Cecilia’s lips parted, but no sound ca out.
The question struck deeper than she expected. Regret. The word lingered, heavy in her chest.
Thomas leaned back, his expression patient and sympathetic. "It’s been many years since you’ve set foot outside these walls. I imagine you must miss the world beyond them. The people, the air, the light."
Cecilia’s gaze fell to the floor. She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers tightened slightly around the teacup, and the faint tremor in her hand betrayed her thoughts.
Would she regret it?
The truth was that she already carried regrets.
Her mother’s face rose in her mind, gentle, smiling, her hair tied in the sa neat braid every morning.
Cecilia rembered the last ti she’d seen her, on the day she’d been sent to the academy.
It had not been a happy day. There had been lots of crying.
And then, years later, the letter had co. She was dead. Cecilia hadn’t even been allowed to attend the funeral.
A lump ford in her throat. She had mourned alone in her quarters, unable to visit the grave, unable to say goodbye.
Thomas’s words struck harder now.
She did wish to see her mother’s resting place. To stand before the tomb she’d never been permitted to approach.
She wanted to see the gardens she had played in as a child, where the lilies grew along the marble path, and her brother had chased her, laughing, before their world turned cold with politics and blood.
And more than anything, she longed to breathe freely, even if just for a few hours. To walk through the city without an escort. To see the people her family ruled over.
But she knew what leaving the academy would an.
The academy was her cage, but it was also her shield. For fifteen years, she had accepted that role. The quiet princess turned professor, the forgotten Pendragon.
To step outside now, during such a fragile ti, would send a ssage to everyone watching.
They would whisper that she was returning to claim her brother’s throne.
And with the capital still in chaos, it would look like rebellion.
Her heart ached with the pull of two desires. One for freedom, and the other for peace.
When she finally lifted her gaze, her eyes were clear again. "No," she said quietly. "Not until Ines herself invites ."
Thomas tilted his head. "So you refuse."
"I do," she said firmly. "Until the princess calls for , I will remain here."
For a long mont, he said nothing. Then he sighed and stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve.
"A pity," he murmured. "I was hoping you’d be wiser than this."
She didn’t rise. "If you ca here hoping to provoke , First Premier, you’ll be disappointed."
He smiled faintly. "Oh, I ca for nothing of the sort. You have my word. I only wished to deliver the ssage, and perhaps offer you a way back into the light. But it seems you prefer the shadows."
"I prefer peace," she replied evenly.
He gave a small nod, then turned towards the door. "As you wish. I will not press further."
He paused before leaving, one hand on the brass handle. "For what it’s worth, Professor Pendragon," he said, his tone polite again, "I truly hope you won’t co to regret this choice."
Then he left.
The door shut with a soft click, and silence settled over the room.
Cecilia exhaled slowly, feeling the tension bleed out of her shoulders. She stared at the empty chair where Thomas had sat monts ago, the teacup still untouched beside her.
Then her eyes drifted to the envelope on the table.
Her half-brother’s letter to her.
Her hand hovered over it for a long ti, trembling. She was afraid to open it. Afraid of what it might say. Afraid that after all these years of anger and silence, she would find words that shattered what little calm she had built.
But she couldn’t look away.
Finally, with a deep breath, she broke the seal.
Inside was a single folded page, slightly yellowed at the edges.
She unfolded it.
At the top, in that familiar scrawl, were two simple words.
"Hello, Sister."
Her throat tightened instantly.
The words blurred for a second as tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them away and read on.
"Hello, Sister.
It’s strange writing to you like this, not knowing if you’ll ever read it. I don’t even know where to begin. I suppose I should start with what I rember.
I rember the garden behind the old west wing. The one you liked. You used to chase the blue-winged birds there, even when the guards told you not to.
I rember how you’d hide behind the fountain when Father called you in for lessons, and how you’d laugh when I pretended not to see you. You were always so full of light back then.
I rember giving you piggyback rides down the halls, even when I was supposed to be with Father. You’d tug at my hair and shout, ’Faster!’ and I’d run until we both got scolded.
Those were good days. I think about them more than you’d imagine.
And it’s because of those mories that, when the ti ca, I couldn’t give the order.
I couldn’t have you executed, even though everyone demanded it. Even though the council said your blood could ignite another civil war. You were my sister. My little sister. How could I?
So I did what I could. I sent you away instead, to the academy. It was the only way to keep you alive. I told myself it was rcy. But I know better now. It was cowardice. I couldn’t face you. I couldn’t face what I’d done.
I’m sorry, Cecilia. I’m sorry for the life I forced on you. I know the loneliness, the walls, the whispers. I made you bear them so I wouldn’t have to bear your death. I thought I was saving you, but I was really saving myself.
For all these years, I’ve carried that guilt. Every letter I wrote but never sent, every ti I looked towards the academy on the horizon, I wondered if you hated . You had every right to.
But now, if you’re reading this, it ans I’m gone. And I must ask one last thing of you. I wish I didn’t have to, but there’s no one else I can trust.
In the academy’s deepest pond, sothing lies waiting. I need you to dive to the bottom. Only you can retrieve it. You’ll understand when you see it. It’s not a command, but a plea.
I know I’ve no right to ask anything of you. Yet I must. You were always braver than I was, even when you were small. I hope that hasn’t changed.
Forgive , Cecilia. Not as a princess, not as a king, but as a brother who loved you and failed you. I am sorry for everything.
Your brother,
Cillian."
By the ti she finished reading, her hands were shaking.
The letter slipped from her fingers, landing softly on the desk. Tears stread freely down her face.
She pressed her palms to her eyes, a broken sound escaping her throat.
All the anger, all the resentnt she had carried for years, crumbled away at his words.
He had spared her life when the world demanded her death. And though she had hated him for it, though she had cursed his na for the exile that had followed, she now saw the truth behind his choice.
He had done it to protect her, and had carried that guilt until the day he died.
"Cillian..." she whispered, her voice trembling.
She picked up the letter again, clutching it to her chest. "I forgive you," she breathed, the words breaking as a sob escaped her.
"I forgive you, Cillian."
The fire flickered in the hearth, the sound of the wind brushing faintly against the window panes.
And there, in the silence of the principal’s office, Cecilia Pendragon wept.
Not as a professor, nor as a royal, but as a sister mourning the brother she had once loved and lost.
Reviews
All reviews (0)