Chapter 13: The Letter
I sit at the desk longer than I need to.
The room is quiet in the way this fortress prefers, thick, watchful. My burns ache beneath the fabric at my wrists, a dull reminder that healing has a cost.
I flex my fingers once before reaching for the parchment. The movement pulls at half-closed skin. I ignore it.
The parchment is clean. Untouched. Waiting.
I don't know what to write to people who sent me here without looking back.
My father's last words had been practical. My mother's had been relieved. Ivy had barely spoken at all.
Still, they are my family.
Or should I said the people who pretend to be when they aren't even my blood?
Still, I have no one else.
I dip the pen into ink and let it hover.
If I wait until tomorrow, I won't do it. If I let myself think too long, I'll convince myself their absence would be easier. But absence will be noticed. Absence will be talked about. And I am done being the quiet thing in the corner of someone else's story.
So I begin.
To my father and household..
I pause.
Not dearest. Not beloved. Just the facts.
The ceremony to formally recognize my position as Luna will take place at first frost. Your attendance is expected.
Expected. Not requested.
I keep my tone neutral. I inform them of the date. The hour. The protocol. I make no mention of poison. No mention of council tension. No mention of the way this place presses in on me when night falls.
If they cared enough to ask, they would have written by now.
A soft knock sounds before the door opens. Elara steps in with a tray balanced carefully in her hands.
"You haven't slept," she says quietly.
"I don't have that luxury."
She sets the tea down near my elbow. Her eyes flick to the parchment, then back to me. She doesn't pry. That's one of the reasons I tolerate her.
"Did they write?" I ask. "I mean the others," I clarify.
Elara doesn't pretend to misunderstand.
"The previous wives?" she asks.
I nod.
Her fingers still on the tray. "They didn't stay long enough."
"For what?"
"To settle," she says quietly. "To send word home."
Something cold slides through my chest.
"They never wrote to their families."
"No."
"Because they weren't bonded."
"No," Elara confirms.
Paper wives.
The words settle heavily between us.
I glance down at the desk, tracing the grain of the wood with my thumb.
"How long did they last?" I ask, even though I already know the answer. Everyone does.
Her gaze lowers slightly. "Some a few weeks. Some… less."
"And the pack?"
"They were mourned."
Not celebrated. Not remembered.
Just mourned.
The answer settles into place with a quiet, terrible certainty.
"They died before the ceremony," I say.
Elara nods once. "Yes."
A beat of silence stretches between us before she adds quietly,
"You're the first to reach this point."
Not the bond, then.
I hadn't survived because they wanted me to.
I had survived because something had failed.
The thought comes quietly and refuses to leave.
Elara moves toward the window, adjusting the heavy drapes. I press my palm flat against the desk, steadying myself as the room tilts slightly. The brand at the center of my hand burns, sharper than it has all evening.
I inhale through my teeth..The wood beneath my skin feels colder than it should.
For a moment, I'm not alone.
There's another hand on the desk, smaller, trembling. Ink smears across parchment too quickly. The scratch of frantic writing fills my ears. I can't see her face, but I feel the urgency in her pulse. Someone is behind her. Close. Breathing.
A chair scrapes. Her throat tightens.
My own fingers curl reflexively, as if someone else's fear is moving through them.
Then it's gone.
The room snaps back into place. The desk is just wood. The parchment in front of me is blank except for my measured lines.
Elara is watching me.
"Is everything alright, my lady?" she asks.
I pull my hand back. "what?... Oh yeah . .. uhmm"
"You didn't look fine just now."
" I'm fine, Do you see someone here right now "
" Who?" She asked looking around
" That's strange… Did you feel it?"
"Feel what?"
"Someone else in the room."
Elara shakes her head slowly. "It's just us, my lady."
" Am I seeing things now? Could it's been side effects of poison? Or I'm alluciating?"
My thoughts scatter. I can barely form the words properly.
She doesn't answer immediately. "This room… carries things."
I almost laugh. "That's convenient."
"It is old," she says carefully. "Older than most remember."
I don't look at her. "Did any of them sit here? At this desk?"
" Who?"
" The previous wife's "
"Yes."
"And?"
"They were moved to different chambers after marriage," she says. "This room is for the Luna."
"But they never became one."
Her silence is answer enough.
Elara steps closer. "You should rest my lady."
"In a moment."
She hesitates, then nods and leaves, the door closing softly behind her.
When I'm alone again, I run my fingers along the underside of the desk. The wood is smooth in most places, polished by time and use. Near the back edge, just out of sight, something catches beneath my nail.
I lean down.
There, carved so faintly it could be mistaken for damage, is a single word.
Again.
My pulse slows. Not a name. Not a plea.
I stare at the carving.
Again.
Nine, I was told. Nine recently.
But Elara had said there were always wives.
My fingers brush the carved word once more.
The grooves feel deeper than a single knife stroke should be, as if the same word had been carved there more than once.
I sit back down and finish the letter without changing a word.
I do not add sentiment. I do not add confession. I do not give them anything of myself they did not ask for.
I sand the ink. Fold the parchment. Melt the wax.
When I press my branded palm into the seal, heat flares through my hand, sharp and immediate. I swallow the sound that tries to rise in my throat.
The wax hardens beneath my skin.
I lift my hand away. The brand throbs.
The door handle turns.
Slowly.
Elara is not in the hall; I heard her footsteps retreat earlier.
I stand, every muscle tight. The latch clicks.
The door begins to open.
I turn toward it, my voice steady despite the hammering in my chest.
"Who is that?"