The corridor was silent, heavy with the stillness of a palace that had yet to recover from mourning. I could hear the faintest shuffle of approaching footsteps, and my chest tightened, muscles coiling as though bracing for the inevitable. It wasn’t Adrian this time. His attempts had already failed, leaving only a faint tension in the air, a warning that not all would be permitted to pass. This presence was different—slower, more deliberate, and weighted with a grief I could almost taste.
My father’s steps paused just outside my door. I could hear the subtle shift of his cloak, the faint scrape of boots against the marble floor, and the uneven cadence of a man who had returned from war too late to witness the life of the woman he loved fading from the world. Even through the door, I imagined the strain in his posture, the way the grief dragged at his shoulders like a physical weight.
“Princess…” His voice came first, quiet, fragile, the edges of it frayed with emotion. It was not commanding or hurried; it was heavy with loss, and I could feel it pressing against the thin barrier of my door. “Kira… it’s me. It’s your father.”
I did not answer. I could not. My hands were still clutching her letter, knuckles white from pressing it to my chest, and my body refused to respond to the sound of his voice.
“I… I don’t know what to do,” he continued, his words faltering, almost a whisper now. “I—I rode as fast as I could, but I… I was too late.” The vulnerability in his voice was jarring, shattering the distance I had built around myself. I imagined him standing there, dressed in simple clothing, unarmored, stripped of the regality and discipline of command, every crease and fold weighed down by grief. His face was shadowed, eyes reddened from tears, every line in his expression carved by the realization that the love of his life had slipped through his fingers.
I wanted to tell him to go, to leave me alone. But the ache of his sorrow, the way his voice trembled with regret and longing, gnawed at me. He had returned, finally, only to face the empty reality of my mother’s absence. I could hear him shifting, hesitant, as if unsure whether to knock again or retreat entirely.
“Please… let me in,” he said finally, and I imagined his hands hovering over the doorknob, trembling slightly. “I—I need to see you, Kira. I… I can’t bear to see you like this from the other side of the door.”
I pressed my back harder against the wall, as though that alone could shield me from the world, from him, from everything I had lost. The letter in my lap felt impossibly fragile, yet the only anchor I allowed myself to grasp. The thought of opening the door, letting him in, brought a sharp spike of panic, a mixture of fear and desperate longing I did not know how to reconcile.
The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Every breath, every heartbeat, seemed louder than the last, until I thought the walls themselves would crack beneath the weight of our grief. Outside, I could hear him shifting again, the soft scuff of boots, a subtle sigh that carried more despair than words ever could.
Fennie lingered just behind him, barely audible, a quiet presence urging caution. Her footsteps were light, careful, yet they too carried the tension of someone who knew the depths of my sorrow and feared the impact of forcing a connection too soon.
I could hear my father’s heartbeat in my imagination, uneven and fast, each thud a reminder of the life and love he had just barely returned to, only to face the devastation left in his absence. And I… I remained still, isolated, torn between the pull of the world and the solace of retreat.
The corridor seemed endless, the pause before our meeting stretching like an eternity. My chest ached with anticipation, dread, and longing all at once. I wanted to flee deeper into my room, to hide behind the walls and the shadows and the letter, yet a part of me—fragile, trembling—wanted to open the door, to let him see the devastation carved into my being, to share this unbearable grief.
And then the quiet deepened, the waiting hanging suspended in that heartbeat of time before the inevitable. The moment before I would have to choose: remain sealed away, alone with my sorrow, or let him in and face the raw, unspoken reality of our shared loss.
I swallowed, voice barely a whisper. “You… you can come in.”
There was a pause. I heard his breath, uneven and tentative, a man who had spent months in battle yet now hesitated before a doorway, unsure how to face the child of the woman he loved most. Then the soft creak of hinges, and he stepped inside, his eyes immediately finding mine.
He wore simple clothing, unadorned, but the weight of grief made him look smaller, more human. Every line in his face seemed carved by regret. His lips parted as if to speak, then closed again. He took another hesitant step, unsure how much he should enter, how much he was allowed.
“I… I didn’t want to—” His voice caught. He swallowed, shoving both hands deep into the pockets of his tunic. “I didn’t know what you’d want. I… I—”
I couldn’t wait for his careful words. The grief I had held in check for so long broke free in a trembling sob. My knees buckled, and I sank to the floor, letter dropping to the carpet. I reached for him instinctively, not caring that my voice shook, not caring that tears soaked the edges of my gown. “Papa… I… I can’t—I can’t do this alone!”
He froze, rigid for a heartbeat, every muscle taut. Then, slowly, cautiously, he knelt before me. His arms wrapped around me with the hesitance of a man terrified he might worsen my grief by touching it, but desperate to offer what comfort he could. My sobs pressed against his chest, and I felt him stiffen, hold me loosely at first, then gradually, ever so slightly, he adjusted—letting the warmth of his arms become a shield against the world.
“I… I am here,” he murmured, his voice breaking under the weight of months lost and the ache of her absence. “I—Gods, Kira… I’m so sorry I wasn’t—” His words faltered, swallowed by the shaking of his own body as he pressed his forehead against the top of my head.
I clung to him, burying my face in his chest, inhaling the faint scent of leather, earth, and smoke that clung to him from the road. I could feel the tremor in his hands, the hesitation of a father who had returned too late, who now feared the enormity of my sorrow.
