Chapter 7

Evie

There was quite a bit more screaming after that.

Evie would've been amused by it if she wasn't so out of sorts. It hadn't been her intention to make an entrance of this caliber—in fact, it hadn't been her intention to make an entrance at all. The cure to the sleeping-death fruit—the rare magical fruit Becky had procured to make her appear as if she'd lost her life—was supposed to take effect before she was displayed like a macabre painting to a room full of nobles.

The coffin, morbid as it was, had thankfully been propped open by a stack of thick parchment for her escape. An escape that had been rather…less than graceful—akin to an enormous slug trying to cram through a drainpipe. She'd flopped to the ground with a humbling thud and made a beeline for the stairs, hoping to escape to the shadows while the guards were otherwise distracted. It was safer there. It was where she was meant to be while her plan unfolded.

But she'd made the mistake of turning back, of searching the room, of looking right at him .

The Villain. Trystan .

Seven days was nothing in the grand scheme of time, but it may as well have been an eternity for the way she'd lurched toward him, like there was an invisible cord pulling them together. She'd frozen, hovering on the brink, teetering between the safety she'd known and falling headfirst into an uncertain future. Two choices lay before her, two paths to take. But then the king had moved to unveil The Villain, and there was no choice any longer.

Her choice would always be him.

So instead of keeping to the shadows to hide away from the scrutiny, the censure, she moved into the light. She unveiled herself—for him.

And the response was less than welcoming, to put it mildly.

"Necromancy! Dark magic! She's a witch!" The cries came from a noblewoman in a feathered gown who was swooning against her escort, gripping his arm.

The pride Evie felt at the words was disconcerting, but she let herself relish it anyway. When one spent their entire life feeling weak, it was quite thrilling to be viewed as a threat.

She scrunched her nose and resisted the urge to respond with something entirely inappropriate, like "Boo!"

The swooning woman fainted dead away, hitting the ground with a hard plop .

Oh — I did say it . Oops.

Biting her lips to keep from smiling, she turned her attention back to the room, back to the king, as she descended the stairs. If she was damned anyway, she may as well take her amusements where she could get them. "My apologies for my delayed arrival, Your Majesty. It appears I was…indisposed."

A chorus of gasps sounded, in tune with the crudeness of her comment, but they sounded like a bluebird chirping in her ear. Lovely.

A low, gruff voice echoed in the awkward quiet, but she knew who it belonged to. "Sage." The sound of Trystan's voice was lovely, too. The loveliest.

She looked for him again across the room. The black mask covered a wide portion of his face, making him appear dangerous and cold. But his eyes—his incredulous eyes were molten as they bore into hers. He straightened slowly when he caught her smile, the black depths of his gaze never leaving her person as his posture went fully straight.

He nodded gently at her.

Her pulse fluttered in her neck, the splendor of the ballroom no match for the magnificent relief she felt looking at his face, the comfort that they were once again in the same place.

"King Benedict." Evie projected her voice, though the room had quickly grown quiet. "Isn't it proper etiquette to greet your guests as they arrive?" She quirked a brow, gesturing to herself, gripping her surge of boldness with both hands.

The king stalked toward her, flanked by two guards. She backed away slowly but halted when she realized she was blocked on every side by more Valiant Guards filing in. It was no matter. She set her chin in a hard, defiant line. Being surrounded by men who wanted to hurt her was nothing new. A low, dangerous sound came from the stage—the clinking of chains. Trystan was fighting, thank the gods. He'd looked defeated in the moments before she appeared, but no longer. The candles around them flickered like they could feel the shift, and that growing strength made her wonder. Was it hope for escape that had caused this change in Trystan?

Or was it…her?

She didn't have time to turn this over in her brain before Benedict took her arm in a bruising grip, holding her close enough for her to see a vein pulsing just beneath where his crown met his glistening forehead. He hissed, "What have you done, you foolish girl? How is it you live? Tell me at once!"

She didn't cower the way instinct told her to—instead, she held the king's wild eyes, and she smirked.

