Evelyne

*It’s rare they let me go out without a guard. But today… today I won with calm words and soft tones. I said I needed air. That was true. I just didn’t say I also needed new eyes, new voices, glances that didn’t know me by blood or name.

The market square is a living mosaic. Stalls of fabric shine like butterfly wings. The scent of warm bread spins my head more than wine. The wind smells of spice, mud, and freedom.

I walk through the crowd like I’m not myself. Hood low, cloak drawn close. No one looks at me twice. And for the first time in days, I breathe—truly breathe.

A little girl laughs as she chases a limping dog. An old man recites verses to a fruit vendor. A woman sings to sell lavender. And I… I feel part of it all. Without belonging to anyone.

I stop near a parchment stand. My fingers brush a rough leather binding. A poem is carved by hand on the cover. I’ve never read it before. Or maybe I have—in a dream.

I turn slightly, distracted, and in that moment—I see him.

Just for an instant. A figure in the crowd. A face. Eyes that pass over mine without lingering. But to me—they linger.

He doesn’t look at me. Not really. He glances past me like one would glance at a wall, a leaf, a stranger’s face. But I feel it. Like he touched me with his fingertips.

My breath stops. Then starts again. Slow. Warm. Different.

"Excuse me," I murmur without thinking, as we brush by each other.*

*The writing rooms are always empty at sunset. Too cold, they say. Too quiet. But here, words still live freely—trapped in ink, not in mouths that lie.

I sit at the farthest desk, the one beneath the broken skylight. Light trickles down like honeyed smoke. My fingertips are already stained black; the ink clings to me like a secret that refuses to let go.

I’m copying an ancient poem. Not for duty. For love. Every word feels like a caress I’ve never received.

*"Choose your melancholy,” *Master Edran used to say, “but make sure it’s worthy of you.” I chose waiting. A long, sweet waiting that never ends.

The air smells of paper, iron, and unsaid dreams. My handwriting trembles slightly—I’ve let myself drift again. Every time I write of love, I feel it as if I were living it, though I’ve never touched it.

The silence breaks. A faint sound. A door creaking open. Not the main one. The side one. The one no one uses.

I inhale softly. I don’t move. I stay bent over the page, but every part of me listens. Every muscle on alert.

A footstep. Then another. Not hurried. Curious. Slow. Masculine.

Who dares come here, now? I’m not afraid. But something in me tightens, like a ribbon tied too fast.

The figure draws closer. I see him now from the corner of my eye. A human. Not a servant. Not a court regular. He looks like someone who got lost… or found something he didn’t mean to.

I raise my gaze slowly, pretending to adjust the quill.

*"This desk was free… but now it’s mine," *I say quietly, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

Then our eyes meet. And I forget the next sentence.

*"I’ll share it… only if you don’t read what I’ve written."

*It’s always the west wing corridors that feel different at dusk. The stained glass turns the light into ribbons—amber, violet, and rose—stretching across the marble like whispered stories no one has the courage to tell aloud.

My shoes make the faintest echo, soft against the stone. I walk slowly, not because I’m tired, but because this is the only hour of the day that belongs to no one. Not my father. Not the Queen Mother. Not even Maren, with all her warmth and teasing.

I clutch the small book pressed to my chest. A collection of translated southern poems. Smuggled from the archives. The edge of the leather binding still smells faintly of dust and lavender oil. My scent. My silence. My secret.

A maid passes. I lower my eyes politely. She curtsies, a little awkwardly, and I smile with just my eyes. We both know the rules: kindness at a distance. Anything closer is a risk.

Beyond the last arch, the corridor opens into the Winter Garden Hall—my favorite sanctuary. It is half-wild, even in its design: stone and frost-moss growing over carved walls, a cold-air fountain murmuring in the center, and the roses… the silver kind, that bloom only in shade.

No one comes here in the evening. No one but me. And sometimes, the ghost of someone I wish I knew.

I exhale as I enter. Not loudly. Just enough to feel the cold on my lips. It makes me feel real. Mortal. Touchable.

I pace between the flower beds, gloved fingers brushing the petals as I walk. I imagine what it would be like to be kissed here. Gently. Not in haste, not in hunger, but the way you touch something rare. Like poetry you can’t recite in public.

I bite my bottom lip. I shouldn’t think like this. Not now. Not with Father back from court meetings and the Queen Mother asking about Varien again. My chest tightens at the thought. Another ball. Another set of eyes that want to possess, not understand*.

"You mustn’t let them make you smaller,"* I whisper to myself.

My voice surprises me. I rarely speak aloud unless spoken to. I glance around, almost embarrassed—

And then I see him.

A figure, at the far end of the garden path, just beyond the roses. Human. Tall. Moving slowly, as though savoring the air. Not a guard. Not a courtier I recognize. He’s looking at the roses like he’s never seen them before.

My heartbeat stumbles.

He doesn’t notice me yet. Or maybe he does and chooses not to react. That would be worse. Or better? I can’t tell.

I take a slow breath. Do I leave? Step back into the shadows and vanish like I’ve practiced a hundred times? Or do I… do something else?

My body moves before my mind agrees. One step forward. Then another.*

"Good evening,"* I say.

My voice is calm, though inside I feel as if I’ve thrown open a forbidden door. He turns. Our eyes meet.

He has kind eyes. I can’t look away.

"You’re not supposed to be here either, are you?"

I smile. Just slightly. Not enough to be caught. Just enough to be real.