Thalric found the desk by accident.
He hadn't meant to move far. The walk from the portrait hall had drained him more than he'd admit. His ribs ached. The arch of his foot throbbed. But he wasn't ready to return to bed—to that perfumed coffin they called recovery.
So instead, he sat in what seemed to be an unused corner room: high windows, the faint scent of ink and vellum, a rust-stained inkpot dried to its core.
The desk was nothing regal. No carved lionheads. Just a plain roll-top, one leg slightly splintered. But when Thalric opened its narrow drawers, something shivered inside him.
Not magic.
Paper.
Stacks of it. Folded. Yellowed with age. Bound with fraying twine, like a bundle of twigs trying to resemble something whole.
He picked one up.
The writing was shaky. Smeared in places. Certain words blotted out and rewritten with too much pressure. No seal. No recipient stamped in wax. But the salutation was always the same.
To Father,
He read in silence.
One by one.
"I know I'm not what you wanted. I try to sit straighter when you visit. I tried to learn the sword. It's just… my fingers shake too much."
"They say I'm clever, but never what kind. I think I might be the kind people tolerate just long enough to forget."
"Today I helped a stable boy clean the broken stalls. He didn't recognize me. It was the nicest talk I've had in months."
Some were sealed in torn envelopes, never addressed.
Others were crumpled flat, unfolded again, ironed beneath books and prayer leaflets.
He found notes to his mother—shorter, more hesitant.
"If I had been born first, I think you would have tried harder to love me. I don't blame you."
The letters didn't burn with rage or whine with pity. They simply… existed. A record of a boy screaming without sound.
Thalric leaned back in the chair, folding the last note and setting it atop the pile.
He felt no kinship. This was not a soul he knew, nor a spirit he shared.
But still—he understood this kind of silence. The kind that comes after shame teaches you to stop speaking.
"You had no crown," he muttered aloud. "They didn't even give you a name outside this room."
The window creaked as wind picked up against the glass. Dust stirred in the corner like a breath held too long.
Thalric gathered the letters slowly. He returned them to the drawer, closed it with care, then stood without ceremony.
Not reverence.
Not grief.
Just acknowledgment.
Let the dead keep their own words.
For now.