The Queen's study was bathed in gloom. Only an oil lamp burned on the corner of her desk, casting long shadows on the walls covered with maps and documents. Lara Amdelias crossed the threshold unannounced, her face pale and the report trembling in her hands.
"The raven from Frontier arrived," she announced in a low voice.
Eleanor slowly looked up, without a gesture. She took the report and read it in silence. Page after page, the ink stained her eyes with Sir Coltan's words. Eleanor's face remained unperturbed at first. She continued reading to the end, even rereading some passages. Her hands, however, squeezed the edge of the parchment with increasing force until her knuckles turned white.
When she finished, she slowly lowered the paper. She remained motionless for a few seconds. Then, she stood up with an abruptness that made the lamp tremble. She walked to the closed window and rested both hands on the frame, contemplating the darkness beyond the glass, though she saw nothing.
"How many mages fell?" she asked, her voice barely contained, without turning around.
"According to the report… six, Your Majesty. Half of the assigned Circle. Many warriors too. But… the Archmage is alive. And Master Dyan… he…"
"I know," Eleanor interrupted. Her voice trembled. Not from fear, but from something much deeper.
An uncomfortable silence fell.
Then she clenched her jaw in suppressed rage. "Did he have to return for all of this not to collapse? Was that what the Chinsonites expected, that I would weaken… that we would be left without him?"
Lara did not reply. She knew the question wasn't for her.
Eleanor moved away from the window. She walked to the table, swept the papers aside, and with a single movement left the report alone in the center of the desk. She sat down slowly, this time without the royal composure that always accompanied her. She was a tired woman, struck by a truth she had not wanted to admit.
"And Finia…" she murmured. "She survived. But at what cost." She ran her fingers over the surface of the report. "Dyan never wanted to come back to this. I drove him away. And yet… he returned. As always."
Her eyes gleamed with a moisture she refused to let fall.
"Tell him…" she finally said, her voice low but clear. "Tell him to come back for at least one night. That I want to thank him in person… That… I have a letter for him. And that he should stop ignoring mine, if he has any mercy left."
She added nothing more. Lara nodded with a slight bow and quietly withdrew.
The morning light streamed palely through the high windows of the Queen Emerita's chambers. Silvania Willfrost, seated in her reinforced wicker chair, silently knitted a half-finished scarf. Every now and then, she paused to look at her hands, ever thinner, ever further from their former splendor. The silence was comfortable until she heard familiar footsteps.
Eleanor entered without knocking, as she used to do since childhood. She closed the door behind her and stood for a few seconds. Silvania did not look up immediately.
"I assumed you'd come," she said softly. "Did news arrive?"
Eleanor walked slowly to a chair opposite her mother and sank into it as if the weight of the crown was more real than ever.
"It arrived. And it kept me from sleeping."
Silvania looked up. Her eyes, dimmer than in the past, still held the precise sharpness to read between the lines.
"Is she alive?"
Eleanor nodded. "Finia is well. Wounded, but alive. She saved everyone, it seems. It was she who held back a rain of arrows. Half of the Circle fell… but she stood firm."
"Did they win?"
Eleanor hesitated. Then she nodded again. "Yes, but not by our strength. It was him. Also. He arrived in time. He did… what only he can do. He burned half the Chinsonite army. He taught them a lesson they won't forget for generations."
Silvania stopped knitting. The thread slowly slipped from her finger to the floor.
"So… he returned," she said, more to herself than to her daughter.
"Yes," Eleanor murmured. "And I don't know if it relieves me… or breaks me."
Silence.
"I'm glad he did. Will you see him?" Silvania said, almost as a tender reproach.
"I don't know. I don't think he wants to see me. Not after all that…" She broke off. Then she blurted out, "I hurt him. I knew where to strike, and I did it viciously. But I can't pretend I don't still care about him, Mother."
"Sooner or later, my daughter, we all face the love we have sabotaged. But there is a comfort: if he returns for others… he can stay for you."
Eleanor pressed her lips together. Emotions pulsed beneath her skin, but she contained them, as always.
"I don't know how to speak to him. Not without seeming… weak."
Silvania slowly leaned towards her. "Well, perhaps it's time for the queen to take off her crown for a moment… and write to him as the woman who still loves him. He will know the difference."
Eleanor did not respond. She only lowered her gaze to her mother's hands.
"You're thinner," she said softly.
"Also wiser," Silvania replied, with a faint smile. "Learn, Elea… before it's too late. You can still reach him."
Eleanor slowly stood up. She nodded with a gesture that seemed almost a bow.
"Thank you, Mother."
Silvania took the thread between her fingers again, but before Eleanor left, she said: "Ah… and don't put the royal seal on it. Let it be only yours."
Eleanor stopped short, smiled almost like a sigh, and left in silence.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
While Finia rested, Dyan toured the fort and spent part of the morning restoring the functionality of the protection crystal on the lower levels. The losses were enormous, but no one could deny that the mage's mere presence was enough to instill a sense of security among the soldiers. As he traced glyphs on the crystal's cracked surface, a familiar figure appeared in the doorway of the underground hall.
"Dyan Halvest… Is this a coincidence, or did you wait until the very end just to become a hero?"
The mage looked up with a smile laced with irony.
"Some will think that, no doubt. But I'm not that infamous… though of course, you wouldn't believe me. Do you believe me, Glasca?"
The crystal exhaled a pulse of blue light, sweeping through the hall with a faint magical hum.
The veteran warrior crossed the hall with a firm stride, despite the improvised sling supporting her arm.
"Of course not," Glasca replied dryly. "I'm one to appreciate help, not to look for plots where there are none."
"To be honest… I didn't come for you all."
She interrupted him with a gesture. "You came for Finia. I understand. But you did much more than necessary. Saving her would have been easy for you. What you did out there… it saved all of us."
"Perhaps. But every decision I made was for her. If she had escaped without showing her power, it would have cast a shadow over her future."
"And what are you, her father? Don't you think you're overreacting?"
"You don't need blood to feel that way. She's like a daughter to me, and that's enough." He ran his index finger over the crystal, leaving a shimmering line of light behind it. "From the outside, it might seem excessive… but there are too many eyes on her."
"At my age, I've forgotten how to play the game of power," Glasca grumbled. "If someone wants my place, they can take it. I'd love to retire and live in peace, like you."
Dyan laughed. "I can't imagine you napping among sunflowers. How long has it been since you visited your grandchildren?"
"Years. More than I care to count," she said, standing beside him. "But looking at you… your face seems lighter. Maybe it's time for a vacation."
"Don't wait too long. Time doesn't forgive, Glasca. One day you wake up… and your moment is gone."
The mercenary narrowed her eyes and extended her hand with her usual roughness. "You're right, Dyan Halvest."
They shook hands as they had done so many times in the past, firmly and with respect, sharing what couldn't be said with words.
"Thanks to you," Glasca added, "this old woman can embrace her grandchildren one more time. For a moment… I thought I wouldn't make it."
And with that, she left. Just before disappearing down the hallway, Dyan raised his voice: "You're not that old, Aunt Glasca!"
"And don't call me Aunt, you demon brat!" she yelled back without turning, but with a smile on her lips and a lighter heart.
Once the crystal repairs were finished, Dyan returned to the room where Finia was resting. He found her sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall, with her plate of food untouched beside her. He closed the door behind him and sat next to her.
"Aren't you going to eat?" he asked softly.
She snuggled against his arm. "Master… how did you get here? I thought everything was lost."
Dyan took the plate, stirred the broth, and brought it closer. "You have to eat; you collapsed from exhausting your energy."
"I'm not hungry," she whispered, sinking deeper into his embrace. "How did you do it? This isn't a dream, is it?"
He brought the spoon to her lips. "I'll tell you if you eat a little."
She obeyed, opening her mouth. "A mage without curiosity is no mage," he said with a smile. "Where do I begin? It was a mix of the research I had left behind, Edictus's notes, and the advancements I made these past months." Another spoonful. "The silver coin was the first real step. Then, moving objects wasn't that complicated. I hadn't tried with living beings yet, but with the coin as an anchor... it was risky, yes, but there was no other option."
"It's… incredible," Finia said, her eyes wide. "It could change the world. Imagine being able to move from city to city in seconds."
"Someday," Dyan replied. "For now, eat."
She nodded, and for the first time since he found her, she ate with gusto.
"I missed you too much," she said quietly.
"Me too."
"Are you my father now?"
"Always, if you wish it."
"Then I'll always be your child."
After finishing the meal, they talked for a long time about the new magic, dreaming of how it could transform everything. They laughed as before, as Master and apprentice, without titles, without fear, without war. Until there was a knock at the door.
It was Sir Armand Levet, commander of the Royal Guard. He entered with a somber expression, carrying a letter without a seal, but with Eleanor's unmistakable signature.
"Dyan," he said, his voice rough as dry stone. "I deliver this to you by Her Majesty's order."
He handed him the letter, but not without fixing him with a gaze laden with contempt.
"We didn't need you. Let that be clear."
"I expected nothing less from you," Dyan replied, without rising.
"Do what you have to do and leave. No one here wants you. They never did."
Finia frowned, indignant, but Dyan calmly touched her arm.
"I'll only stay until Finia recovers. Then I'll return to my retreat. I have no interest in being where I'm not welcome. You can continue undoing my legacy in peace, Armand. Someday… perhaps you'll open your eyes."
The commander retreated, visibly agitated. "Leave soon. You disturb the fort's peace," he said, before leaving, closing the door with a dry slam that made the shutters vibrate.
Dyan tucked the letter into his robes. The paper burned in his hand, but he wouldn't open it yet. The most important thing was right beside him, alive, breathing, dreaming.
And for now… that was enough.
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That silent afternoon at Fort Frontier. Dyan stood looking out at the battlefield; numerous vestiges of what had occurred still remained. There, in the solitude of one of the watchtowers, observing the horizon illuminated by a dying sun, it seemed to him that all the years of absurd confrontations had been reignited by his departure. Perhaps so much death was his fault. The wind blew strongly.
The metallic sound of armor reached him, heavy, measured footsteps.
"I didn't expect to see you here, Levet," Dyan said without turning. "Though I suppose resentment also needs fresh air to breathe."
Armand stopped a few feet away. His armor still showed traces of the recent battle, and his bare arm, a bandage stained with dried blood.
"I didn't come to fight," he growled. "But if you're trying to provoke me, it won't take much effort to respond."
Dyan finally turned, crossing his arms. "I don't need to provoke you. Your words do that work on their own. Months have passed, Armand, and you still seem to think I owe an apology for something I never did."
"Never did?" Armand took a step forward, his eyes alight. "Do you really think you can stand in this place, after abandoning your post, and pretend nothing happened?"
"I abandoned the post, yes. But not the kingdom. Or do you think dying on another front, for another political mistake, would have served any purpose?"
"It served as a symbol!" Armand exclaimed. "As an example! All of us who stayed had to endure without you. Without your power. Without your name. Without the only damned figure who could inspire something more than fear."
Dyan remained silent for a few seconds, letting the wind carry away some of the floating rage between them.
"And who inspired me, Armand? Who did I turn to when advice was disguised as traps, when mages died on stupid missions dictated by blind egos? Who held me when the pain of so many deaths tore away my sleep? You have a life to return to, a wife, daughters… Look at me, Armand. Do you think I owe this kingdom anything?"
The commander clenched his fists. "You weren't the only one suffering."
"I know. And that's why I never blamed anyone. I left… because I didn't want to live for myself. When you return to the capital, you'll have the warm embrace of a wife; I have nothing. My love was a shadow… and I grew tired of chasing it."
"And now what?" Armand snapped. "You return as a savior? Do you expect everyone to forget what you abandoned?"
"I expect nothing," Dyan replied, his voice low but firm. "Neither recognition nor forgiveness. I only came for her. For Finia. She needed me. I came. She is all I have left."
"And in doing so, you reminded everyone of what we no longer are." Armand lowered his voice, as if finally disarming a little. "Men died believing you were no longer here. That you would never come. And when you arrived… the eyes of many gleamed again. That hurts, Dyan."
Silence crept between them again. For an instant, only the howling wind filled the void.
"I didn't intend to hurt," Dyan said. "But I won't apologize for existing either. If seeing hope in people's eyes hurts… then perhaps that needs to be healed too."
Armand observed him for a long time.
"She's waiting for you," he finally said, turning halfway. "Don't make her wait any longer."
And he left.
