The night was warm — not suffocating, but thick with summer stillness. Outside, a chorus of crickets droned softly beneath the trees. Inside Veltryn House, everything slept. Everything, except Frances Serenna Elarion.

  She lay on her back, tangled in a thin linen sheet, her body still aching faintly in the most satisfying ways. Gale, of course, was already asleep beside her — sprawled like a prince, bare-chested and victorious, one arm flung over his eyes, the other draped carelessly across her waist until she shifted it off.

  He made a soft sound, half-protest, half-sigh, and returned to his heat-soaked slumber without a word.

  Fran stared at the ceiling.

  It had been weeks — no, months — since she’d had a proper pause. And now that she had it, now that she was here, in the house where she had been born, in the arms of the man she loved, in a world finally quiet…

  She couldn’t sleep.

  She'd taken Emaen’s herbs. Twice.

  And still, her mind wandered, chewing the same thought for what had to be the fifth night in a row.

  It was too easy.

  Vannor, Vos, Avessa. The diamonds. The ports. The documents. Every thread she and Gale had followed had led to a neat, dramatic end — a courtroom, a scandal, an arrest. But it was too easy. What if they were meant to be caught? What if the real game was still going — somewhere else, behind the curtain?

  And Kentar. Was that even the right trail?

  She turned on her side. Gale muttered something incoherent in his sleep, possibly the name of a dessert, then reached out blindly and grabbed her hip.

  Fran rolled her eyes. She pushed his hand off, slipped out of bed, and rose quietly.

  Near the doorway, a soft orb of golden light hovered — one of Gale’s clever little spells. She hadn’t asked him to cast it, but he’d done it anyway, probably after the second night she tripped over her boots on the way to the chamber pot. The orb stirred when she moved and followed, casting gentle light ahead of her as she padded barefoot into the corridor.

  She had no destination in mind. Just motion. Her thoughts were louder in stillness.

  She wandered the hallways of Veltryn House in silence. The place was old, yes — but clean in the unnaturally thorough way that only Gale’s brand of magic could achieve. Even the shadows felt orderly.

  She hadn’t explored much since arriving, distracted by… well, everything. But now the quiet suited her. So did the freedom.

  She turned left, following some instinct, and opened a heavy door near the north side of the manor.

  Inside, the room was small but carefully arranged. A wooden cradle with carved vines still stood against the wall. A small bookshelf sagged under the weight of picture books, some clearly handmade. Wooden toys lay forgotten in a corner: a small bird on wheels, a knight with a broken lance, a stack of painted blocks spelling a name that no one had spoken aloud for years.

  And near the window, resting on a low shelf, sat a linen-covered box. Decorated with silver threads and pressed flowers — delicate work, almost ceremonial.

  Fran knelt and opened it.

  Inside, letters. Dozens of them, each folded with care, some edged in ribbon, others painted with childish motifs. The handwriting varied — some precise and elegant, others quick and looping, but all written to the same imagined reader.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  To her.

  The first letter was short. Barely four lines.

  To my baby,

  Today you kicked for the first time while I read aloud. Your father insists it was because I mispronounced a name. I think you just liked my voice. I hope you always do.

  — Your mother

  Fran swallowed.

  Letter after letter followed — some playful, others aching with unspoken worry. Many began “To my darling girl”, or “Sweetheart”, or simply “You.” All of them were addressed to a future that never arrived.

  One note, clearly from Darin, was a scribbled mess of corrections and margin notes. It began with an apology for miscalculating the blooming cycle of a rare mountain flower, and ended with a sketch of a little girl riding a bear while shouting instructions in Old Velmoran. Beneath it, he had written: “Just in case you inherit your mother’s taste for drama.”

  Fran smiled. Then blinked.

  She sat there, unmoving, for a long time. Then, closed the letters carefully and replaced them in the box, but her chest still felt hollow — filled with a grief that wasn’t hers, and never would be. Her mother had loved her. Her father had adored her. But she did not know them.

  She knew Haran, whose fingers always smelled of glue and paper, who called her little-one and told her bedtime stories about clever birds. She knew Sorelle, who made the best fennel stew in the kingdom and scolded her even when she got things right, just to be sure.

  She loved them.

  And she whispered their names now, like a charm, before stepping back into the hallway and closing the nursery door.

  She wandered again, guided by the silent orb, until she found another room.

  It smelled of ink, parchment, a faint trace of wine. Books were stacked along the wall and strewn across the desk, open to pages on imperial dynasties, sigils, and treaties of succession. The title of one tome caught her eye: “Inherited Lies: Disputed Genealogies in the Eastern Courts.”

  Papers lay scattered across the desk. Not in disarray, but not neatly filed either. As though someone had left in haste, intending to return.

  Fran stepped closer. Her eye caught a note half-pinned beneath a book of Old Empire etymology. The handwriting was familiar now — Darin’s.

  Veltryn → Virevale → Veilera? Possible root: Velmor = foundation / seat of power? Crosscheck with pre-imperial lexicons (Zanatheian influence?).

  Beside it lay another paper — this one torn at the corner. It wasn’t a letter, but it held the same careful ink strokes as the archive pages in Vartis.

  It bore only a few lines, but they struck deep:

  The copy is accurate. Language aligns with the pre-regency decree seals. If he forged it, he did so masterfully. But I don’t think he did.

  If true, the implications are beyond repair.

  Fran sat down.

  She recognized the name in the corner — D. Virellan. Darin had signed it like a scholar signing a report. Detached. Clinical.

  There was also a smaller slip of paper pinned beneath the stack. The writing was unmistakably Alric’s.

  Truth is a weapon, Nina. Use it only when you're ready to be struck by it.

  Fran stood still, papers in hand, her mind suddenly wide awake.

  It was too easy.

  The diamonds. The arrests. The trail to Kentar.

  She stared down at the notes, at the careful paranoia threaded through each line. A warning, decades old. Maybe more than that.

  She returned an hour later, barefoot and pensive, her fingertips still smelling faintly of old paper and lavender.

  The orb hovered faithfully beside her until she crossed the bedroom threshold. As she slipped back into bed, it dimmed itself and vanished with a soft click, like the closing of a locket.

  Gale was now diagonally sprawled across the bed, the sheet kicked halfway down, looking smug even in his sleep. One knee was bent like he’d won a duel in his dreams. His hair was a mess. He was probably dreaming of pie.

  Fran eased in beside him, careful not to wake him — not because he needed rest, but because she did not want to hear whatever nonsense would come out of his mouth if she admitted she’d gone on a midnight nostalgia hunt.

  Too late.

  He stirred, blinked once, then mumbled, “You were gone.”

  “I went to look for ghosts,” she said.

  “Mmh. Did they offer better cuddling than me?”

  “A little less smug, at least.”

  He chuckled, eyes still mostly closed. “Mm. You’re cold. Come closer.”

  Before she could answer, his hand found her thigh — with the precision of someone who’d mapped her body in his sleep — and settled there like it had every right to stay.

  Fran exhaled. “You’re lucky I like you.”

  “Mmhm. That’s why you keep coming back.”

  She reached down, peeled the sheet back up, and tried to find a comfortable spot between his limbs. In the end, she gave up and let him be the furnace he clearly wished to be.

  He muttered something again — something that sounded like “sapphire” and “proposal” — but it drifted off before she could catch it.

  She fell asleep thinking of letters that would never be answered, and truths that had waited too long to be told.