Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
The days that follow settle into a new routine—quiet hours combing through the journals and Ace’s jabbing quips about our insatiable appetites over every meal. We all know he is not speaking about anything on the plate, and yes, the gift of intimacy that a honeymoon is made for.
We do not keep the journals a secret. Not entirely.
Ace and Soria need not know the full extent of how deeply we are poring through them, nor our true motives—not yet.
However, being in a place where they all spent so many of their formative years, it is only natural for me to grow curious about the past.
“Is it true you two tried to shave an ox?”
Laughter builds like a chorus around the table where we share our meal. Vale attempts to give Ace a look meant to silence him, but instead only prompts him to seize the perceived stage.
As he regales me with the story from his perspective, I delight in the twists and turns. A tale I first witnessed through the eyes of Sylara in the pages she wrote now springs to life with new agenda and intrigue.
Though Soria is essentially a lifetime younger than the pair, she saw enough of their adventures to assure me it all rings true.
“I remember once Ace tried to convince Aurienne she was invisible! He should have known far better by then, but as you can see”—she gestures broadly at all of Ace as evidence—“the more things change, the more they stay the same.”
I cherish this. The coming together. The feeling of family I always longed for but never truly believed I would know.
I know I should be searching for answers.
Each day we sit in the library for hours with little more than passing mention of the magic that was once so commonplace it was overlooked as a simple way of being.
Yet it is the simplest parts that reach me the most. Not the way entire communities would band together to shift a stream toward wilting crops—though that feat was quite impressive—but the way his mother speaks to the heart of things.
I never knew a mother. Soria’s care and guidance is the closest I have ever known. Yet through these journals, I have come to know Sylara. Come to love her.
“Do you think she would have approved of me?” I ask Vale one lazy afternoon, just after reading about the many faces present on a journey into a town down the mountainside—a town I fear may have fallen to ash years ago.
Vale looks at me from a chair across the room. So often he reads by the window. I often remark that it is my favorite view in all the manor. Today, he takes a more formal approach—back upright, a table at his side with parchment ready to capture any sliver of information he deems worth noting.
“Without a doubt.” The comfort is immediate.
He continues, not merely to reassure me but to knit us together into his heart.
“You two have so much in common.” He lets out a small laugh, his smile drifting sweetly as his gaze turns inward.
“And yet you are wildly different. If you are the flame, then she was the hearth. She did not blaze—not like you, little flame. She held. This family. This home. All of Caerhollan.”
He closes the journal in his hand, a small ribbon marking his place, and leans forward with his elbows resting on his knees.
“Change struck everyone hard. I was sheltered through much of it, but I remember.” The smile shrinks, the familiar pain following close behind memory.
“My father worked tirelessly—trying to keep the kingdom together, keep people fed. My uncle went off to war, but my father… his battle was harder, in some ways.”
He leans back in his chair, resigning himself to the past—pain, love, and everything in between.
“Mother would always give me some tedious task when word came that my father was near. Training in the yard. Fetching her flowers for the dinner table. It didn’t matter.
What mattered was that when my father arrived, it was her alone who greeted him.
Whatever burden he carried, she was there to lighten it long before he ever turned to me.
“It is because of this—because of my mother’s enduring strength—that my father and I had the relationship we did.
It wasn’t until years later that he confided in me.
The agony of seeing starving faces and not having enough to offer.
The hollow defeat of helping to bury the dead.
We are a steadfast people. The amount of loss suffered before we sought refuge at the High Hold… it was too much.”
He pauses, then smiles again.
“My mother carried it all. And still,” his smile deepens, “she carried hope. Hope that brought us Aurienne. Hope that drove my father and me to work not only toward survival, but toward healing. She held it all.”
Even now, she holds my attention through her son’s retelling of her boundless love.
“And yes, my love, she would have absolutely adored you. Approval would not have even been a question. She would adore you for the happiness you bring me. She would adore you for the ways you never back down. And I am quite certain she would recognize something remarkable in your heart.”
Quiet pride settles within me, along with a connection to a woman shared only through memory and legacy.
A legacy I feel intense stewardship toward later that evening in the garden. Vale has just received word from the palace, and I decide to take some time among the carefully tended beds of soil and shrubbery that surround the manor.
