CHAPTER 218: ELIZABETH VEYL [3]

[Elizabeth’s POV]

Elizabeth did not remember leaving the café.

One moment, Kyle’s voice was still in her ears.

The calm certainty with which he had spoken her real name, the weight of it like a hammer against glass...

And the next, she was walking down the Academy’s cobbled path. Her boots striking each stone as though the sound could drown out the thoughts swarming her head.

She didn’t even notice the way the evening wind caught at her hair. Didn’t notice the curious glances of a few passing students.

Her eyes were fixed forward, but her focus was miles away, tangled in a knot of emotions too tight to name.

By the time she reached the tall arched door of the dormitory, her hands were trembling.

The moment she stepped inside her room.

Click...

The door clicked shut behind her with a sharp finality. The quiet that followed was almost suffocating.

Elizabeth stood there for a heartbeat, still as stone. A catalog in hand, though she had no memory of holding it.

Then, slowly, she set it down on her desk.

Her breathing was uneven.

It felt as though something inside her had cracked open, and now everything was pouring out.

She sank into the nearest chair, elbows on her knees, fingers pressed against her temples.

’What was that, back there?’

Her pulse still hadn’t slowed. Kyle’s face, calm but unreadable, hovered in her mind. His voice. That name. Her name.

Duvain.

The word alone was enough to send heat flooding through her veins.

It had been years since she had last heard it spoken aloud. Years since the night she had woken to screams and fire, the air choked with the smell of blood and burning silk.

Years since she had run barefoot through the corridors of House Duvain’s ancestral home, knowing, somehow, even then, that she was the only one left alive.

Elizabeth drew a shuddering breath, leaning back in her chair.

She had promised herself she would never forget.

Not the smell. Not the sound. Not the hollow echo of her own sobs as she had stood in the ashes of her home.

But memory was one thing. Justice... justice was another.

Her adopted father had promised her both.

—— "I will find out who ordered it"

Rylan Veyl had said the night he took her in, his voice smooth as polished marble.

—— "I will see them punished. You have my word."

She knew he was lying. But she decided to believe him that time.

Believed that his hand on her shoulder was steady.

That the way he looked at her was protective, not calculating. That the small comforts he gave her were not part of something larger.

But the years had peeled away the lies.

His promises had dulled into polite dismissal.

—— "These things take time, Elizabeth."

His patience was endless where hers was not. And the more she watched him work. The more she saw herself for what she was.

Not a ward. Not a daughter.

A tool.

An asset.

A living piece in the intricate game that was Rylan Veyl’s political life.

And now...

Elizabeth stood abruptly. The chair scraped against the floor, the sound sharp in the stillness.

And now Kyle Valemont...

A boy she had taken for just another moderately clever commoner with the occasional spark of talent, had looked her straight in the eye and claimed he knew who had ordered the slaughter of House Duvain.

She clenched her hands into fists.

’Does he? Or is he bluffing?’

The thought cut deep.

If he was lying, if this was some ploy to gain leverage over her...

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

She would... kill him.

She would not...

Would never... allow herself to be manipulated again.

Not by Rylan. Not by anyone.

The air in the room felt suddenly too tight.

Elizabeth crossed to her desk, each step sharper than the last, and swept the catalog from its surface.

It struck the wall and slid to the floor, pages bent and creased.

Her breathing came faster.

She caught sight of herself in the small oval mirror above the dresser.

Dark eyes, sharp with something between fury and anticipation. Her golden brooch sat perfectly pinned to her collar, neat as ever, and for a moment she hated the sight of it.

Hated the control it symbolized.

She yanked it free and threw it onto the desk.

The sound it made was far too soft.

Her gaze flicked to the vase by the window. Porcelain, painted with delicate blue flowers. She had bought it last year. She had liked it once.

She hurled it against the far wall.

Shatter...

It shattered into pale shards, the flowers splitting apart mid-petal.

The crash echoed in her chest like a second heartbeat.

But the pressure inside her did not ease.

She tore the books from her shelf, one after another, their spines hitting the floor with dull thuds.

She flung open the wardrobe and sent her neatly pressed uniforms spilling out in a chaotic heap.

Her hair came loose as she moved, strands falling across her face.

She hardly noticed.

Happiness. Madness. Rage.

The words swirled through her mind, each one catching on the next, indistinguishable from the others.

She didn’t know which she was feeling, only that they were all there, clawing at her ribs, demanding to be let out.

The vase had shattered. The books lay scattered. But it still wasn’t enough.

Elizabeth gripped the edge of her desk and shoved. It skidded across the floor a few inches, the legs scraping against the wood.

Her arms ached, her breath ragged.

She pressed the heel of her hand to her mouth, trying to steady herself, and failed.

’If he knows...’

The thought burned.

’If he truly knows who gave that order, if he can lead me to them...’

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

’Then I can finally...’

The image came to her unbidden. A faceless silhouette in a gilded chair, the quiet satisfaction of signing a death warrant. The faint curl of a smile as House Duvain burned.

Her nails dug into her palms.

She had imagined that face a hundred times, a thousand. Each time different, each time the same in its cruelty.

And each time, she had told herself that when she found them, she would not hesitate.

There would be no trial. No questions.

Only the end.

Elizabeth crossed to the bed and sat heavily on the edge, elbows on her knees once more.

She dragged in a breath.

She had to think.

Kyle Valemont was dangerous. That much she knew now. He was not what he seemed. He had parried her questions with ease, read her with a precision she had not expected.

And if he did know the truth... why tell her?

What did he stand to gain?

Her lips curved in a humorless smile.

Everyone wanted something.

If his goal was to use her anger, to set her on a path that served him... then he would find that she was no one’s pawn.

If he thought otherwise...

Her fingers brushed the edge of a jagged shard from the shattered vase.

She would prove him wrong.

Slowly, she stood again, pacing the narrow length of the room.

The night air drifted in through the window, cool against her skin. Somewhere beyond the dormitory walls, laughter rang faintly from the student courtyard.

It felt impossibly far away.

She paused at the window, staring out at the moonlit campus.

From here, the Academy looked almost peaceful.

Almost.

Elizabeth rested her forehead lightly against the glass.

She could still feel the echo of Kyle’s gaze. Steady and unflinching.

—— "You don’t want this marriage. Neither do I."

Her own words seemed smaller in retrospect, compared to what had come after.

The name.

The truth he dangled in front of her like bait.

And she, like a fool, had felt her pulse leap.

But she was not a fool. Not anymore.

Not since the night Rylan Veyl had told her to smile for the guests while quietly reminding her that her future was his to arrange.

Not since she had learned that promises could be just another kind of weapon.

Her hand curled into a fist against the cool pane of glass.

She would find out if Kyle Valemont was bluffing.

If he wasn’t...

Her breath came slow now, more measured.

If he wasn’t... then for the first time in years, the path to justice might be in reach.

And if he was...

Her gaze slid to the wreckage of the vase, the torn heap of books, the scattered clothes.

If he was, then she would make sure no one ever spoke the name Duvain to her again.

Not him. Not anyone.

Elizabeth turned from the window at last.

The room was a mess, shards of porcelain glittering faintly in the lamplight, the scent of torn paper hanging in the air.

Her breathing had steadied.

The storm inside her had not passed.

But it was quieter now, contained.

She would wait. Watch.

And when the moment came, she would act.

One way or another.

———————