A whole three days passed before the second letter came.
Just like the first—there was no sign of a passing hand. No messenger. No trace.
It was written in the same fashion: short, pointed, and utterly devoid of warmth. Not generous with words—but it didn't need long paragraphs to deliver a punch to the gut.
"You hesitate, Aiden Rosethorne. Why? The blood of your parents cries for justice. Will you deny them this?"
His hands trembled.
He didn't move. He didn't breathe. His eyes locked on one word—
Justice.
The single word echoed like a thunderclap in the hollow of his chest.
Justice.
He was hyper-fixated, his thoughts spiraling, a thousand emotions bubbling and clouding his mind at once.
What justice could there be for a crime two decades old? What justice could satisfy ghosts—parents—he could barely remember?
What vengeance could he deliver for people he never truly knew?
Elliott had told him, once—softly, almost reluctantly—that his mother had been kind. That his father was gentle, peaceful, the type of man who never raised his voice unless necessary. Idealists, both of them. Lovers of books and gardens and quiet afternoons.
Would they even want this?
Would they want him to chase ghosts through enemy territory, to abandon his duties, to walk blindly into danger—just for the possibility of a truth he wasn't even sure he was ready for?
Would they be proud of him, if they knew what he was about to do?
Or would they look at him in disappointment?
His breath hitched—just once, barely audible.
A bitter laugh slipped past his lips, humorless and cold.
Elliott.
Of course.
Elliott, who had never addressed the rumors himself. Who had always turned the conversation with a deflecting smile, a gentle hand on his shoulder, a quiet "It doesn't matter now."
And Aiden—fool that he was—had accepted that. Had chosen to believe it didn't matter. That silence meant safety. That Elliott not telling him must be for his own good.
Now, that silence felt like betrayal.
The rest of the world keeping secrets from him—he could understand. He didn't expect answers from courtiers, servants, or politicians. But Elliott? The one person who should have been honest?
It stung.
It felt like the quietest kind of failure.
And now this—this stranger, this faceless someone, possibly an enemy, was offering him what Elliott had denied him all these years.
Truth.
Answers.
Aiden knew—he knew—this was a trap. It was so obviously a trap that it would've been laughable... if the ache in his chest wasn't so real. If the what if wasn't growing stronger by the hour.
He shouldn't think about it. He shouldn't entertain it.
He should burn the damn thing and move on.
But.
He turned the paper over anyway. On the back was the location. Precise coordinates, this time. A place near the border.
And a timeframe.
If he wanted to be there in time—he'd have to leave at dawn.
His jaw clenched.
He wouldn't go.
He wouldn't.
It was late into the night when Aiden found himself in Elliott's chambers, yet again.
The older man had fallen asleep earlier—after his meal and medicine. His health had been slowly improving for days now. The fever had broken. The tremors were gone. Color had returned to his cheeks. For once, his breaths were steady and unhindered.
He looked peaceful.
And Aiden—watching him from the edge of the bed—felt a weight press down on his chest.
Only after clutching Elliott's hand through ragged, gasping nights... only after pacing rooms in sleepless dread, praying he'd survive the next hour— only now does Aiden now understand what a blessing these soft, steady breaths were.
Elliott would wake soon. Not just briefly—but fully. Enough to ask questions Aiden wasn't ready to answer.
About the Southern Empire.
About Veylan.
About what Aiden had done.
About the war Aiden had started.
But tonight, none of that was what haunted him.
It was the letters.
The letters, and the rumors.
The same whispers that had chased him his entire life. He'd heard them first as a child—barely more than a shadow in the hallways. Whispers passed between servants, murmurs swallowed behind closed doors.
Later, they followed him into the ballroom. Cloaked in perfume and silk, veiled by fans and fake smiles. The name Rosethorne spoken like a curse when they thought he couldn't hear.
And when Elliott adopted him—when he became a Lancaster—those whispers only grew louder. Sharper.
He remembered asking, once. One time, early on, when the ache for identity was too much to bear.
Elliott had gone quiet.
No answer. No comfort. Just a vague platitude and a shift in topic.
Aiden had filed the ache away after that. Locked it in a quiet, aching part of his heart and buried it beneath everything else.
And for years, the longing dulled.
But now—now that someone had named it, had dragged it out into the light and offered him the impossible—
He didn't know if he could bury it again.
Not before it swallowed him whole.
His hands clenched at his sides, the letter heavy in his pocket like a curse.
He knew he shouldn't go.
But.
What if it was real?
What if it wasn't a trap?
What if the answers were there—waiting—and he let them slip through his fingers out of fear?
The thoughts slithered through his mind like smoke. Poisonous. Persistent.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to center himself.
But the past came rushing in.