voice carrying effortlessly through the hall. “I knew you’d never abandon the system.”

Sofia gave Cedric a sympathetic look from beside the raining parchment.

Cedric opened his eyes slowly. “I despise him,” he huffed under his breath.

“That seems a little strong,” Evaline murmured, though the corners of her mouth had already betrayed her.

“It is not strong enough.”

Another scroll bounced off the stairs and landed near Baileywick’s shoes. The Castle Steward stared down at it in horror as though personally offended by the concept of loose parchment.

“Mind the documents!” he cried.

Greylock placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “My deepest apologies.”

He did not sound sorry in the slightest.

King Magnus glanced back toward the commotion, one brow lifting with practiced patience. “Greylock.”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Try not to start a magical incident before dinner.”

“Of course Your Majesty,” Greylock drawled, sweeping into the lowest bow he could manage without toppling over. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Roland sighed the sigh of a man who had endured such an exchange many times before.

Meanwhile, Cedric had already swept down two steps to rescue the nearest scroll before someone trampled it. Evaline watched him crouch to gather parchment with tightly controlled dignity, muttering darkly under his breath the entire while.

Without a word, she bent to help.

Cedric glanced up in surprise as she caught one particularly rebellious page before it could flutter over the banister entirely.

“You don’t have to—”

“You’re outnumbered,” she replied simply, handing it back.

For a brief second, some of the tension left his shoulders.

Then Greylock called down from below:

“Oh, don’t look so distressed, Cedric. I haven’t even enchanted anything yet.”

Cedric froze mid-reach.

Evaline’s brow lifted faintly. “Yet?”

Greylock finally began ascending the staircase, his robes sweeping behind him in rich cobalt folds as though the dramatic effect had been carefully calculated. Which, Evaline suspected, it probably had.

Up close, he looked younger than she expected. Not young exactly, but sharp in a foxlike sort of way, his expression perpetually hovering somewhere between amusement and impending trouble.

His gaze flicked briefly toward Evaline.

And lingered.

Recognition sparked almost immediately.

“Well now,” Greylock hummed. “So this is the famous Lady Evaline Surana.”

Cedric straightened at once. Not obviously, but enough that Evaline felt it. Greylock noticed too. His smile sharpened by a fraction.

“You made quite an impression in Rudistan after the ogre attack here,” he continued lightly. “Though I confess, the stories failed to capture just how lovely you are in person.”

Evaline crossed her arms loosely. “Most stories tend to exaggerate.”

“In my experience,” Greylock said, “they usually do the opposite.”

Before Evaline could decide whether that was charming or suspicious, Magnus himself finally reached the staircase.

Up close, his presence was even larger somehow. Confident. Polished. Intentional.

His smile came easily the moment he spotted Evaline.

“Milady Evaline,” he greeted warmly. “It seems fate favors me after all. I had hoped we might meet again under less catastrophic circumstances.”

There it was.

That same strange buzz beneath her ribs. Still not danger. But closer now.

Evaline inclined her head politely. “Thankfully, ogres are not a common element of Enchancian hospitality.”

Magnus laughed warmly at that, the sound rich and effortless enough that several nearby attendants smiled automatically in response.

“A pity,” he said. “It certainly makes for a memorable first meeting.”

Cedric, meanwhile, had gone very still beside her. Not tense exactly, but measured. Evaline noticed that too.

Magnus’s attention shifted toward him at last, his smile widening with easy familiarity. “Cedric! It’s been far too long.”

Before Cedric could respond, Greylock swept in smoothly beside Magnus.

“Not nearly long enough, if you ask him,” Greylock supplied.

Cedric’s expression flattened instantly. “You continue to mistake your own voice for charm.”

“And yet you remember it so fondly.”

Roland cleared his throat with the unmistakable air of a king intervening before diplomacy was lost to magical bickering.

“Perhaps,” he suggested dryly, “we allow our guests to finish entering the castle before the sorcerers declare war on one another.”

Greylock pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “Your Majesty wounds me. I would never declare war before refreshments.”

Sofia snorted just loud enough that Amber — who had only just appeared at the edge of the hall — looked immediately scandalized.

Magnus only laughed again, utterly at ease amidst the chaos surrounding him. Evaline studied him carefully as the conversation flowed around them.

Cedric had described him well.

Magnus carried certainty the way other men carried cloaks. Effortlessly. Comfortably. As though the world had spent so long affirming him that it had simply become part of the air he breathed.

And for the first time since their arrival, Magnus looked at her fully. Not the polite glance of a king acknowledging a guest. Not curiosity. Assessment.

Interest.

The weight of it settled against her instincts like a stone dropped into still water. Subtle, but impossible to ignore.

Then Magnus smiled again, bright and practiced.

“I do hope,” he said smoothly, “that Lady Evaline might join us for dinner this evening. I would very much like the chance to hear more about the woman who saved my life.”

There it was again. That strange hum beneath her ribs. Closer still. And beside her, though Cedric said absolutely nothing at all —

Evaline felt him go rigid.