The first floor of west wing had stood silent for nearly a year.

  Once home to Duke Alric’s private quarters, the long halls now carried only the echo of footsteps, the faded scent of oiled wood, and a hush that had not been broken since the old duke’s passing. Tapestries hung still and heavy, their once-vivid threads dulled by dust and sun. The air was dry and slightly bitter, like the pages of a forgotten book.

  The door they approached bore no sigil. No inscription, no mark of grandeur. Just iron hinges, a lock untouched since the days of mourning, and a silence that felt almost personal.

  “Remind me,” Gale said, squinting at a particularly joyless tapestry depicting some grim historical siege, “why is it always the abandoned wing that gets the haunting rumors? The main ballroom saw at least four deaths during the last uprising, and yet nobody thinks that place is cursed.”

  “Because the main ballroom is filled with sunlight and laughter,” Fran replied. “This wing has neither.”

  “Ah, yes. The sacred curse of poor lighting.” He cast her a sidelong glance. “And brooding family secrets.”

  She didn’t take the bait. “You’re free to wait outside.”

  “And miss the chance to rifle through the great Alric’s private archives with his terrifyingly competent niece? Perish the thought.”

  They stopped before the door. Fran studied it for a long moment, the old iron key cool and solid in her palm.

  This had been his world. His silence, his legacy. Whatever she was about to find behind that door, it would be a piece of him—a piece that had remained untouched, even as the rest of the palace bent to her rule.

  She slipped the key into the lock. It turned with a soft click.

  The door opened with a groan of hinges, spilling pale light across the threshold.

  Dust shimmered in the beam of afternoon sun. The room within was large, rectangular, and oppressively neat. Thick curtains had been drawn over the tall windows, but one had come partially loose, letting a thread of sunlight fall across a writing desk that dominated the far end of the chamber.

  Books lined every wall—some bound in cracked leather, others barely held together by twine. Scrolls leaned in battered cases. A large imperial map was pinned to one wall, faded to yellows and greys. Everything smelled of dust and aged vellum.

  Fran stepped inside slowly, her boots muffled by the rug. The air felt different here. Not heavy—just full, like it had been holding its breath.

  Gale followed, looking around with polite interest. “Well,” he said eventually, “this is… anticlimactic.”

  Fran walked toward the desk, brushing her fingers along its edge. “I expected secrets. Or at least one hidden dagger. This looks like a historian’s retirement den.”

  “You sound almost disappointed.”

  “I am,” she admitted.

  They began exploring in silence. Gale pulled open a cabinet to reveal rows of indexed documents, most of them dated, categorized, and profoundly dull. Fran sorted through ledgers so faded they may as well have been blank. Treaties. Imperial census reports. Military provisions from a decade before she was born.

  She dropped a brittle scroll back into its box with a sigh. “It’s all official.”

  “Painfully so,” Gale agreed, crouched beside a chest filled with old correspondence. “Even the scandalous letters are just passive-aggressive complaints about ink shortages.”

  Fran moved behind the desk, seating herself with an odd sense of intrusion. Alric’s chair groaned faintly beneath her. On the surface of the desk were stacked decrees, more records, and a folder of council minutes from thirty-nine years ago. She opened one absently, skimmed a few lines about agricultural tariffs, and closed it again.

  Then she noticed the drawer. Slightly ajar, almost hidden beneath a ledge of books.

  She reached for it.

  The drawer gave with a soft creak — half-stuck from disuse, but not locked. Fran pulled it open fully and found a bundle of parchment, neatly wrapped in faded linen and sealed with nothing but time. The cloth smelled of old ink and beeswax. She hesitated for a heartbeat, then set it gently on the desk and unwrapped it.

  Inside were letters — at least a dozen — folded in careful thirds. The top ones bore familiar crests, not of the royal court, but of private houses. She glanced at the first name and scoffed.

  “Lord Etramond again. He wrote last winter too.”

  Gale leaned over her shoulder. “Ah, yes. The man who once tried to fund a public fountain shaped like his own face.”

  Fran skimmed the lines, mouth tightening. “‘Dearest Alric, I write with affection and concern. It has been too long. I must ask again: is there a successor in place? Have you considered naming one before the vultures descend—’” She exhaled through her nose and dropped the letter on the desk. “They sound like the King. Or worse — his concubines.”

  “Worried about the duchy, or worried about their own land grants?” Gale mused, picking up another. “This one asks if he can propose his third son as your betrothed. Rather bold, since you weren’t born yet.”

  Fran rolled her eyes. “They sound just like the King’s envoys. Or the matchmakers he sent me.”

  “Oh, come now.” Gale leaned on the edge of the desk, crossing his arms. “That’s why I’m here. Chosen suitor.”

  She tilted her head at him. “Which I’ve come to regret every single day since.”

  His grin was pure sin. “So it was regret you were expressing so vehemently earlier. In bed.”

  Her elbow caught him squarely in the ribs. Then, she reached for the next envelope. Her fingers stilled halfway through unfolding it.

  “It’s for Callen.”