“I missed her,” he whispered, voice raw. “I… I should have been here. I promised her… I promised you both… and I—”
The words dissolved into broken sobs, mirroring my own. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I let myself be small, fragile, and utterly undone, sobbing against the only person left who could hold the remnants of our fractured family.
He didn’t pull away. Not when my tears soaked his cloak, not when my grief threatened to topple both of us into despair. Instead, he held me cautiously, as if afraid he might crush me, yet determined to be the anchor I could cling to in the storm.
And in that moment, for the first time since her passing, I allowed the walls around me to crumble—letting him in, letting the grief flow, letting myself breathe amidst the wreckage of loss.
The world outside our door could wait. Here, in the quiet of my room, in the tremor of shared sorrow, we were two broken hearts leaning against one another, desperate and aching, yet finding a fragile foothold in the shared weight of our grief.
The sound of the door closing behind my father echoed like a final toll in my chest. The warmth of his embrace still lingered, a fragile imprint against the cold emptiness left by her absence. For a heartbeat, I let myself remember him, let myself lean into the rare comfort. But as soon as he was gone, the quiet slammed back against me, heavier than ever, and I felt the full weight of being utterly, unbearably alone.
I sank to the floor, legs curled beneath me one again, hands trembling as they clutched my mother’s old letter. The paper was worn, edges softened by years of handling, yet in it I felt the only true connection left to her mortal warmth. Fennie’s soft footsteps approached the door, tentative, patient—but I didn’t call out. I couldn’t. Not yet. I pressed my back against the wall and closed my eyes, blocking the world.
A golden pulse began to flare from my hands, faint at first, then stronger, resonating with the grief that consumed me. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until I gasped, the golden light curling along my veins, seeking, searching. I wanted her back. My mother… please… I need you. The words were barely whispers, carried on my trembling lips.
The room grew warmer as the light shifted, wrapping around me, coiling like living threads of gold. I pressed my palms to the floor, willing it to reach out, to breach the distance between this world and hers. I whispered her name over and over: Mama… Mama, come back. Please…
Tears streaked my face, smearing the ink on her letter as though the words themselves could absorb my sorrow and carry it to her. I wanted to see her, to hold her again, to feel her hand in mine—but no matter how tightly I focused, no warmth came back.
And yet… I couldn’t stop. Not entirely. The golden radiance swirled, and in the corner of my vision, I thought I saw her—faint, ethereal, not her entirely, but the shimmer of her essence, a memory of warmth that was hers and hers alone. I reached toward it, sobs breaking free, chest heaving.
Then, almost against my will, another presence whispered through the glow. Maerial. The goddess—herself intertwined with my mother, impossible and radiant—hovered at the edge of my perception. I recoiled and leaned forward simultaneously, pulled by longing, repelled by betrayal.
“No! No, it’s her I want! My mother!” My voice cracked, echoing against the walls. “I don’t want you! I want her! Please… I’ll give anything—just bring her back!”
The light pulsed violently, responding to my desperate plea, yet the room remained empty. Maerial’s presence lingered faintly, calm, eternal, but not yielding. My body shook with exhaustion, sobs wracking me as I collapsed against the floor, the golden glow dimming as my strength faltered.
Finally, I curled up with her letter, pressing it to my face, inhaling the faint scent of parchment and ink that somehow smelled like her. Fennie’s soft calls came again at the door, hesitant, urgent—but I turned away, pressed my back to the wood, and whispered through ragged breaths:
“Not now… not anyone… just… her.”
The room was quiet again, save for my shuddering sobs and the faint, lingering pulse of the divine golden warmth. I refused the world, refused letters, refused even the comfort of my father. My grief, my desperation, my love—it all lay here in the room with me, tangled around a single piece of worn parchment. And for now, that was enough.
Somewhere deep in my chest, a tiny, conflicted voice whispered that Maerial would return, that she would always come back—but I couldn’t reach it. I only held onto the words of the mother I had lost, the mortal warmth that still lingered on the fragile paper pressed to my chest, letting the room and the world outside fade into darkness.
And yet, even in this self-imposed darkness, the world intruded. A messenger had arrived earlier, bearing news that would have brought relief to many: the war was won. The soldiers—men who had fought and bled for years—would soon be returning home. The victory banquet would take place in a few days, a celebration of triumph and survival. The palace would fill with laughter, music, and feasting.
I pressed my face to my mother’s letter. I did not care about feasts. I did not care about victory. The world might be celebrating, but I could not. I could not step beyond this room, could not bear the sight of banners and jubilant voices, could not see faces alive with joy while mine was hollow.
Every knock on the door, every soft shuffle in the hall made my chest tighten. I could hear Adrian’s name whispered by the servants, murmured in passing: concerned, insistent, polite but edged with something I did not trust. I ignored it. I would not answer him. I would not let anyone see me like this. Not yet.
Even letters were left in piles outside my door. Fennie had tried, as she always did, leaving them in neat stacks, but I turned every one away. I would read nothing but my mother’s letter, would let no one else’s words touch the raw wound in my chest.
I pressed the parchment closer, letting her handwriting, her voice, anchor me to a memory of a life that felt impossibly distant. I whispered her words to myself, over and over, until the sounds of the palace, of life moving on, became a distant hum.
No one could enter. Not Adrian. Not the servants. Not even Fennie if she tried too hard. I was locked away in my grief, a world of shadows and golden ink, of memory and sorrow.
And somewhere beyond the walls, I knew the preparations for the banquet continued, the palace alive with music and laughter, unaware of the daughter who had locked herself away from life itself, cradling her mother’s memory like the last fragile flame of a dying world.