POV: Evangeline
Alexandro breathes too fast when he’s angry.
I notice it before anyone else does, the way his chest rises too quickly, the way his jaw locks like he’s bracing for impact even when no one is shouting yet. We’re sitting side by side in the library, ink pots lined neatly between us, when his quill snaps in half.
He freezes. I reach for his hand under the table immediately.
“Breathe,” I whisper. “Slow. Like this.”
I exaggerate my inhale, then my exhale, counting silently with my fingers. He follows me after a second, shoulders lowering by degrees.
Across the room, the tutor clears his throat. “Focus, Duke Alexandro.”
Alexandro nods. “Yes, sir.”
The tutor turns away, satisfied.
I squeeze Alexandro’s hand once more before letting go.
That’s how it works now. I soothe, he endures. Quietly. Carefully. Without drawing attention.
After lessons, we walk the long corridor toward our rooms. The palace hums with footsteps and murmurs, all of it polished and cold. Alexandro kicks a loose pebble across the floor.
“I wanted to say something,” he mutters.
“I know,” I reply.
“He was wrong.”
“I know,” I repeat.
“That law doesn’t make sense.”
“I know,” I say again, softer.
He stops walking and looks at me. “Why don’t you ever say it out loud?”
I hesitate. “Because someone always hears.”
He scowls. “That’s cowardly.”
“No,” I say. “It’s survival.”
He looks away, jaw tight.
I step closer. “Alex, listen to me.”
He sighs but doesn’t move.
“You don’t have to win every fight,” I say. “Some fights are won by not being seen.”
“That sounds like giving up.”
“It’s not,” I insist. “It’s waiting.”
“For what?”
“For the moment it matters.”
He studies my face like he’s trying to decide whether to believe me. Finally, he nods once.
“You’re strange,” he says.
I smile. “You love me anyway.”
He huffs. “Unfortunately.”
***
Mother watches everything. She just doesn’t interfere.
At dinner, she sits across from us, posture perfect, expression calm. Father speaks about court matters and expectations. Alexandro answers when addressed. I nod when spoken to.
Mother cuts her food with precision.
“Evangeline,” Father says suddenly. “Your posture.”
I straighten instantly.
“Better,” he says.
Mother doesn’t look at me, but I feel the faintest brush of her foot against mine beneath the table. Not comfort. Not defiance. Acknowledgment.
After dinner, she calls me to her chambers.
“You’re growing observant,” she says as I stand before her vanity.
“I always was,” I reply.
She meets my eyes in the mirror. “Observant girls last longer.”
I don’t like how that sounds. “Is that what you want?”
“I want you safe,” she says. “And unremarkable.”
“I don’t want to be unremarkable.”
Her mouth tightens. “You will.”
She dismisses me with a nod. The conversation is over.
***
The next day, Father orders Alexandro to attend an additional training session instead of free time. He complies without argument, but his hands shake as he buttons his jacket.
I watch from the doorway.
“Go,” Father snaps. “Move.”
Alexandro turns to leave.
“Wait,” I say suddenly.
Father looks at me. “What is it?”
“I—” My heart pounds. “May I accompany him? To watch?”
Father studies me. “Why?”
“So I may learn,” I say carefully. “How discipline is maintained.”
His eyes narrow, then he nods. “Fine. But you will not speak.”
“Yes, Father.”
The training yard smells like sweat and metal. Alexandro grips his practice sword too tightly. His opponent—a boy older and stronger—circles him.
“Begin,” the instructor commands.
They clash. Alexandro stumbles. The boy presses harder.
“Again,” the instructor barks.
Alexandro grits his teeth and raises his sword once more.
I step forward without thinking.
“Alex,” I say sharply. “Your footing.”
Father’s head snaps toward me. I freeze. Alexandro adjusts anyway, shifting his stance just enough. The next strike glances off his blade instead of knocking it aside.
The instructor grunts. “Better.”
Father says nothing, but his gaze burns into me.
Afterward, in the corridor, he stops me.
“You were told not to speak,” he says coldly.
“Yes, Father.”
“And yet you did.”
I lower my eyes. “I won’t do it again.”
He studies me for a long moment, then turns away. “See that you don’t.”
My knees wobble as I exhale.
Alexandro grabs my arm the moment we’re alone. “Are you mad?”
“Yes,” I say.
“You could’ve been punished.”
“I know.”
“Why did you do it?”
I meet his eyes. “Because you needed help.”
He stares at me, stunned.
“You shouldn’t,” he says quietly.
“I will,” I reply. “Every time.”
***
Later, we sit beneath the fig tree in the small inner courtyard. Servants pass by without looking at us.
“You’re braver than me,” Alexandro says.
“No,” I say. “I’m quieter.”
“That’s worse,” he mutters.
I laugh. “No. That’s smarter.”
He leans back against the trunk. “Sometimes I want to scream.”
“I know.”
“What if I can’t do this forever?”
“Then I’ll do it with you,” I say. “Until you can.”
He closes his eyes. “Promise?”
I hook my pinky around his. “Promise.”
A servant calls our names from the doorway. Time to return. Rules to follow.
We stand together.
As we walk back inside, I tuck a folded scrap of paper into Alexandro’s hand. He unfolds it quickly.
It’s a crude drawing of the two of us—stick figures, really—standing back to back.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“Us,” I say. “Unbroken.”
He smiles then, wide and real.
And for a moment—just a moment—I feel like I’ve won something important without anyone noticing.
Which, I’m learning, is the only way victories survive here.