  She unfolded it slowly. The ink was dark, the writing firm, but some lines were crossed out. No date. No seal. Just raw words, never sent:

  “Cal—

  I am not writing to ask forgiveness. You know I never would. But I’ve been thinking of that damn argument since you left, and it sits like vinegar in my throat.

  You were right about one thing: I never let go. Not of anything. Not of people. Not even of fury. You asked why I never gave you the full truth. I think… I think it’s because I wanted to keep something for myself. Some scrap of power over you.

  And that was foolish. Because you’ve had all of me for years.

  Even the part I won’t admit.”

  Fran folded the letter with care and silence, as though it might crumble from air alone. She said nothing, but her mouth pressed into a firm line.

  Gale didn’t speak either. He only brushed his fingers lightly over hers before she moved to the next.

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  “This one’s for Seraina. After my birth,” Fran murmured. “It looks like another draft.”

  “Nina—

  She’s here. Your little girl. I wasn’t sure how to write it, but there it is.

  Cal and I will join you in two weeks. I’ve already threatened to kill the stablemaster if he delays again. Don’t let Darin spoil her before we arrive. I want to see her smile first.

  I still don’t understand how you did it. How you made something this pure in a world like this.”

  Fran’s fingers lingered on the paper. “He wanted to meet me. Back then.”

  Gale’s smile was quiet. “You would have terrified him.”

  “Even as a baby?”

  “Especially.”

  The next parchment crinkled differently — older, lighter, written in a flowing hand Fran recognized even before seeing the name. Seraina’s.

  “Al, you absolute menace—

  Did you truly call Lord Haren’s daughter a ‘moist loaf of disappointment’ at the banquet? In front of her?

  You do realize that you’re expected to inherit next season. And that your face is on at least three caricatures sold at the market.

  Gods help us. I’ve never been prouder.”

  Fran let out a laugh. “Gods. They really were alike.”

  “The noble siblings of Vartis,” Gale muttered, grinning. “Born to scandal and vinegar.”

  Then came a note, short and sharp in tone — Darin’s handwriting, unmistakable:

  “My dearest Radiant Highness,

  In case your towering intellect has already forgotten, today marks exactly one year since you "borrowed" my annotated volumes on pre-imperial seal structures. Please return them. Or burn them. Or at least lie to me convincingly about having lost them in a noble cause.

  With utmost insincerity,

  D.

  P.S. Callen says I should not call you Radiant Highness anymore. Says it "sets a tone." I agree — a tone of historical accuracy.”

  Gale blinked, then barked a laugh. “A historian is supposed to be a boring man, not someone who mocks one of the most powerful figures in the realm and survives.”

  Fran allowed herself a smile. “I’ve read his histories. They’re precise. Dry. Nothing like this.”

  “Turns out the kingdom’s most revered scholar was also a sniper with a quill.”

  She reached again into the drawer and found something heavier — six slim volumes, stacked with unnerving neatness. The covers were unlabeled, but the first page read: Alric Elarion, 811. He would have been eighteen.

  “Alric’s diaries. From his youth.”

  Gale raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess: dull political commentary?”

  Fran opened to a random entry.

  “...naked before I’d finished my wine. She asked if I’d ever been kissed with a blade to my throat. I hadn’t. I have now.

  I liked it.

  Her cousin joined us. He had nice hands. Slightly too much oil. Must speak to the steward.”

  She turned another few pages.

  “Countess Varella wore nothing under her cloak today. I nearly declared war on her husband out of principle. She laughed and said I wouldn’t survive it.

  She’s probably right.”

  Gale peered in, amused. “When I was younger, I thought about keeping a journal like this. But the lack of synonyms made it boring after the second entry. I should’ve asked your uncle for advice.”

  Fran turned the page. “Was that before or after you teleported a palace into a desert just to escape a jealous husband and his axe?”

  “I was being dramatic.”

  “You always are.”

  The entries ended abruptly near the end of the last volume. A name had been scrawled in one of the margins, half-erased.

  Callen Thorne.

  No notes followed.

  Fran closed the book with reverence, letting silence stretch between them.

  Then, tucked beneath the journals, they found another letter.

  The parchment was softer — worn from folding and unfolding. The script was slanted, precise, and too elegant to be Alric’s.

  “You’d be furious if you knew I was here. Or smug. Or both.

  But you’re not here. So I am.

  She looks nothing like you. All I see is Nina.

  Today she dropped an armful of books trying to open the academy gate, then cursed loud enough to startle a mule. The other children laughed.

  But she picked them up and went on like it never happened.

  I wonder if she knows she’s brave.”

  Fran didn’t speak. Her lips parted as though to say something, then closed again. Her fingers trembled slightly.

  Gale reached for her hand again — wordless, grounding.

  After a moment, she exhaled. “They all lied to me. Alric. The others. I was just… here. Like a placeholder.”

  “No,” Gale said quietly. “You were a secret. But never a placeholder.”

  Fran turned to him, the storm in her eyes finally ebbing.

  “Thank you.”

  He smiled. “For once, I didn’t do anything.”

  She gave his hand one last squeeze, then released it. “Let’s see what else the ghosts left.”

  They opened the second drawer. Another bundle. Heavier. Sealed with Seraina’s crest — and unopened for decades.

