One year changed everything.
The palace, once vast and unfamiliar, now pulsed with life — not from court ceremonies or royal gatherings, but from the tiny footsteps echoing through gilded halls.
Laughter reigned where silence once lingered.
Ophelia sat near the balcony, sunlight spilling across her chambers like liquid gold. The twins crawled freely upon the velvet carpet, their soft giggles filling the air with something pure and untouchable.
The boy, endlessly curious, waged war against a helpless silk cushion.
The girl, far more strategic, observed with suspicious intelligence.
Ophelia laughed softly.
"My little rulers…"
A maid approached quietly.
"Your Majesty, a letter."
Ophelia brightened instantly.
Because she already knew.
Selara.
Always Selara.
Even from the edges of war.
She reached eagerly, breaking the seal with the familiar tenderness reserved only for her sister's words.
Ophelia,
I fear the battlefield conspires against my dignity.
You once accused me of being incapable of distraction. I regret to inform you that I have been proven tragically wrong.
There is a medic.
Before your imagination gallops recklessly — no, he is not intimidated by me.
In fact…
He is insufferably calm.
Yesterday, amidst cannon fire and chaos, he had the audacity to scold me.
Me.
Apparently, charging into enemy lines with three arrows embedded in my shoulder qualifies as "reckless behavior."
Selara paused.
Ink slightly smudged.
His name is Aren.
And before you begin smiling like a mischievous child…
I am not fond of him.
He is irritatingly persistent.
Unreasonably gentle.
And possesses the most infuriating ability to look directly at me without fear.
Explain this phenomenon.
— Selara
Ophelia burst into laughter.
Bright.
Unrestrained.
Startling both twins.
"Oh, Selara…"
Her smile widened.
Eyes shimmering with delight.
Because she knew.
She absolutely knew.
Selara never wrote like this.
Not about anyone.
She moved immediately to her writing desk, quill dancing with barely contained amusement.
My dearest, most dramatic sister,
A medic?
How utterly scandalous.
You claim irritation, yet dedicate half a letter to describing him. Fascinating contradiction.
Tell me — is he handsome?
Does he tremble when you glare at him?
Has he survived your temper intact?
Ophelia paused, grinning wickedly.
I imagine him now: a poor, unsuspecting soul attempting to tame the great Selara of the battlefield.
How heroic of him.
How foolish.
Write again immediately.
I demand details.
Your loving — and vastly entertained — sister,
Ophelia
Weeks later…
Another letter arrived.
Ophelia,
Your imagination is intolerable.
He does not tremble.
Which I find deeply suspicious.
Also, he is not "poor" nor "unsuspecting."
He informed me — very calmly — that I am "difficult."
Selara's ink pressed harder.
I nearly killed him.
Regrettably, he remains alive.
I suppose this answers your earlier question regarding survival.
As for appearance…
He is…
Selara paused.
Far longer this time.
Adequate.
Do not read into that.
— Selara
Ophelia nearly dropped the letter laughing.
"Adequate?"
She wiped at her eyes, cheeks flushed with joy.
"Oh, this is dangerous…"
Her reply came swiftly.
Selara,
Adequate?
You wound me with your dishonesty.
You have never described anything as "adequate" unless actively concealing admiration.
I am now entirely convinced.
You are doomed.
When is the wedding?
— Ophelia
Far away…
On a battlefield painted with smoke and ruin…
Selara read that letter.
And, for the first time in months…
She laughed.
Aren glanced toward her.
Curious.
"You're smiling."
"I am not."
"You are."
Selara folded the letter quickly, composure snapping back into place.
"You speak too much."
Aren's lips twitched faintly.
"I've been told."
Selara turned away.
But something warm — something unfamiliar — lingered quietly beneath armor forged from war.
Back at the palace…
Ophelia cradled her twins.
Heart light.
Soul at peace.
Unaware that happiness, delicate and fleeting, was already counting its final days.