***Camilla***
The letter felt thin between my small fingers, the parchment worn soft from repeated handling. I had read it so many times I could recite every word, yet I found myself unfolding it again, searching for something I might have missed in Cadiz's careful script.
'My dearest Camilla,
The northern mountains are truly magnificent, even more beautiful than the paintings in Father's study. Ravenshollow stands like something from the old stories, all stone towers and ancient walls. The library here contains more books than I could read in ten lifetimes, and the gardens, though different from ours at home, have their own wild charm.
The household runs with impressive efficiency. The servants are courteous and well trained, and the meals are hearty fare suited to the mountain climate. I find myself adapting to the rhythms of northern life more easily than I expected.
I hope your studies progress well. Give my regards to Mari and tell her I am eating properly, though I confess I miss her cooking.
Your loving brother,
Cadiz'
Two letters. In all the months since he had left for his marriage, Cadiz had sent only two letters, and both read like careful reports rather than communications from a brother who had once shared everything with me.
Every sentence was constructed to tell me nothing meaningful about his actual life, his feelings, his experiences as a newly married man in a strange household.
I folded the letter again and pressed it against my chest. At twelve years old, I was supposedly too young to understand the complexities of adult relationships, too naive to worry about the darker implications of political marriages.
Yet I had always been able to read people more clearly than others suspected, and Cadiz's letters radiated loneliness despite their carefully neutral tone.
The absence of what he did not write spoke louder than anything he had included. No mention of his husband beyond the most basic courtesies, no description of his daily life beyond generic observations about the estate. No warmth, no excitement, no sense of a man building a new life with someone he cared about. Just empty pleasantries that could have been written by a polite stranger.
I missed him desperately. The manor felt empty without his quiet presence, without the comfort of knowing I could find him in the library whenever I needed someone who truly understood me.
Cassius had always been Father's favorite, groomed for greatness and constantly surrounded by tutors and advisors. But Cadiz had been mine, the brother who listened when I spoke of my fears about the future, who never made me feel like my thoughts were childish or unimportant.
Now he was gone, married to a man I had never met, living in a fortress at the edge of the empire where winter lasted half the year and strangers decided the course of his days. The political necessity of it made sense to the adults around me, but the emotional cost seemed a price too high for anyone to pay.
Mari knocked softly on my door, entering with the tea service and her usual gentle efficiency. She had been caring for our family since before I was born, and her weathered face showed the same concern that had been growing in her eyes with each passing week.
"Still reading Master Cadiz's letter, little miss?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice to remain steady. Mari set the tea tray on the small table and sat beside me, her presence immediately comforting.
"He sounds well enough in his writing," she said carefully, though her tone suggested she harbored the same doubts I did.
"He sounds like he's trying not to worry us," I replied. "Everything he writes is so... careful. Like he's afraid of saying too much."
Mari's weathered hands smoothed her apron, a gesture I recognized as her way of processing difficult thoughts. "Perhaps marriage is still an adjustment for him. These things take time, especially when the families involved are so different from ours."
"But he's not happy, Mari. I can feel it, even through his letters. He's trying so hard to sound content, but underneath..." I trailed off, unable to articulate the sense of wrongness that permeated every line of his correspondence.
"Master Cadiz has always been strong in ways that don't show on the surface," Mari said gently. "If anyone can find their way through difficult times, it's him. And perhaps his next letter will carry better news."
I wanted to believe her, yet something deep in my chest insisted that Cadiz was struggling in ways he could never write about. The brother who had once confided his deepest fears to me now sent letters that revealed nothing of his inner life. That transformation alone was enough to tell me how much he was suffering.
"I wish I could visit him," I whispered. "Just to see for myself that he's truly all right."
"The northern passes are dangerous for travel this time of year," Mari reminded me. "And your father would never permit such a journey without pressing need."
She was right, of course. I was still a child in the eyes of everyone who mattered, my concerns dismissed as natural worry that would fade with time. Yet the feeling persisted that Cadiz needed someone who cared about him for his own sake, not for what he might contribute to political alliances or family prestige.
I folded the letter one final time and tucked it into the small wooden box where I kept my most precious possessions. Someday, when I was older and had more freedom to act on my convictions, I would find a way to reach him. Until then, I could only hope that my distant brother knew he was loved and remembered, even if he felt too isolated to believe it.