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 trembling with barely restrained rage. “Good people of Rennedawn, we have been deceived! This is a ruse, a desperate ploy by The Villain to escape. He’s coerced this young woman into faking her death and coming to his aid.” Benedict’s grip on her arm tightened until it felt as though it might snap, his handsome face contorted by the scowl forming between his thick sand-colored brows. “All for nothing. Take pity and witness The Villain’s true final victim.”

In that moment, all her fear was consumed by a righteous fury. She was ablaze. In a swift motion, she angled down, unsheathing the dagger hidden beneath her dress, pressing it against Benedict’s throat before he could react.

Her loose curls brushed against her bare arms as she moved, her words laced with venom. “I. Am. Not. A. Victim.”

The guards moved in, but the king halted them with a raised hand. He regarded her blade with bored condescension. “You’re offended only because I speak the truth. Think, Ms. Sage—do you truly believe saving this man is a just choice? A good one?”

Her heart raced, her voice softening as unshed tears glistened in her eyes. “No, you’re right.” A dark smile twisted her lips. “I suppose…it’s an evil one.”

She lifted the dagger and slashed it across Benedict’s cheek, leaping back before he could retaliate. The king screamed, clutching at the shallow wound as if it were deep. Why do men handle pain as poorly as ice handles heat? “You wicked bitch!” She curtsied. “At your service.”

“Seize her! Now!”

Panic surged through her as the guards closed in. She’d lingered too long; it had to be now.

Clearing her throat, she held the dagger out. “Before you attempt to arrest me, gentlemen, I have a proposal.” The silver-clad men exchanged confused glances at the casualness of her tone, though it masked her trembling. “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 dared to laugh, taking cruel delight in her ultimatum. The king wiped away an imaginary tear of laughter 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—a feeling all too familiar to her. “You are weak and surrounded by enemies, you foolish girl.”

She was afraid, but she knew now: fear meant standing on the edge of something new, something transformative, something potentially good. Fear was no longer something she would shy away from.

Nodding demurely, she replied, “Quite right, Your Majesty. I am nothing compared to the men in your service, or the noblemen at your command.” She made a show of scanning the crowd and tapping her chin. “I find it remarkable that you command such loyalty. It does make me wonder, though, if you know my favorite distinction between your Valiant Guards and The Villain’s Malevolent.”

The king, noticing her subtle retreat, smirked with satisfaction. “You’re stalling, Ms. Sage. But I’ll indulge 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, indeed!” She leaned in and whispered so only the king could hear. “But I was referring to the fact that most of the Malevolent Guard are women.” She watched the king’s expression shift as he pieced together her words, not giving him a chance to respond before she lit the final spark.

“Are you certain you know everyone in this room?”

Satisfaction coursed through her as the king’s eyes widened in dawning horror.

Evie stepped back, another flower slipping from her hair as she spun to face the crowd. Tatianna emerged from the throng like a vision, the pink sash on her green gown marking her as real in a sea of illusion. With a wink at Evie, Tati pulled a pocket light from within her dress, shaking the canister before launching the firework into the air.

The signal was received, spreading like ripples across the Lilac Sea. One by one, women stepped forward, shedding shirts, hats, or dresses to reveal their Malevolent Guard uniforms beneath. They had been there all along, hidden by the assumption that women were harmless, that they posed no real threat. The words The Villain had spoken to her in his brother’s dilapidated tavern echoed 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 thought. His gaze on her was now one of fear.

Finally.

“I hope you remember that whatever happens next—”

She tilted her head, grinning as she delivered her final damning words. “I did so try to warn you.”