The Lion’s Den

The ride back to the d’Astier estate was a blur of dust and deafening silence. Every noble who had witnessed the accident looked at Evelyne with a mixture of awe and deep-seated suspicion. They had seen her save Prince Julian, but they had also seen the assassin’s cloak. In the world of the court, a savior was often just a villain with better timing.

When Evelyne stepped through the grand oak doors of her home, the atmosphere was suffocating. The servants scurried away, their eyes downcast, and the usual warmth of the foyer felt like a tomb.

"In the library. Now."

Her father’s voice cracked like a whip. Duke d’Astier was standing at the top of the stairs, his face a pale mask of terror and fury. Behind him, partially hidden in the shadows, stood Seraphina’s father, Marquis Vincent.

Evelyne didn't hesitate. She handed her riding crop to a trembling footman and climbed the stairs with a grace that felt entirely foreign to her younger self. She wasn't the trembling girl who would have begged for her father’s belief anymore.

As soon as the library doors slammed shut, the Duke turned on her. "Evelyne! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The Palace guards have already been here. They say a man tried to kill Prince Julian wearing our colors. Our crest!"

"He was a plant, Father," Evelyne said, her voice dropping into a calm, steady rhythm that seemed to unsettle the Duke even more. She walked over to the sideboard and poured a glass of water, her hands perfectly still.

"A plant? Who would dare?" Marquis Vincent stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. He was a man who smelled of old paper and sour wine, always lurking in the Duke's shadow. "It was your mare that charged the thicket, Evelyne. It was your flask that startled the Prince's horse. To the King's investigators, it looks like a botched assassination that you tried to cover up at the last second to save your own neck."

Evelyne turned, the glass of water halfway to her lips. She looked at Vincent, the man who, in her past life, had funneled d’Astier gold into Alaric’s war chests while her father lay dying.

"It’s interesting you say that, Uncle," she murmured, the word uncle dripping with a cold irony. "You seem to have a very detailed theory for someone who was supposedly miles away at the refreshment pavilion when the bolt was fired."

Vincent stiffened. "I....I am merely thinking of the family's reputation!"

"Then think of this," Evelyne snapped, setting the glass down with a sharp clack. "If I hadn't acted, Julian would be dead. If Julian were dead, the King would have razed this house to the ground by sunset. I didn't botch an assassination; I prevented a massacre of our bloodline. The question we should be asking is: who stands to gain from the d’Astier family being blamed for a Prince's death?"

She let her gaze linger on Vincent until he looked away, a beads of sweat forming on his brow.

"The King is calling an inquiry," the Duke groaned, sinking into his leather chair. "Alaric is leading it. We are ruined, Evelyne. The Crown Prince... he is a monster when he is crossed."

"He isn't crossed, Father. He’s intrigued." Evelyne walked over and placed a hand on her father's shoulder. It was the first time she had touched him since her rebirth, and the warmth of his living body sent a pang through her heart. "Leave Alaric to me. I will handle the inquiry."

"You?" Vincent scoffed. "A girl who spends her days picking out embroidery patterns? You’ll be lucky if he doesn't throw you in the Iron Tower by morning."

"I haven't picked up an embroidery needle in weeks, Uncle. I’ve been much too busy looking at the household ledgers." Evelyne leaned in closer to Vincent, her voice a lethal whisper. "The ones that show the massive 'donations' you’ve been making to certain mercenary guilds in the Southern Border. The same guilds that use the specific type of crossbow bolt found in the Prince’s shoulder today."

Vincent’s face went from pale to ghostly white. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.

"I...I don't know what you're talking about," he finally stammered.

"Don't you? Then let’s hope the Crown Prince is less observant than I am," Evelyne said, offering him a sharp, jagged smile. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare. I imagine Alaric isn't the type to wait for an invitation when there’s a traitor to interrogate."

As if on cue, a thunderous knocking echoed from the front hall below.

Evelyne didn't flinch. She smoothed her midnight-blue skirts and checked her reflection in the library's gilded mirror. She looked sharp. She looked dangerous. She looked like exactly the kind of woman Alaric would want to break.

"He's here," the Duke whispered, his voice trembling.

"Good," Evelyne replied. "I was starting to think he’d lost his touch."

She walked out of the library and down the stairs, meeting the squad of golden-armored Royal Guards as they swarmed into the foyer. At their head was Alaric. He wasn't in his hunting gear anymore. He was in full black ceremonial armor, his cape trailing behind him like a shadow.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His dark eyes locked onto hers, burning with an intensity that felt like a physical weight.

"Lady Evelyne d’Astier," he announced, his voice echoing through the hall. "By order of the King, you are to be taken to the Palace for questioning regarding the attempted murder of the second Prince."

He stepped closer, his boots clicking on the marble until he was standing just inches from her. He leaned in, his voice dropping so only she could hear. "I told you I’d fetch you myself. Did you think I was joking?"

Evelyne didn't look at the guards. She didn't look at her sobbing maid or her terrified father. She leaned forward, her lips almost touching Alaric’s ear, mirroring the intimacy he had forced on her in the woods.

"I expected nothing less, Your Highness," she whispered. "But tell me... is this an arrest, or did you just miss me?"

Alaric’s jaw tightened. For a split second, the ruthless prince mask slipped, revealing a flash of something that looked dangerously like hunger. He grabbed her arm, not with the violence of a guard, but with the possessiveness of a man claiming a prize.

"It’s whatever I want it to be," he growled. "Move."

As they led her out into the cool night air, Evelyne felt the first real spark of triumph. She was being taken to the palace, the very heart of the enemy’s territory. In her past life, she had gone there as a lamb to the slaughter.

This time, she was the wolf in the cage. And she was going to tear the palace apart from the inside.