The Letter That Shouldn't Exist

The snow muffled everything.

Caelum stood at the farthest edge of the palace’s south tower, where the wind howled too loud for courtiers to eavesdrop and the guards had the good sense to stay away. His boots were soaked, his coat heavy with melting frost, but he remained unmoved.

In his gloved hand was a letter.

Unmarked. Sealed with red wax. No crest.

He had found it slid beneath his door that morning—no servant claimed to have seen it delivered. No one should have known he had returned. Not yet.

Caelum turned it over again, staring at the handwriting.

Neat. Familiar.

Too familiar.

He ripped the seal.

> To General D’Arden

If this reaches you, it means the Queen no longer trusts her own court.

I write with trembling hands and an oath half-broken. The child lives.

She was hidden. Protected. But the truth won’t stay buried, and now they are looking for her.

You will know her by her eyes. And by the way she never bows.

Do not let them use her.

I should never have let her go.

—E.

His breath stopped.

There was only one person who would sign with that single letter. Only one man who knew the truth. But that man was—

“Dead,” Caelum muttered aloud, the word bitter and unreal in the cold. “You died. I saw your body.”

Yet the letter was in his hand.

He didn’t have time to process what it meant before the clanging of bells rang out across the courtyard.

Not the morning bell. Not the summons to court.

The Queen’s bell.

Urgent. Measured.

She was calling him.

Again.

---

Queen Isolde was seated this time, a fur blanket draped across her lap, her fingers shaking as she poured herself tea. She didn’t look up when he entered.

“I wondered how long it would take them to tell you,” she said softly. “Close the door.”

Caelum obeyed.

She looked at him then. “You received a letter.”

His spine stiffened. “I did.”

“From your friend.”

“You told me he was dead.”

The Queen smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “He is. That doesn’t mean he didn’t plan ahead. Eron was a planner.”

Eron.

Caelum sat without being asked, eyes sharp. “What did you do with her?”

“With who?”

“The child. The one he mentions.”

Isolde laughed—hoarse, cold. “I didn’t raise her in the palace, if that’s what you’re imagining. Do you think I would’ve survived if they knew she had royal blood? No. I let her grow wild. Outside the walls. Where no one would look.”

“Why call her back now?”

“Because I’m dying, Caelum,” the Queen whispered, her fingers tightening on the teacup, “and my son is not ready. The vultures will descend. She is the only one with enough sense to survive their hunger.”

Caelum stared at her, thoughts unraveling in directions he didn’t want to go.

“She doesn’t know,” he said. “Does she?”

“No. And she mustn’t. Not until the moment is right.”

“And when is that?”

“When she’s strong enough to walk away if she must.”

He looked down. The image of the girl in the hallway—no, the woman—flashed in his mind. Firelight in her hair. Defiance in her spine. Eyes that did not bow.

Seraphine.

His voice was rough when he asked, “Why did you choose me for this?”

The Queen’s eyes softened.

“Because you protect the things you’re ordered to destroy. And because she will not survive this place unless someone remembers she’s still human.”

---

That night, Caelum stood outside Seraphine’s chamber door, his hand raised to knock.

He hesitated.

Inside, he could hear the soft rustle of paper, maybe a fire crackling. She was awake. Perhaps writing. Perhaps plotting.

She was more like Eron than she would ever know.

And yet—he lowered his hand.

He didn’t knock.

Instead, he whispered into the silence: