Unsealed letter, written in the hand of Silvania Willfrost
To Dyan Halvest,
Days have passed without me writing, weeks without me sleeping well, and years, too many years, since I unknowingly began to miss you.
Today, as I reread old reports and memories, my mind led me back to that first encounter, when Edictus entered the study with you, so serious and still so small. You were fifteen, and you had that absurd way of not trembling before anything. It irritated and intrigued me at the same time. I remember thinking you were a reckless brat… but deep down, I knew it was a facade. Like mine.
Since then, you have become so many things for this kingdom… and for me.
I know I don't respond as I should. I'm not good with letters. But today I gave myself permission to feel. I read your last reply to Eleanor—yes, I knew you wrote to her—and I must admit it has changed her a little. Not entirely, you know how she is, proud like her mother and stubborn like her father. But… more reflective. More silent. Sometimes, she looks out the windows of Willfrost as if waiting for something. Or someone.
I thank you for writing to her. In your own way, you continue to look after both of us, even though you are so far away.
But… allow me to remind you of something I don't want to be erased amidst so much distance and so many duties: I was there before. I was there when you were barely a shadow behind Edictus's figure. I was there when no one else understood the weight you carried. I was there when you returned wounded, soaked in blood and magic, but still with that stoic gaze that I both hated and admired so much.
And I am still here.
Watching time devour me with the patience of a polite executioner.
Today my reflection no longer recognizes me. My body betrays me daily. The illness doesn't claim me entirely, but it doesn't free me either. And you… you are still the closest thing I have had to a home. I never said it in those words, I know. Perhaps it's too late to learn to say them. But I feel them. I think them. I write them to you, because I can't keep them silent anymore.
I miss you. Not as one misses a good counselor. I miss you as one misses the only one who saw me without a crown or defenses. As one misses the shared silence with someone who demands no explanations. As one misses what one loves, even if it hasn't been said clearly.
You don't have to answer. Or come running. But if these words accompany you, if you read them at night while resting from another of your duties, I want you to know: I am still here. I am still waiting. And I still keep your cup on the shelf, as if tomorrow you would return to have breakfast in this forgotten wing of the palace.
With deep affection,
and a nostalgia that does not heal,
Silvania