A Letter to Zen

  Zen…

  I decided that I will write to you every day after all.

  If I didn’t, I think I would probably just explode.

  When I arrived in the capital, I was overwhelmed by a feeling I had never known before:

  the world can be huge. Frighteningly huge.

  Crowds of people, light, noise, smells—everything at once.

  I was used to the wind in the trees and the silence of the night forest, and here…

  here, everything lives at the same time.

  And you know what I thought in the very first minutes?

  “Zen would definitely say this place is too noisy.”

  I even smiled.

  The power assessment was strange.

  Too many people. Too many eyes.

  I placed my hand on the sphere and…

  I thought of you.

  Seriously.

  I clearly saw you holding back your strength so as not to reveal yourself.

  So I decided to do the same.

  But then…

  I remembered that I wanted to get into the elite class.

  So I poured in exactly as much as was needed.

  The sphere flared gold-red.

  Everyone gasped.

  A rare color—not the rarest, but rare.

  And still…

  I remembered how your vial didn’t glow at all.

  I still laugh at how you fooled them.

  Twelve people were admitted to the elite class.

  I was listed first.

  And second was her—

  the second heir to the kingdom.

  Elinia’s sister.

  Princess Lyrella.

  And Zen…

  her face told me everything I needed to know.

  Arrogance.

  A habit of worship.

  The belief that the world belonged to her.

  She looked at me as if I were a gust of wind that might ruin her hairstyle.

  I understood immediately:

  I would have a rival here.

  A real one.

  Stolen story; please report.

  I decided to hold back.

  You taught me that:

  “Never show everything at once—and never forget who might be watching.”

  Besides… I didn’t want to stand out.

  But Lyrella…

  she decided to stand out.

  And she challenged me.

  I honestly tried not to embarrass myself.

  But in the end, I embarrassed her.

  She fell.

  Twice.

  The instructors pretended everything was fine,

  but I saw it—the whole class was searching between us for a crown.

  I looked at her—and saw myself.

  The version of me I could have become.

  Arrogant.

  Empty.

  Lit by someone else’s light, not my own.

  I saw all the falseness of royal manners,

  every movement drilled in since childhood:

  how to hold the chin,

  how to fold the fingers,

  how to turn the head,

  how to look so everyone understands who you are.

  And suddenly, I began to hate all of it.

  I don’t want to be that kind of princess.

  I don’t want to be a statue with a crown.

  I want to be myself.

  I already knew:

  studying here would be boring.

  The first days are torture.

  Every instructor explains magic with words like:

  “Feel it.”

  “Imagine it.”

  “Let the flow guide you.”

  You would

  Because you and I have already broken all of this down in theory.

  We studied water molecules,

  the laws of gravity,

  pressure force,

  mana velocity…

  And here…

  the instructors themselves don’t understand what they’re doing.

  You and I trained better than this entire “elite.”

  Every day I help people in my group,

  re-explaining things they still can’t grasp after three weeks.

  I’m bored.

  And a little lonely.

  Sometimes I remember how we used to stay up all night sorting through diagrams,

  how you built your “toy army,”

  and I tried to make my dragon better than yours.

  Here…

  no one can do that.

  We passed our labyrinth.

  It was… ridiculous.

  So simple that I was actually disappointed.

  But traditions are traditions.

  I examined every trap,

  every mechanism,

  every sound in the walls.

  You would be proud of me.

  I received the “Novice’s Cup,”

  but I know the true value of that trophy.

  It’s not about strength.

  It’s about the fact that I’m still trying to be as attentive as you.

  Zen…

  I don’t know if you will ever read this.

  This letter has been growing for weeks now.

  At first, it was one paragraph. Then two. And then…

  I realized I was writing to you every evening.

  Sometimes, at night, I sit by my window and look at the lights of the capital.

  They hum even at night—people don’t sleep, the city lives constantly.

  And sometimes I want to close the curtains and pretend I’m back in our forest.

  That I hear spruce branches crunching under my feet, not the noise of carriages.

  I caught myself thinking something strange:

  for the first time, I am alone.

  Truly alone.

  With the elves, there was never silence.

  With you, there was never emptiness.

  And here…

  even in a crowd, you feel like no one.

  I’m not crying—don’t worry.

  It’s just… unfamiliar, that no one here knows who I was before I came.

  For now…

  there is a gap between me and the others.

  They are strong in their own way—

  but not like this.

  They don’t see depth.

  They don’t understand the structure of magic.

  They don’t know how to think outside the frame.

  All of them are arrogant.

  All of them are certain that simply being “elite” is enough.

  They don’t know what real training is.

  They don’t know elven methods.

  They don’t know how you and I hunted in the forests.

  They don’t know how the two of us cleared caves faster than their training groups.

  I…

  feel like I’m in a cage.

  But I’m holding on.

  (After the letter about basic lessons)

  You know what’s strangest, Zen?

  They’re talented—but blind.

  They’re proud of their families, their titles, their powers…

  But when a swordswoman dropped her training sword,

  no one helped her pick it up.

  They look down on one another,

  argue over who is “better,”

  who is “higher by blood,”

  who is “more worthy.”

  And for the first time, I felt a quiet envy.

  Not of their strength.

  But of simple people who know how to be friends.

  I remembered how you used to gather berries and throw them at me,

  how you made the elves race each other,

  how we argued over every formula until dawn.

  And it… hurt.

  Here, I don’t have what we had.

  Sometimes at night, I want to knock on someone’s door.

  But I don’t know—whose.

  If you were here…

  I would knock on yours.

  And probably say something stupid like:

  “Zen, tell me everything is going to be okay.”

  Because sometimes it feels like I’m falling apart inside.

  That I’m supposed to be strong—

  but I don’t want to be strong alone.

  Zen…

  I miss you.

  But in a good way.

  Not in a dependent way.

  In a companion’s way.

  The kind that is born in the fire of battle and in late-night conversations.

  Winter break is coming soon.

  I’ll come back.

  And finally tell you everything in person:

  about Lyrella,

  about the labyrinth,

  about how I almost fell asleep in magic class,

  about how I nearly fought an illusionist,

  and about how here…

  I lack someone who understands magic as deeply as I do.

  Until we meet again.

  — Mira