Chapter 18: Letter

Your Highness,

I pray this letter reaches you with the swiftness of the north wind. My anticipated return to Silvermere has been indefinitely delayed; the King of Fortundra has become acutely aware of my presence within his walls. This development, while dangerous, has necessitated a total shift in our strategy. To uncover the deep-seated truths and military secrets he hides from our borders, I must first entrench myself in his court and secure his absolute confidence. I beg your royal indulgence and your forgiveness for this prolonged silence. I shall not return to you empty-handed.

— Diana

I sat frozen at the mahogany desk, the quill feeling like a lead weight in my hand, as Zion’s face flickered in my mind like a stubborn, unyielding candle flame. I hated this—this suffocating, oily tangle of fear, homesickness, and a new, sharp guilt that tasted like copper in the back of my mouth. I had never felt guilty on a mission before. Not once. I had lied to merchants, outwitted border guards, and slipped through the fingers of seasoned mercenaries without a second thought.

But Zion’s kindness was a different kind of threat. Whether it was a masterful mask designed to lure me into a false sense of security or a spark of genuine warmth in an otherwise cold fortress, it was a weapon I didn't know how to parry. It was easier to fight a man with a sword than a man who offered you his favorite childhood stories and hand-picked roses.

I stood up, the plush mattress sighing as I rose, and crossed the room to where the night air bit at my skin through the open window. The stars over Fortundra looked different—colder, more distant. I folded the parchment with trembling fingers, sealing it with a drop of wax that felt like a final seal on my own fate, and set it before Bran.

"Deliver this to the King of Silvermere. Directly to his hand and no other," I whispered, my voice cracking. I tried to force a smile for the bird, but it barely reached the surface of my skin.

Bran offered a sharp, skeptical croak, his black bead of an eye fixed on me with unnerving clarity.

"I know," I muttered, rolling my eyes at the raven's silent judgment. "At this rate, the seasons will turn and the snow will bury these spires before I find the maps I need." I leaned my forehead against the cold stone frame, letting the chill seep into my aching shoulders. "I just want to go home, Bran. I miss my parents. I miss the damp, salt-heavy air of the Silvermere coast. Everything here is too bright, too intense."

The raven tilted his head, letting out a low, vibrating sound that felt like a question.

"I do not care for Zion," I snapped, the lie coming out more defensive than I intended. It felt thin, like worn lace, even to my own ears. "You and Karlos are seeing ghosts where there are only shadows. I hate him. I truly do. He is the obstacle between me and my life."

Bran didn't argue; he was too smart for that. He simply took the letter in his sharp beak, his black eyes glinting with a predatory wisdom that made me feel completely exposed, as if he could see the portrait Zion had painted of me still drying in the solar.

"Hurry back," I murmured, stroking the sleek, obsidian feathers of his head one last time. "The walls feel like they’re closing in when you're gone. It’s too quiet without your nagging."

With a sudden, violent rush of wind and a beat of powerful wings, he was gone—a dark, living smudge against the vast tapestry of stars. I stood there long after he vanished, watching the horizon where my home lay, a tiny, desperate prayer for his safety trailing in his wake. I was alone now, truly alone, in a castle of silk and secrets, waiting for a King who saw far too much.