He was nearly shaking with barely contained rage. "Good people of Rennedawn, it appears we've been deceived! This is a trick! A last-ditch effort by The Villain to escape. He manipulated this young woman into faking her death and coming to his aid." Benedict squeezed her arm so tightly, it felt like it would break in his grip, his handsome face ruined by the scowl forming between his thick sand-colored brows. "All for naught. Take pity and behold The Villain's true final victim."

A beat, a breath, and then fury—fury so righteous, her trepidation mattered no longer. She was aflame. In a flash, she angled herself down, unsheathing the dagger from the strap hidden beneath her dress. It was up against Benedict's throat before he could blink.

Her loose curls brushed her bare arms with the movement, and her words dripped with burning poison. "I. Am. Not. A. Victim ."

The guards advanced, but the king stayed them with his hand. Training his gaze on her blade with bored condescension, he said, "You are only offended because I speak true. Think, Ms. Sage—do you honestly believe that saving this man is a just choice? A good one?"

Her heart beat faster, her voice lightening as her eyes shone with unshed tears. "No, you're right." She allowed her face to change into amused malevolence. "I suppose…it's an evil one."

She lifted the dagger and slashed it across Benedict's cheek before jumping back out of reach. The king screamed, holding a hand against the shallow wound, howling like it went all the way to the bone. Why do men take pain as well as ice takes heat? "You wicked bitch!"

She took a bow. "At your service."

"Seize her! Now!"

The guards advanced on her, and she felt a flare of panic from the top of her head all the way to her toes. She'd dillydallied too long; it had to be now.

Clearing her throat, she held the dagger out. "Before you attempt an arrest, gentlemen, I'd like to make a proposal." The silver-clad men looked at one another in stark confusion at the casualness in her voice; thankfully, it hid the shakiness. "Release The Villain and Arthur Maverine, and I'll allow everyone in this room to leave with their lives."

The king, his guards, and even a few nobles had the gall to laugh, finding humiliating amusement in her ultimatum. The king swiped an imaginary tear of laughter away from his emerald-green eyes. "A magicless young woman with a dagger is as threatening as a rabbit with a letter opener," he said, speaking to her as if she were a child—not an unfamiliar feeling for her. "You are weak and surrounded by enemies, you thoughtless girl."

She was afraid, but she knew now: fear usually meant you were standing on the edge of something new, something self-altering, something potentially good . Fear was not something she would shy away from ever again.

Nodding demurely, she responded, "Too true, Your Majesty. I am nothing compared to the men you have in your service, nor the noblemen at your command." She made a show of scanning the crowd and tapping her chin twice. "I find it impressive that you should know so very many people, that you should facilitate such devotion. It makes me wonder, however, if you might know my favorite distinction between your Valiant Guards and The Villain's Malevolent."

The king noticed her slowly inching backward with a satisfied gleam in his eye. "You're stalling, Ms. Sage. But I'll humor you before I send you to the gallows. My guards fight for the good of the kingdom. The Villain's guards fight for its destruction."

"An important distinction, to be sure!" She leaned in and whispered her next words for only the king to hear. "But I was referring to the fact that a majority of those who make up the Malevolent Guard are women. " She watched the king slowly piece together her words but didn't allow him to finish before lighting her final match.

"Are you certain you know everyone in this room?"

Satisfaction sang through her blood as the king's wide eyes darted around in dawning horror.

Evie rocked back, another flower slipping from her hair as she spun toward the onlookers. Tatianna appeared from the throngs like a vision, the pink sash around her green gown marking her as real in a sea of falsity. Winking at Evie, Tati pulled a pocket light from within the folds of her dress, shaking the cannister before releasing the bursting firework into the open air.

The signal was received like ripples in the Lilac Sea. One by one across the vast room, women stepped forward out of the crowd, discarding shirts, hats, or dresses to reveal their Malevolent Guard uniform beneath. They'd been there all along, hidden behind the misplaced idea that women did not need to be watched so closely, that they couldn't be any sort of true risk. The words The Villain had spoken to her in his brother's dilapidated tavern became a melody in her mind.

"I would never make the mistake of underestimating a woman like you. It would be a fatal one."

The king wouldn't make that mistake again, she predicted. His gaze on her had changed—to one of fear.

Finally .

"I hope you remember that whatever happens next—"

She tilted her head, grinning through her final damning words.

"I did so try to warn you."