Chapter Four – The Letter He Never Read
The hall outside his study smelled of fresh cedar and rain. It should have been comforting. Familiar. But it wasn't.
Alaric sat at his old desk, the hearth crackling behind him, casting light against his worn boots and scar-lined knuckles. The letter lay unopened beside his gauntlet—a ghost of a time he had buried beneath strategy maps and sword strokes.
Evelyne's seal.
He had carried it with him across battle lines, over mountain passes, through siege and starvation. And yet he had never opened it.
Why?
Because he knew what it might say. And because he feared what it might not.
They had married in winter. Not for love. Not for companionship. But because his father had died in debt, and her family had land—and Evelyne had grace.
She'd worn blue on their wedding day, because mourning silks were still in fashion from the last border war. She'd spoken only when asked, and smiled only once—when a snowflake caught on her eyelash.
He hadn't known how to read that smile then. He wasn't sure he did now.
There was a knock at the door. Godric again.
"My lord," the steward said carefully, "Lady Seraphina is asking when she might receive her formal quarters."
Alaric sighed. "She has them."
"She wants your answer about her status."
Silence.
"I will speak with her later," he said finally. "Alone."
When Godric left, Alaric turned back to the letter. He had faced down blades. Armies. Death. But this parchment, this memory, weighed more than iron.
He broke the seal.
> Alaric,
If you fall, I want you to know the estate will stand. I will see to it. Not because you asked. Because I must. Because we share a name, even if we do not share a life.
I will not pray for your return if you do not wish to come back. But I will keep the lamps burning, in case you do. In case you remember.
Not me. Just… the beginning.
—Evelyne
The ink had smudged slightly, as if written under candlelight. It hit him like frostbite: slow, creeping, and suddenly unbearable.
He closed his eyes. There had been a time, early on, when she'd tried—bringing him books to read, suggesting songs to lift the cold out of the halls. He'd ignored it. Thought her ornamental. Passive.
But she had ruled in his absence. Not with noise. With presence.
And when he returned, he'd brought not thanks, but Seraphina.
Alaric stood. Walked to the window. Outside, the east wing glowed softly. Evelyne's wing.
What had Seraphina said yesterday? That Evelyne was cold. Unyielding. That she didn't fight for what was hers.
But Seraphina hadn't understood: Evelyne had fought. With dignity. With silence. With an unbroken oath.
And suddenly, Alaric wasn't sure who he had come home to anymore—or who he deserved.