Letter written on parchment scented with lavender essence and sealed with Silvania's personal crest: a willow branch crossed with a feather. The handwriting is elegant, careful, and fluid, as if written by someone who still enjoys the act of writing by hand.
My Dearest Dyan,
You cannot imagine the joy—yes, I call it that, even if it pains me a little—that seeing your handwriting again has brought me. Weeks have passed since your first letter arrived, and every line was etched like a stone dropped into a lake: soft upon impact, but with echoes that spread endlessly.
I didn't reply immediately. Not out of anger, not out of coldness. Simply... I couldn't find the words. How to answer the silence of one who has so often been my voice in the storm?
You say it wasn't cowardice, but caution. Perhaps it was both. But I don't judge you, Dyan. I never have. The palace, with its walls of gold and duty, has broken men firmer than you, and you were too human to bear it all without breaking.
Eleanor... oh, my daughter. You don't know how much it hurts to see her heart harden, how she carves herself in stone so as never to feel betrayed again. You were her beacon. And now that you have left, she shines with rage, as if fury gives her the strength that you left in the void.
You asked me not to be hard on her. But sometimes I fear that the softness of my voice is not enough. Still, I accompany her, I support her from the shadows, as I always have. Though now, like you, sometimes I feel more like a memory than a mother.
I'm not bothered that you left. What hurts, old friend, is not having been able to embrace you before you vanished into the night. One last glance would have been enough for me to know that you would be well. But instead, you left me an emptiness. One more.
Your letter from Glavendell brought me peace. To know that you have found a corner where you can breathe without accountability, where the stars do not weigh on your shoulders... it brings me relief. And it softens my heart to imagine you sleeping under the sky, like a child returning to the beginning of everything.
Edictus would have smiled to see you take his inheritance so simply, so honestly. Perhaps he always knew you would end up there, where no one but the river listens to your thoughts.
But make no mistake, Dyan: that house amidst ruins is not a retreat, but a transition. I know you. You haven't finished your journey. And though you say you don't know what comes next, your heart already senses it.
Will you return? I don't know. Nor do I dare to wish for it too strongly. But if the wind ever carries you back to these lands, I promise to have the tea ready, the chair by the fire, and the words I didn't say when you left.
Take care, Dyan Halvest.
Not for me. For yourself. Because there is still light on your path, even if you insist on looking at the ground.
With all my affection, Silvania Queen Emerita of Willfrost (But always your friend)