Dyan sighed, leaning against the wall. He looked at the stars beginning to appear shyly, like one seeking a sign. Years ago, he would have searched for words to close that wound.
He had no intention of opening Eleanor's letter until he returned to Glavendell. However, Armand's words had unexpectedly opened a rift within him. He had been receiving her letters for months, but hadn't opened any since the one that wounded him deeply. He didn't want to return hatred, nor tarnish the image he still held of her in his heart. Eleanor could be harsh, sometimes cruel, but rarely had she unleashed such voracious contempt upon him.
He hadn't read them out of fear. Fear that her words would poison the wounds that hadn't yet healed. He should have burned them, he knew. And yet, they were the words of the woman he loved. Words that, though born of resentment, were still hers. Unable to destroy them, he had kept them. Just in case, someday… she said something different.
He took the letter from his clothes and held it between his fingers, hesitant. The envelope bore no royal seal. There was no wax, no Willfrost crest. For a moment, he allowed himself a glimmer of hope. Not much… but enough. Perhaps—just perhaps—the woman was writing to him, not the queen.
He held his breath and opened it.
Letter without seal. Without protocol.
Dyan:
I don't know if this letter will reach you. I don't even know if you'll open it. Perhaps you'll see my handwriting and decide to set it aside, as so many times I decided not to look into your eyes. But I needed to write to you, if only to empty this pain that has suffocated me since I knew you had returned.
You returned. Despite everything. Despite me.
They say the sky roared and the enemy fled like rats. They say you arrived like a storm, like a god, and Finia received you with tears. How does one thank for something like that? How can I thank you for returning to her, for saving my people, when I did everything to drive you away?
I don't intend to justify myself. I know what I did. I used your wounds as weapons. I hurled words at you that you didn't deserve. And when you left, I pretended I didn't care. But every night has been an abyss shaped like you. Every day, a battle against my pride.
It's not the queen writing to you. Nor the house of Willfrost. It's Eleanor writing to you. The woman who was left empty when she lost the only man who looked at her without fear, without reverence… without trying to change her.
I'm not asking you to return. I'm not asking you to forgive me. I just wanted you to know that I still play the piano without sounding a single note. That I still search for you in the echoes of the palace, as if your laughter could hide behind a column. As if your perfume could have lingered in the curtains.
I don't know if we'll ever speak again. But if this letter reaches you… keep it. Or burn it. I just needed you to know that I'm still here. And that I still think of you.
Sometimes, when I can't sleep, I imagine you're still here. Reading your impossible books aloud. Patiently correcting me when I lose my temper. Laughing when you think I'm not watching.
And in those dreams… I still love you.
Always yours,
Eleanor
Dyan held the letter with both hands. His heart, in pieces. Those words… those words were not a queen's. They were a broken woman's. Vulnerable. True. And they were, also, words he had never heard from her lips.
He hesitated. Inside, a tide of emotions surged. An uncontrollable desire to run to her side, to cup her face in his hands and return the love he had never stopped feeling. But also, the need to respond with sense. With something that wasn't just passion. Something that spoke from truth.
Because that letter hid an unanswered question. Was it a shared but impossible love? Or was there still hope of finally finding each other in the same place?
The cold evening wind helped cool the storm raging in his chest. Eleanor knew very well what to say to touch every fiber of his soul. Did she do it without realizing? Or did she know his vulnerabilities too well by now?
The breeze stirred his silver hair. The watchtower felt, for an instant, taller… and lonelier than ever.
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The sunset filtered through the small window of the room, bathing the stones in a muted gold. The air smelled of old wood, warm iron, and lukewarm soup that someone had let cool too soon. Finia awoke slowly, with that heavy languor that follows deep healing, and turned her face. She didn't see Dyan immediately. Only his silhouette, sitting with his back to her by the small window.
He held a letter in his hands. He said nothing. He didn't move. It was as if the room was frozen in time, suspended between one breath and the next.
Finia squinted, still a little drowsy, but she noticed it instantly. This wasn't the same Dyan who had gently given her soup just hours ago. Something in his back had hunched; something in the line of his shoulders was no longer straight. He looked older. Not in body, but in soul.
"Master…" she said, barely a whisper.
Dyan didn't respond right away. He tucked the letter into his clothes with an almost ceremonial delicacy, then turned to her. His face held that kind of sadness that isn't shouted or cried, but hidden behind a serene smile.
"Do you feel better?" he asked softly.
Finia looked at him for a long time without answering. She knew him too well. She knew when he was lying. She knew when something was gnawing at him from within and, even so, he preferred to protect her from his own sorrows.
"Who was it?" she finally asked.
Dyan wasn't surprised. He sighed. "A letter without a seal. From someone who was important… and still is."
Finia nodded, asking for no more. She slowly sat up and settled beside him on the bed. "You miss her."
"More than I should," he replied, not looking at her. "And less than I fear."
"Are you going back to her?" she asked with a nervous smile.
"I don't know…" He ran a hand through his hair, letting the twilight tint it copper. "Love… sometimes it's not enough, Finia. Sometimes it's too late. Sometimes it hurts more than it heals."
She rested her head on his shoulder. "But sometimes… just sometimes… it's worth trying, even if it ends badly."
Dyan glanced at her. A sad smile curved his lips. "You are wiser than you think."
"I've had a good teacher."
They remained like that for a while, in silence, sharing the invisible weight of a letter that said much… and what it didn't say as well.
The light faded, and with it, the answers.
Finia eventually fell asleep with her head on Dyan's lap. He caressed her hair with a tenderness that only time, closeness, and shared wounds can give. He had cradled her like this many times before: when she didn't understand a grimoire, when she cried from getting lost in the market streets, when a failed spell had singed her fingers or her pride. But none of those times had hurt him like now.
He knew this wound was different. Invisible. The wound of the soul, the one that marks and never fully heals. Finia had just crossed that threshold from which there is no turning back, the moment when a life ceases to be innocent and becomes a burden, a memory, a responsibility.
With utmost care, Dyan settled her into the bed, covering her like a daughter, and spent a few seconds contemplating her serene breathing. Then, in silence, he sat by the improvised desk. He took out paper, a still damp and trembling quill, and began to write slowly.
Eleanor:
As you might imagine, the fact that this letter reaches you means I have read yours.
I didn't imagine opening it would hurt so much… nor that it would heal so much. I read words I never heard from your mouth, and yet, they were loaded with the truth from someone who knows you deeply. You don't know how much it meant, and how much more it would have meant… before.
I know writing it must have been difficult for you, which is why I treasure it. I don't know if it will be the last, but I will keep it as if it were.
I went to Frontier for Finia. Not for you. Not for the kingdom. I went for her, who is my daughter in spirit if not in blood, and because I couldn't bear to lose her. If you had asked me, I probably would have gone anyway, but you didn't. And perhaps that was necessary. Perhaps this chaos was the only way our paths could brush against each other again.
I must be honest with you, now that there are no robes or crowns between us. The letters you sent me before remain unopened. Not because I didn't care about you, but because I feared your words would carry the violence of that day when they threw me from the palace. I didn't have the strength to relive that shame. Nor to see your contempt turned into ink. But I didn't burn them, Eleanor. Because even full of rage, they were yours. And I… I have never stopped keeping what comes from you.
Sometimes I imagine another life, one in which we didn't have to hide, one in which the Archmage and the Queen could walk in the garden without witnesses, without whispers, without duties. To play the piano together. To sing our autumn compositions without fear of the echo. To sleep embraced without the dawn hurting.
Your letter tells me you miss me. But it doesn't tell me what place I would have by your side if I returned.
Am I the queen's advisor? The faithful friend? The silence in the room when everyone has left? Or am I the man you once loved and might love again, without hiding it?
I know I've been childish in my illusions. I dreamed of being worthy of you. I dreamed that being the most respected Archmage in the realm would be enough to erase the word commoner from my history. I lost myself in that endeavor, and today I'm still trying to find myself.
I could return. I could stay by your side, silence what I feel, and resign myself. But you don't deserve a silenced love. Neither of us does.
That's why I ask you, for the last time, with the humility of one who has loved in silence for a lifetime: Is ours a finished story or a chapter we can still write together?
You don't owe me an immediate answer. But if you ever decide to tell me… don't lock it in unsealed letters. Tell me with your eyes. Tell me with the voice that once called me Dyan as if it were all you needed in the world.
