The low, golden light drifting through the windows made the castle feel like an old mory a slow-drifting warmth that painted everything softer, even the shadows.
Thalor was on the floor with Kaelith, making wild animal noises and rolling her wooden dragon across the carpet.
Kaelith squealed, purple fire dancing harmlessly at her fingertips, her delight echoing off the stones. Malvoria appeared in the doorway, her presence calm but powerful, taking in the sight with a small, private smile.
Elysia lingered, watching her family father and daughter tangled in gentle chaos, Malvoria radiant and self-assured, the very heart of everything that had changed.
It would have been easy, comforting, to stay and join them. But sothing in her chest ached with a quieter need.
She slipped away, pressing a light kiss to Malvoria’s arm in passing. "I’ll be upstairs for a while. I just... need a bit of quiet."
Malvoria nodded, eyes searching hers. "Take all the ti you need."
Elysia crossed the corridor, the echoes of laughter and dragon roars fading behind her, and made her way up the familiar spiral staircase to her rooms.
The hush of the bedchamber was a balm—curtains fluttering in a gentle breeze, the old quilt folded at the foot of the bed, a cup of tea growing cool beside a half-read book.
She curled up atop the covers, drawing her knees to her chest, and turned the letter over in her hands.
The parchnt was soft with age, the script elegant and confident. Wax pressed with her mother’s crest—a silver lily, petals unfurling—still held the edges closed.
Elysia traced it for a mont, her heart thudding. A letter written for soday. For this day, perhaps, when answers were both too late and exactly what she needed.
She broke the seal and unfolded the pages carefully. Her mother’s handwriting, looping and neat, filled the first page with a title:
To my daughter, the one I loved most after my husband, Thalor.
Elysia smiled a little. She could hear her mother’s wry humor in every word.
She began to read.
Well, maybe I’m dead when you read this. If so: How are you? I hope you’re not reading this with your hair in knots, scowling over so new crisis, or having just co in from sword training with your tunic torn (again).
Are you still friends with Zera?(Elysia snorted—how strange to see her mother wonder about a friendship that had twisted so far, so painfully, that now Zera was neither friend nor lover but a shadow locked away in the castle’s dungeon, a warning more than a mory.)
Are you still keeping your father on his toes, or have you finally decided to listen to him once in a while? Don’t roll your eyes—I know you just did.
And—have you really, truly fallen in love? Are you married? Gods above, are you the kind of woman who lets her partner steal the covers, or are you the thief? Have you learned to share a bed without kicking?
I hope you have found soone who looks at you the way your father always looked at —like he was a little surprised and a little terrified and utterly, helplessly in love. If not, keep looking. Never settle.
Elysia blinked back the first sting of tears, her thumb tracing the neat downward stroke of each word. Her mother had always known how to get right to the heart of things, how to laugh at pain and chase it with tenderness.
Here’s so advice, since I can’t be there to scold you in person:
If you’re raising a child—your own, a friend’s, anyone’s—listen before you speak. They will do reckless, wild things, and you will want to shout. Try laughter first. Save the scolding for true danger.
When you argue with your spouse (and you will, even if you think your love is perfect), rember that every argunt is really about sothing softer underneath.
Don’t go to bed angry. Even if you have to grit your teeth and hold hands until you can’t help but laugh.
There is no such thing as a perfect mother, but there is such a thing as a loving one. You will make mistakes. Apologize for them, out loud, and let your children see that love ans growing together.
If you ever feel alone, rember soone is always rooting for you, even if you can’t see them. I am, wherever I am.
Elysia pressed her lips together, reading slower now, absorbing each word as if it could fill sothing inside her that had never quite healed.
Now, so practical things you’ll forget if I don’t write them down:
Feed your child before yourself, but eat too—you’re no good to anyone when you’re fainting from hunger.
Let your daughter climb trees. Let her fall, too. She’ll learn she can rise again.
If your child’s magic goes wild, rember how yours once did—patience is stronger than any spell.