  Two small notes were pinned above the stack. The first, unmistakably Seraina’s:

  “These letters are strictly private, Al. Do not read them. I’ll retrieve them next time I’m in Vartis. Do. Not. Read.

  — S.”

  The second, written in dark, spiteful ink:

  “I already know what your husband writes, Nina. And despise every word of it.

  — A.”

  Gale raised an eyebrow. “This sounds promising.”

  Inside: letters from Darin Virellan. At first, gentle, earnest lines from a young man hopelessly in love:

  “You speak of politics like a soldier, and kiss like a poet. I cannot breathe near you without losing track of the world.”

  Then they grew... descriptive. Passionate. Downright illegal in some provinces.

  “I cannot describe what I dreamt of last night, but I woke with your name on my lips and very little dignity intact.”

  “If the next letter you send does not begin with a map to your thighs, I shall consider it a declaration of war.”

  Fran made it to the third before covering her face with one hand. “Why does he know so many synonyms for ‘thigh’?”

  “I don’t think that one even was a thigh.”

  She buried her face in her hands. “I don’t want to read any more.”

  “You don’t have to.” Gale plucked the next letter. “I’ll do it for you. This one begins with ‘Nina, if you were a goddes, I would build a temple to your hips.’”

  “Stop.”

  “...and name the altar after your right shoulder—”

  “Gale!”

  He bit back laughter. “You’re blushing.”

  “I’m trying to burn to death from the inside.”

  “Scandal and indecency,” Gale declared, waving the letter like a flag. “Your family heirlooms.”

  “And you wonder why I turned out like this,” she muttered, cheeks aflame.

  At the bottom of the drawer was one last note — plain, almost careless:

  “The rest is at Veltryn. Should be recovered before summer ends.”

  Fran stared at it.

  “Veltryn House,” she murmured. “That’s the summer estate in Virevale. The one from Alric’s will.”

  Gale leaned in, already rising. “Then we go.”

  Fran didn’t move. Her gaze lingered on the pile of letters — the names, the voices, the heat still lingering in her palms.

  “I can’t just disappear,” she said softly. “There are new councillors to appoint. Trials still unfolding. Half the city expects a ruling by week’s end.”

  He touched the corner of one parchment, then looked up. “You’re allowed to want something for yourself.”

  Fran hesitated. “Wanting it doesn’t mean I get to have it.”

  The corridor outside the archive was quiet, gilded in the late afternoon’s slanting light. Fran and Gale walked side by side, steps slow, not quite speaking yet. Somewhere far off, a bell rang — a signal for the weekly audience to begin. Duty always came calling.

  As they passed beneath one of the arched windows overlooking the inner courtyard, Gale stretched like a cat and exhaled. “Well,” he murmured. “That was an enlightening morning. I feel like I know your entire family’s... anatomy now.”

  Fran shot him a sidelong glance. “You’re not putting any of that in your journal.”

  “Too late. I’ve already started compiling a glossary of imperial euphemisms.” He grinned, the sun catching in his hair. “Working title: Of Lords and Loins.”

  She groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

  “And yet strangely cherished.”

  Before she could answer, footsteps echoed behind a carved pillar, and Thalyra Velgrin emerged into view, her usual grey robes trailing neatly behind her.

  “There you are,” she said, smiling with quiet amusement. “I take it you’ve paid the archive a visit?”

  Fran nodded. “We did. There were… quite a few letters.”

  Gale, without missing a beat, added, “Very vivid letters, Lady Velgrin.”

  “I have no doubts,” Thalyra replied drily, her eyes glinting. “Your uncle was never known for his restraint. I assume you found the personal correspondence?”

  “We did,” Fran said. Her tone was composed, but there was a softness in her expression, something quieter than her usual poise. “And at the very bottom, a note. Apparently there’s more in the summer estate.”

  “Veltryn House,” Gale supplied helpfully.

  Fran nodded again, slower this time. “I remember it was mentioned in his will. It’s in Virevale, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “It is,” Thalyra said. She folded her hands neatly. “And you should go.”

  Fran blinked. “I have too much to do. New councillors to appoint. Trial updates. Half the merchants in the city are still squabbling over shipping permits.”

  “Elden and I ran this duchy more than once while your uncle was off hunting ghosts or scandal,” Thalyra said with a shrug. “We can manage a few weeks.” Then her gaze softened. “And I thought you’d be eager to visit the house you were born in.”

  Fran hesitated.

  Just for a moment.

  Then: “I’ll think about it.”

  Thalyra gave a knowing smile, then inclined her head and moved on down the hall. A breath of silence passed between Fran and Gale before they resumed walking.

  “So,” he said after a moment, tone light. “Should I start preparing for a summer vacation?”

  Fran raised an eyebrow. “Only if you promise not to teleport the estate into a desert.”

  He sighed, hands dramatically clasped behind his back. “One little mishap, and no one ever lets it go.”

  “You dropped an entire palace, Dekarios.”

  “I relocated it temporarily.” He paused. “Also, you weren’t even there.”

  “And yet I suffer the consequences.”

  They kept walking.