Chapter 70 The Letter
The Letter
By the time I reach my chambers, the composure I carried through the corridor has thinned to something fragile and transparent. The moment the door closes behind me, I press my back against it as though I need its weight to keep me upright.
I do not scream or collapse theatrically. The unraveling comes slowly, a tightening in my throat, a burn behind my eyes, the humiliating sting of dried blood at the corner of my mouth, reminding me how much of myself I have already spent today.
Colsar is gone. The ports are closed. The list he gave me is ash.
I cross to the bed, my steps heavier than they should be, each one echoing faintly in the hollow he left behind. My reflection catches in the mirror as I pass, and I barely recognize the woman staring back, hair disordered, eyes dark with exhaustion, anger still clinging to her.
I reach for the bedside drawer, searching for something to anchor myself, a cloth to wipe away the last trace of weakness, but my fingers brush parchment instead.
For a moment I do not understand what I am touching, then memory slides into place.
Junis. Eravic. The message that once felt easy to dismiss.
I draw the letter out carefully and sit at the edge of the bed, unfolding it across my lap.
The page remains as blank as it was before, nothing more than invisible fibers beneath my hand.
Use what you have.
Magic. The room feels smaller as the thought takes hold. I have used my power to break things, never to restore what was erased. I press my palm to the parchment and close my eyes. Nothing. The page stays blank. Fatigue and doubt creep in. Perhaps I am only dangerous when angry.
But something quieter moves beneath the exhaustion.
I turn inward, to the place beneath my ribs where the force gathers, and let it move slowly, like a key searching for a lock.
Warmth spreads beneath my hand. This time the parchment answers.
Lines surface from within the fibers, deepening into letters that darken until they are unmistakable.
Asharin,
If this letter reveals itself to you, then you have begun to understand what you are.
Before you question what follows, remember this: I am Vaelor, and my kind does not lie.
I exhale slowly and do not break contact. It was known that those of Vaelor lineage cannot lie, and that single truth comforts me more than any oath ever could. The words continue to form with patient certainty.
You are much more than a Baron’s bastard. You are not what they named you. Your mother was not what they allowed you to believe. You are of royal lineage.
Royal. The word presses into my chest with unexpected force. For some reason, I do not feel shock or surprise. I read on.
Your blood traces to Alarna. Your family remains there.
Alarna. The name feels different now that I have heard it from Colsar’s mouth as well, bound to wards and undead and borders sealed against invasion.
Alarna is heavily warded at present. The Threns have left more than bodies in their wake. The undead now encircle the outer territories, and no one moves freely in or out. The wards are the only barrier preventing full inundation.
I swallow and continue.
I have sent word to those who hold power in your mother’s name. Messages may take months. Travel is perilous. But they had planned for your return long ago, and someone is coming. You must trust him.
He will carry a phrase. I’rana marai. If he speaks it to you, you will know he was sent by those who remember who you truly are.
My pulse begins to climb, not from fear but from recognition that something has been unfolding beyond my sight for far longer than I understood.
I know who your mother was. I know what was taken from her. I know what was taken from you.
Use what you have.
I lift my hand slowly from the page. The ink remains, dark and clear.
I sit there for a long while, the letter resting open across my lap, exhaustion still woven through my limbs yet threaded now with something else. I read the lines again even though I have already memorized them, tracing each word. Royal lineage. Alarna. I’rana marai.
I am not what they called me. I am not the Baron’s shame.
I am not trapped in this palace. There are wards around Alarna strong enough to keep the undead at bay.
There is family I have never seen. There is someone already on their way.
The thought does not erase what happened, but it shifts it. It gives it edges, makes it survivable.
The King cannot keep the ports closed forever.
My head throbs. I decide to bathe, then sleep.
I cross to the washroom, shedding my dress with hands that feel distant.
I wipe the dried blood from my face, then rinse my mouth until the taste fades.
I draw a bath and sink into it, letting the warmth wash away the blood, the vomit, the weight of the day.
By the time I step out and wrap myself in a robe, the exhaustion feels earned.
The final line of the letter still hums in my mind.
I’rana marai. Someone will come. Someone who knows those words.
I dry my hair loosely and return to the bed. As I slip beneath the covers, a gentler thought rises. Nyara. I will see her tonight. The anticipation lifts something inside me. Someone to confide in. A friend. For the first time since morning, I feel something close to relief.
I turn into the pillow, breathing in Colsar’s scent, and let the exhaustion take me, the letter’s promise and his warmth carrying me into sleep.