My dearest Frances —

  Or rather, Fran. That’s what your mother called you. That’s what we called you, quietly, in the few moments we allowed ourselves to speak of you at all.

  If you are reading this, then I am dead — and you are exactly where I meant you to be.

  No, not “meant.” That’s too clean. You’re where I’ve dragged you, by title and ink, without your permission. And for that, I won’t beg forgiveness. I’ve never been a man to ask for what I could take.

  By now, I imagine you’ve been paraded through Vartis like a relic from a forgotten tale. They’ve dressed you like a Duchess, nodded like courtiers, and gossiped like the swine they are. Someone’s likely already suggested a husband. A scandal. A tutor for your manners.

  If so, I trust you’ve smiled with the sharp edge of a knife and told them nothing.

  I ruled this Duchy for over forty years. They called me austere, cold, dutiful — and they were right, some of the time.

  What they never quite said aloud, even in their private feasts and drunken corners, was this:

  I enjoyed it.

  I enjoyed upsetting courts. I danced with generals’ sons and bishops’ wives, I drank with smugglers who feared me more than loved me, and I scandalized noble lines that hadn’t felt alive in generations. They called me a sinner behind closed doors and begged for my attention the next day.

  Scandal, my dear girl, was just another currency. And I spent it lavishly.

  Callen Thorne — the only man I ever truly loved — began as just another indulgence. Something beautiful to waste my time on. But he proved to be fire beneath his calm. Unshaken by my theatrics. Unmoved by my power. He mocked me, corrected me, steadied me. And, in time, I learned to build my life around him.

  He died ten years ago, during the plague. Refused the magic. Chose to go on his feet, not on a healer’s leash. He was braver than I ever was. I haven’t truly breathed since.

  But before I was hollow, I was dangerous.

  And I was good at it.

  For this Duchy — for the dream your mother and I once believed in — I bribed, threatened, lied, ruined. I arranged deaths that looked like accidents, ruined men with quiet words, and erased names from ledgers that no one ever saw again.

  One drowned. One broke his neck in a hunt. One drank from the wrong cup. All of them guilty. None of them mourned.

  No trials. No signatures. No evidence.

  Only silence. And the cold satisfaction that at least some debts had been paid.

  Your mother — Seraina — she was everything I wasn’t. Fierce. Brilliant. Disobedient in all the right ways. She loved a scholar, a man with no title and too many opinions. And she refused to apologize for it.

  Together, they dreamed of rebuilding Foher — not as an echo of the old empire, but as something new, something proud, something just.

  And so they were murdered.

  You were barely one or two. I remember you — dark curls, quiet eyes. You stared at me once as if trying to puzzle out what I was made of. Your mother laughed. Said you had already decided I was too proud.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  She was right.

  After they died, I thought you had too. But then came the rumor — a baby girl, hidden away.

  I traced you. Paid good people to keep you safe. And I let the court believe you were gone.

  They celebrated a little too quickly.

  I let them.

  And I began to destroy them.

  You were safe in Candlekeep. Out of reach, out of memory. I watched from afar. Reports. Letters. Ledgers. I knew when you fell ill, when you passed your first examination, when you stole books from the restricted shelf. Your hands hardened with work. You laughed in taverns no one knew I paid for. You lived.

  Callen told me I should go to you. That truth was better than silence. That love could protect you.

  But I was a coward. I feared looking into your face and seeing her eyes. I feared what you might think of me. So I stayed away.

  But I never stopped watching.

  And now, at the end, I give you everything I built.

  This Duchy is full of wolves. And you —

  You are not one of them.

  Good.

  Let them circle. Let them bait. Let them underestimate you. And when the moment comes, smile. Step closer. And tear out the throat that deserves it most.

  I chose you not for your blood. Not for guilt. Not even for love.

  I chose you because you are not like them. And because that is exactly what Foher needs.

  You do not need to be graceful. You do not need to be kind. You only need to endure. And then, if you still want to — to rise.

  If you fall, let it be in fire, not silence.

  If you rule, do it in your own name.

  If you survive them — and I believe you will — do it with your head high, your back straight, and no apologies on your tongue.

  I do not ask for forgiveness. I only ask that you never forget who you are — and who they think you are not.

  Your weak, reckless, foolish uncle,

  Alric Elarion

  She didn’t move for a long time.

  The letter lay open in her lap, its edges soft where her fingers had curled too tightly around them.

  She had read it once. Then again. Then a third time.

  She could recite half of it already.

  Scandal, my dear girl, was just another currency. And I spent it lavishly.

  The line echoed in her skull, sharp and shining. She hated how much it stuck — not just the words, but the ease with which it explained everything she’d lived these past months.

  She stared at the page, barely blinking. The fire had gone out in the hearth. Her hands felt like stone.

  Her parents weren’t her parents. The man and woman who raised her — who bathed her when she was fevered, who taught her how to bind a wound, who held her hand in the quiet hours of grief — had loved her.

  But they had lied.

  And the truth, written here in Alric’s elegant, vicious hand, felt like a knife between the ribs.

  She was the daughter of a murdered dream. Of a fierce woman and a scholar with no title. Of a line that had been cut clean through — except for her.

  You were barely one or two. I remember you — dark curls, quiet eyes...

  He remembered her. Watched her. Kept ledgers on her laughter, knew what books she stole, what nights she cried. He paid taverns to stay clean and safe. He knew everything. And still, he stayed away.

  Callen told me I should go to you. That truth was better than silence. That love could protect you. But I was a coward.

  Her breath caught.

  He had let her suffer alone. Let her believe she was no one, just a clever girl in a quiet town, healing strangers and scrubbing floors and wondering why some parts of herself never fit.

  I feared looking into your face and seeing her eyes...

  Fran clenched her jaw.

  She didn’t want to feel sorry for him.

  She didn’t want to understand him.

  But she did.

  That was the worst part.

  I chose you not for your blood. Not for guilt. Not even for love. I chose you because you are not like them. And because that is exactly what Foher needs.

  He had seen it — this — before she had.

  The court, the claws, the whispers.

  The King.

  The endless proposals.

  The way her name now circled like a falcon above every feast and every council.

  He had predicted it all.

  And she hated that he’d been right.

  Hated how the letter — his voice — made her feel less alone and more cornered all at once.

  If you survive them — and I believe you will — do it with your head high, your back straight, and no apologies on your tongue.

  Fran set the letter down with careful fingers.

  Outside, snow began to fall.

  She rose slowly, crossed to the window, and watched the flakes melt against the stone ledge.

  Scandal is a coin.

  And for the first time since arriving in Vartis, she finally knew what she wanted to spend it on.