Whenever you need me, I will come. Always.
And this time, I won't leave your letters unread again.
Dyan Halvest
Finia woke with heavy eyelids and a dry throat. The faint candlelight told her not much time had passed. She searched for the master and found him sitting beside the bed, still with the quill in his hand, contemplating a paper he had left to dry with the weight of an inkwell on top.
"Did you answer her?" she asked in a low voice, broken by sleep and something more.
Dyan nodded without turning. It took him a few seconds to speak. "Yes. I had to… not just for her, but for me too."
Finia carefully sat up in bed. Her forehead still ached, but she ignored it.
"Your face changed," she said. "Since you read it, I've seen you more… human. More vulnerable. As if something in you had returned."
Dyan put down the quill and turned to her. The smile he offered was faint, authentic, with a hint of sadness. "You don't know how many times I imagined receiving something like that. And how many more times I prayed never to receive it."
"Out of fear?"
"Yes." Dyan placed his hands on his knees. "Fear of getting my hopes up, of getting trapped in a cycle of letters and silences, of ill-sown hopes… of her asking me to return only to silence me again."
Finia looked down. "And are you going back?"
"Not yet." He looked at her tenderly. "First, I need to know if going back is to continue dying slowly or if, this time, there's a real possibility."
She nodded slowly. "When you left, I didn't understand why. It hurt me… a lot. But now that I've seen you here, with us, with everyone, I understand. The world wasn't kind to you, Master. Not even she was."
Dyan sighed, crossing his hands. "I don't want you to hate her. I ask you with all that I am. What happened between us is complex. Full of decisions that weren't always wise. On my part too."
"I don't hate her. I just fear she'll hurt you again."
There was a long silence. Only the faint flicker of the candle filled the room. Dyan got up, folded the letter carefully, and put it away.
"Promise me something, Finia."
"Anything."
"If ever… you too love someone who seems impossible, don't run. Don't stay silent. Say everything. Even if it hurts. Even if you think you'll lose. It's better to live with a broken heart than with a gagged one."
Finia approached and hugged him tightly. "I promise." But you promise me you won't disappear again."
"Not while you need me," And he hugged her with that silent warmth only he knew how to give. "I will always be with you."
The candle flickered. Outside, dawn began to paint the fort's stones with a golden light. But in that room, for an instant, there was nothing but peace.
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Willfrost Palace, late night.
The letter rested on her lap. The wax seal she had asked not to be used wasn't there, just as she had requested. It was a private letter. One of those you keep in a drawer alongside painful memories and decisions you can't change.
Eleanor didn't open it immediately. She held it in her hands for a long time, unmoving, sitting in the armchair in the east parlor, where only the moon entered, along with the scent of wet laurel from the garden. A half-empty goblet of wine sat on the small table, next to an incomplete music score and a ceremonial dagger she hadn't put away.
Her fingers, so accustomed to holding a quill with authority, trembled.
Finally, she carefully broke it open. She pulled out the page. She recognized his handwriting, slightly more slanted, more tremulous than before. That hurt her.
She read it once. Then again. And then a third time.
In the end, she laid the letter on her chest, as if it could protect her from something burning inside. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She had expected many things: silence, reproach, even hatred. But not this mixture of pain and tenderness that spilled from every sentence.
She felt like a queen whose throne had suddenly become empty.
"Why did it take us so long?" she whispered, not addressing anyone. She straightened up with effort, as if the weight of the world had settled on her shoulders. She walked to the piano, the same one they had shared so many times, and ran her fingers over the keys. She didn't play. She just let them rest there, feeling the cold ivory. Like him, like his absence.
The door opened softly. Lara Amdelias poked her head in, carefully.
"Your Majesty, the council is about to meet…"
Eleanor didn't look at her. "Tell Cartan to start without me."
"Is everything alright?"
Eleanor took a moment to respond. "No. But it will be." She turned, her gaze fixed and with a new determination. Her voice had changed, a firm whisper. "I just need a few more minutes."
Lara closed the door soundlessly.
The Queen of Willfrost sat back down at the piano. This time, she let her fingers press a note. It sounded low, melancholic.
Then another. And another.
It wasn't a familiar melody. It was one that was born from her in that instant.
A lament. An attempt.
A plea.