POV: Alexandro
Father says rules keep us safe.
He says it during breakfast, during lessons, during inspections of posture and silence, like repeating it enough will make it true. I sit straight in my chair, shoulders back, hands folded the way the tutor taught me, and nod when he looks my way.
“Yes, Father,” I say.
“Say it like you mean it,” he replies without lifting his eyes from the ledger.
“Yes, Father,” I repeat, louder.
Evangeline kicks my ankle under the table. Not hard. Just enough to remind me to breathe.
The tutor clears his throat. “Today’s lesson will cover lineage and duty.”
Father finally looks up. “Good. He needs to understand what his name costs.”
What it costs.
I glance at Evangeline. She’s staring at her plate, lips pressed together, already listening the way she does—quietly, completely. She understands things before I do. She always has.
The lesson chamber smells like ink and chalk and the sharp tang of discipline. The tutor drones on about alliances and borders, about how a Duke’s son must never embarrass his house. I listen until my jaw aches from clenching.
“Alexandro,” the tutor says, tapping the board. “Recite the first law of loyalty.”
I stand. “A noble’s loyalty belongs first to his house, then to his ruler, then to himself.”
“And if these loyalties conflict?” Father asks from the doorway. He’s been there the whole time. I didn’t hear him enter.
The room tightens around us.
The tutor hesitates. “The house must prevail.”
Father’s gaze locks on mine. “Answer.”
I swallow. My palms are slick. “The house,” I say.
“And what is the house?” he presses.
“The family,” I reply.
“Louder.”
“The family,” I say again.
He nods once. “Sit.”
I sit. The chair scrapes too loudly. I flinch.
The tutor resumes, but the words blur together. My chest feels hot, tight, like there’s something inside me that wants out.
When the tutor asks us to debate a historical decision—an heir who chose love over duty—I raise my hand without thinking.
“Yes, Alexandro?” the tutor says cautiously.
“I think he was brave,” I say. “He didn’t betray his house. He tried to change it.”
The room goes very still.
Father steps forward. “Repeat that.”
I look at him. At his mouth set into a thin line. At the scar along his jaw that no one ever mentions.
“I think,” I say carefully, “that sometimes rules are wrong.”
Evangeline gasps softly behind me.
Father doesn’t shout.
That’s how I know I’ve gone too far.
He walks to the front of the room and dismisses the tutor with a glance. The door closes. The silence is heavy and absolute.
“Turn around,” he says.
I do.
“You question authority in public,” he continues evenly. “That is disobedience.”
“I was only—”
“Silence.”
I clamp my mouth shut.
“Hold out your hand.”
I do.
The strike is sharp. Clean. It burns more than it hurts at first. I don’t cry. I won’t give him that. Again. And again. By the third strike, my vision blurs.
“Look at me,” Father orders.
I force my eyes up.
“This,” he says, “is how love is taught. Through endurance. Through correction.”
He steps back. “Go to your room.”
I turn—and that’s when I see Evangeline.
She’s standing in the doorway, small and pale, her hands curled into fists at her sides. Her eyes are wide, fixed on my hand, on my face.
“Evie,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
Father turns. “Why are you here?”
“She came to fetch a book,” Mother says quietly from the hall. She hasn’t moved closer. She never does.
Father nods once. “Take her away.”
Mother places a hand on Evangeline’s shoulder. Evangeline doesn’t look at her. She doesn’t look away from me either.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly.
“For what?” she asks, her voice shaking.
“For not listening,” I say. “I should have listened.”
Father watches us, assessing.
Evangeline steps forward anyway. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Enough,” Father snaps.
Mother guides her back, but Evangeline twists free long enough to say, “I saw. I won’t forget.”
The door closes.
***
My room smells like ointment and wood polish. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my hand. It’s red and swollen, the skin already tightening.
I don’t cry. Crying makes things worse.
There’s a knock. Soft.
“Come in,” I say.
Evangeline slips inside, closing the door behind her. She’s holding a bowl of water and a cloth.
“Mother said I shouldn’t,” she whispers. “But she didn’t say I couldn’t.”
I smile a little. “That’s you.”
She kneels in front of me and dips the cloth. Her hands are gentle, careful as she dabs at my palm.
“It hurts,” she says.
“I know.”
She presses her lips together. “I hate him when he does that.”
“You shouldn’t say that,” I say automatically.
She looks up. “Why not?”
I don’t have an answer.
She finishes cleaning my hand and wraps it in linen. When she’s done, she sits beside me and swings her legs, copying me.
“He says it’s love,” she says quietly.
I nod. “He says love is staying.”
“Then why does it feel like leaving?” she asks.
I swallow hard. “Maybe love is learning to stay anyway.”
She frowns. “That sounds like something he would say.”
I laugh, surprised. “You’re right.”
She leans her head against my shoulder. “If that’s love, I’ll love you differently.”
“How?”
“I’ll stay without hurting you,” she says simply.
I close my eyes. The ache in my hand fades into something dull and distant.
“Evie,” I say, “if I ever forget who I am… remind me.”
She nods solemnly. “I will.”
Later, when the bell rings for supper, I stand and straighten my jacket. I look at my reflection in the mirror—chin lifted, eyes steady.
Endurance, Father calls it. But as Evangeline reaches for my hand again and smiles like nothing can touch us, I decide something quietly, stubbornly. If this is what love costs, I will learn how to pay it. But I will never ask her to.