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Mara stared at the dark sea outside of the castle, a guard beside her. She had crossed through the Veil via water twice now, what was one more time? A small ripple of remembrance at the first time in the Hallowed Cistern coursed through her. She tried to shake the abhorrent memory.

The guard watched her curiously, likely never to have seen glassfairing before and wondering if she could even do it.

She took a breath and crashed into the waters. When she opened her eyes, she was not wet or surrounded by suffocating ocean water. Instead, she rose on the other side of Junefell, but now with the knowledge of how to break Evrardin’s curse.

She sat on the edge of the sea back in Kairth, the sky darkening despite the time. Her heart rushed with ebbing waves of sickly apprehension. She stood and darted to the grand castle, far more decrepit than the last time she laid her eyes upon it from outside the walls. Shadows loomed in each nook, behind each bend, threatening to engulf the castle in darkness forever. When she got to the gates, no sentries were standing watch, but there were people—courtiers—crossing every which way in a panic.

“Trana has returned,” one man said as he passed.

“The prince is going to curse us all.”

“They’re coming through the mirrors!”

Mara needed to find Evrardin. She wondered if he’d still be in the cathedral, but she couldn’t risk showing her face, alive and well.

She descended the steps two at a time, thinking about approaching the dungeons, when she remembered Evrardin’s room was in this general wing. She wasn’t sure he’d be there, but maybe she could arm herself. She hadn’t any other idea on where to find a weapon besides the dagger she had dropped in Evrardin’s rooms when he had kissed her. She pressed down the rising warmth at the thought. If she was to encounter the prince, or Alfson, or even Evrardin, she wasn’t sure she’d be safe; she needed to get her dagger back. It was gifted to her after all.

It took her several tries to remember the way, but she finally found his secluded door, sucking in rapid breaths. She didn’t risk knocking and drawing attention to herself, sliding into Evrardin’s room without notice. It was dim, a candle left burning by his bedside. A wave of morning rain and mint leaves filled her senses. It smelt like him. She tried to assuage the ruddiness that rose to her cheeks as she turned, spotting the dagger nowhere. She was thankful he didn’t have a mirror, no warriors able to enter and drag her under.

“Shit. Where could it be?” she muttered to herself.

She had to find it and break this curse before Evrardin did something that couldn’t be undone. She had to let him know she was alive, to help him stop Acastus. She turned to leave but stopped when the sparkle from the dagger resting under his pillow shone. She bit her lip, quickly shifting through her ideas, and settled on her worst one.

She took the dagger, its metal far heavier than she remembered, and strapped it back on her hip. She tried to ignore the way her fingers tingled as they brushed the soft fabric of his bed.

She clutched the pommel of the dagger as she witnessed the captain do countless times, ready to depart. On the nightstand beneath where a sword had been mounted, the piece of scratch parchment she glimpsed when she was in his room last stood stark in her vision—the one with her name on it.

She didn’t have time to go snooping, but that didn’t stop her. She rested her hip against the wood of his dresser and her arms moved against her will, snatching the paper that peaked out from the book it was shoved hastily into. She ground her teeth together, fluttering the paper in her hand, unsure if she should read it. Anger feathered her chest, remembering how Evrardin couldn’t be trusted. And here he had stolen a letter addressed to her.

Maybe ‘Mara’ could be referring to another woman, the writing possibly from his hand. Maybe she shared the name with someone in town. The thought sent an unjust rage of jealousy through her and she threw caution to the wind, unfolding the note. She began to leave his room, deciding to read while she moved.

Her eyes mooned as she read, her face turning bright red.

I do not claim to be a poet. And this is not a line of poetry, but a ballad of betrayal. For everything I stand for, for all I have sworn, all the rites I’ve chanted. And it was you, liten rev, who ruined me. I think I knew when I first met you that you’d become something more to me. And you have. But nothing good. You’re a weakness—a light I cannot reach. Your being taunts me every time I close my eyes. So many unholy thoughts come to mind. Things I have no right to think about. I dream of how you scowl at me with disdain, and all the lies come so naturally: the way you bother me to no end, irk me, irritate me, make my life so much more tedious than it has to be, how you’re only a means to an end. But those are not the words I wish to say. They’re not the words I truly feel any longer.

Princess, I fear I have grown rather fond of you. It pains me to say how much your snarky attitude has won me over. And I hate that I want to tell you how pretty you look or how humorous you can be, for you could never be mine, even if you foolishly mirrored my feelings in return. I hate that you’ve made me keen on your wit and theatrics. I hate it more than you will ever know. Not because I think these feelings beneath me, but because I’m not destined to be anything more than a chapter in your story. I can do nothing but cause you pain and suffering. And for all the pain I cause you, you throw it back at me tenfold. You’re to be his. I want you to be his. I want you to marry him, my ties to the prince finally torn so I can get as far away from here as possible. I’ve never craved leaving more than I do right now. You’ve led me to nothing but destruction. You’ve taken everything from me, and you don’t even know it.

You’ve fucking ruined me, Princess, and I will never forgive you for that.

The letter ended abruptly, an ink stain on his final words as if he had thrown it to the side in haste or frustration.

Mara wasn’t sure what to think. Was he planning on giving this to her? Was it fair for her to base his feelings on words he likely never intended for her to read? Regardless of the ethics, her heart swam with a rage of rapid emotions. When had this note been written? But she couldn’t dwell on that right now. She had to find him and figure out how to get Cas’ blood, sure she’d never find Aevum in time. Maybe Ev would know of a way to get his blood… The plan didn’t seem the most foolproof.

She picked up speed, heading toward the dungeons, still grazing on Evrardin’s words, when she stumbled over someone hiding amongst the shadows, catching herself on the cobbled wall. “Ah, shit,” she cursed.

When she turned around, she was faced with a tiny prince.

“Aevum? What are you doing down here?”

The small boy grinned at her, but it quickly faded. He was scared. She could see it in his eyes. “I came to hide.”

“To hide?” Mara asked. “From what?” She shoved the letter into one of her skirt’s hidden pockets.

Aevum shifted his weight between his feet, his face pallor and sickly. “Shouts were coming from the cathedral. At least that’s what Lord Davenport was saying when my lessons were interrupted. I tried to find Mother. She’s missing, you know? I didn’t know where else to go. Everyone is running mad in the castle.”

“And you came to Evrardin’s room for refuge?”

He nodded. She couldn’t help but warm slightly at how Aevum trusted Evrardin enough to seek him out as recourse. Then Mara noticed black swirls curling from the collar of Aevum’s shirt and she tried to disguise the panic.

“Let’s get you there, then.” She reached for his hand and held it in hers. It was cold. “I’ll get you all tucked away, snug as a bug. Then I’ll go find your mother and bring her to you. Does that sound good?”

Aevum nodded, smiling at her despite the pain he seemed to be in.

She led him back to Evrardin’s room and slipped him under the covers. His eyes sparkled just like Acastus’ as he gazed at her, trusting her without question.

She didn’t want to have to ask this of a child, but she had to try.

“I know you’re not feeling well,” she cooed, her hand holding his above the blankets. “But I was hoping to gain a favor from you.”

“Anything,” he said. She wanted to sob at how giving he always was.

She pulled out the small vial from her skirt pocket and popped off the cork. She shook out the dried red flowers that Crowrot had said came from Evrardin. She hadn’t thought too much about why she had grown wonted to carrying it around with her. Perhaps because it acted as her last physical connection to the Gravedoctor. Or maybe because it was cultivated from Evrardin’s hands.