Soria has joined me on walks here more than once since we arrived.
It is an honor to walk beside her not as Lady and maid, but more like sisters.
I try not to dwell on the way the manicured beds and climbing ivy pale in comparison to the descriptions I have read of late. It was Soria who first remarked on it.
“I wish we could have seen it. The groundskeepers are remarkable—but from the way it was told to me, back then it was… magical.” The word carries so much weight. When magic itself shaped the land, it was beyond spectacular.
Now, sitting alone on a stone bench in the garden, I try to harness any energy that may reside in me.
In the journals, she speaks of flowers blossoming at a mere thought. Try as I might, no amount of willful determination makes a single petal bloom. I let out a frustrated huff. It all feels so useless.
The healing of my hand—not once, but twice—was undeniable.
I may question what happened the day of the wedding, whether the dagger truly pierced my heart, whether I clawed my way back to Vale from death itself—but I can safely admit that I am changed.
I heal the way they do. Faster, even, as Vale has told me.
Still, I feel uncertain. Did the tree move? Or did I move it? If I could just coax this infernal bud to open, perhaps I would finally understand.
Defeated, I stop trying. It is too beautiful an evening to waste on such fruitless effort.
This time, instead of huffing, I release my breath slow and steady.
I take note of the rich fragrance carried on the summer breeze—fresh lilac, sweet and bright.
The distinct aroma of petrichor lingers from the brief shower that passed while Vale and I were reading.
I close my eyes and focus on the songbirds, their trilling weaving through rustling branches.
The song of Caerhollan.
It is not merely sound. It is a feeling. It is life itself.
“Mira—gods, did you do that?”
Soria must have arrived without my noticing. Even relieved of duty, she moves with the quiet stealth that so often fades into the background.
Her face is as white as linen. I follow her gaze and see it—the shrub before me in full bloom, petals still unfurling in visible motion.
“I… I…” I cannot answer. I do not even know the answer. Did I do that? Oh gods—what did she see?
Gathering her skirts, she rushes to my side and sits beside me on the bench. “Mira, I haven’t—I didn’t—oh gods.” At least she seems as stunned as I am.
Staring at the blossoms as if inspecting a miracle, she collects herself. I sit in uneasy silence as she speaks.
“I never saw it firsthand, but I heard the tales enough. That had to be… magic.”
I fold inward, wishing I could be smaller. Wishing I could vanish as completely as that young princess once believed at Ace’s teasing.
“Mira,” Soria says, her keen gaze cutting through every facade, “why do you not seem surprised?”
Unable to answer, I silently pray for rescue. I cannot lie to her—she would sense it without question.
Her attention shifts, and I exhale the breath I have been holding. Following her line of sight, I see Ace approaching.
“Vale would like to speak with us. He wouldn’t tell me what for, but it seemed pressing.” His tone is solemn—perhaps not the rescue I hoped for, but I will take it over the question still hanging between us… and the look on Soria’s face when she asked it.
Ace leads us into the formal office near the front of the manor. Papers are strewn across the desk—matters requiring the king’s attention even in his absence.
“There’s been news from the Hold, and it’s best you hear it from me directly.” The weight of formality in his voice unsettles me more than I expected. I sit across from him at the desk, Ace and Soria standing nearby.
“The prisoner,” he pauses, the words tasting like poison, “the one who attacked Mira, has paid for his crimes.”
My heart sinks.
I had not thought of the man who meant me such harm amid all that has unfolded since we left.
“With further descent into madness, no insight could be gained into his motives. Earlier this morning, a formal execution for attempted regicide was carried out.”
Frozen. I am utterly frozen.
Attempted regicide.
I shake my head. I am here. I am fine. And yet… I remember the way it felt when the knife was plunged.
I close my eyes.
A man is dead. It was almost me.
When I open them again, I realize they are all looking at me—Vale with concern, Ace somber, Soria conflicted.
She has not forgotten what happened in the garden. Not for an instant.
I choose my words carefully, though my certainty is unwavering.
“Vale, I think we need to tell them.” I look at him first, then to our companions.
“Are you sure?”
He has trusted them for an eternity—and still, I know this decision rests with me.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “It’s time. And we need all the help we can get.”