Elysia let out a quiet laugh, muffled and aching. She rembered the ti her fire magic had set half the orchard alight. Her mother hadn’t yelled.
She’d simply handed Elysia a bucket, rolled up her sleeves, and said, "Let’s make this an adventure, not a disaster."
The letter went on, lines of gentle jokes and sharp, practical wisdom.
Don’t let your partner hide their fears from you. It’s easy to pretend you’re both strong, but sotis what you need is a day under the blankets, hiding together from the world.
Dance in the kitchen. It keeps the shadows away.
Let yourself be loved, even when you feel undeserving. That’s when you need it most.
Elysia wiped her eyes with her sleeve, biting her lip. How long had it been since she’d let herself fall apart, even for a mont?
Even with Malvoria, even with Kaelith—sotis she held too tightly, too proudly. The letter felt like a permission she’d never known she needed.
On the next page, her mother’s script turned playful.
Did you finally win the archery contest? Did you ever finish that poem you hid under your mattress? Did you find the courage to sing in public, or are you still convinced you sound like a frog in a storm?
Whatever you’re doing, I hope you are living. Not just surviving.
And if you ever lose your way, rember this: You are fire, Elysia. Not because you burn, but because you light the darkness. Don’t ever let anyone convince you otherwise.
There was more—a list of mories, little stories of her own childhood, the way Elysia used to hide in the old wardrobe and refuse to co out unless her mother promised her honey cakes.
mories of Thalor, and how much he adored Elysia, even when she was stubborn and unruly.
And then, at the end, a postscript, hurried and warm:
If you ever need to hear it again: I love you, always. Tell your father to stop worrying. Tell Zera—well, you know her heart. Be kind, but don’t let her hurt you.
Elysia stared at the page, the words blurring and running, her heart a storm of longing and relief and loss and love.
She wished her mother could see her now, see Kaelith’s crooked smile, see Malvoria’s strong, steady presence beside her.
She wondered what her mother would say if she knew the truth—that Zera had turned into sothing hard and cold, an enemy, and that Lara—dear, impossible Lara—was locked in the dungeons below for choices no one could have imagined.
That life was complicated and never quite as gentle as childhood hopes. That love, sotis, was as fierce as fire and as fragile as silk.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Elysia started, hastily folding the letter, her cheeks still damp.
Malvoria entered, closing the door quietly behind her. She didn’t speak at first—just crossed the room in a few long, sure strides, and knelt beside the bed, wrapping her arms around Elysia without asking.
Elysia buried her face in Malvoria’s shoulder, letting herself breathe in the scent of ho—smoke and sun and sothing uniquely Malvoria. For a while, neither spoke. The quiet was a comfort, as warm and enveloping as any words.
At last, Malvoria brushed a thumb across Elysia’s cheek, tilting her face up. "You okay?"
Elysia nodded, voice rough. "It was a letter from my mother. She wrote it for to find... one day."
Malvoria’s eyes softened. "Was it... what you needed?"
Elysia let herself smile, the ache fading into sothing lighter. "Yes. She was wise. And funny. She told to let Kaelith climb trees, to dance in the kitchen, to be loved even when I don’t feel like I deserve it. She said I’m fire—that I light the darkness."
Malvoria cupped Elysia’s cheek, reverent. "She was right. You do."
They sat together, the late sunlight slanting over them, the whole world quiet for just a little longer.
In that hush, Elysia allowed herself to feel the weight of her mother’s love, the fierce promise in Malvoria’s embrace, and the bright, unbreakable thread that tied them all together—past and present, fla and shadow, always and forever.
When the world intruded again—when Kaelith’s shouts and Thalor’s laughter drifted up the stairs, when the castle creaked and the bells began to chi—it did not feel heavy. It felt like ho.
Elysia leaned into Malvoria, the letter still pressed to her chest. "Thank you for giving them this," she whispered. "For helping my mother’s mory live on in Arvandor."
Malvoria smiled, pressing her lips to Elysia’s forehead. "Thank you for letting be part of your story."
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