104
104
The wind had been restless for days.
It raced down the white ridges of the Northern mountains and slammed against the palace walls, shaking the glass in its frames. Even with a fire in the hearth, the cold crept in.
October sat alone at her desk, a candle burning low beside her, the wax spilling in pale rivers over its dish.
The room was quiet — except for Scheuer in the corner, reading in her usual chair. Her sister always sat there in the evenings when Baldwin was away in the war room. Not guarding, not hovering… just there.
Tonight, October’s eyes kept drifting to the slim leather journal tucked into the far shelf. It had been a gift from Baldwin months ago, when they first arrived here. She had smiled and thanked him at the time but hadn’t touched it since.
Now, without knowing why, she reached for it.
\---
Scheuer’s voice broke the silence.
“Writing something?”
October hesitated. “I… don’t know yet.”
She sat at the desk, the journal open to its first blank page, pen poised above it. The white space seemed almost too clean, too expectant.
“About the unrest?” Scheuer’s tone was casual, but her eyes flicked toward the window where snow streaked sideways through the dark.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
And then the words came, unplanned.
Not to herself. Not to Baldwin. But to Alicia.
My dearest Elara,
I don’t know if you will ever read this. I don’t know if these words will ever reach you. If they do, it will mean I am gone, or I cannot tell you myself. This is my just in case.
Her hand stilled. Just in case. The phrase felt heavy in her chest, but it was the truth.
She began again.
You are far too small to ask questions yet, but I imagine one day you might wonder why people write letters they never send. I think I understand now. They are not written to be read. They are written to be said. Some words only feel safe on paper.
The candle crackled softly. She wrote of the snow in the North, how it muted the world until even footsteps felt secret. She wrote of the way the kitchens smelled at dawn — fresh bread, roasted chestnuts, and a sweetness she couldn’t name. She described Elara’s laugh, how it filled the high stone halls like sunlight. She described Baldwin’s smiles — rare, smaller than before, but softer.
\---
There was a knock at the door. Scheuer rose to answer it, letting Elara in from the hallway, bundled in a blanket and cradled against Marin’s shoulder.
“She woke up fussing,” Marin murmured. “I think the storm frightened her.”
October closed the journal and set it aside. “Bring her here.”
The moment Elara was in her arms, she quieted, her small fingers curling into October’s sleeve. The wind howled outside, rattling the shutters, and Elara whimpered, pressing her face into the warm curve of her mother’s neck.
“It’s only the storm, my star,” October whispered, rocking her gently. “The walls here are strong.”
Her gaze flicked to the desk where the journal still lay open, ink not yet dry. Elara, of course, could not ask about it — but October found herself answering anyway, voice low, as if to soothe them both. “Just words for someone far away.”
\---
After Elara went back to bed, Scheuer came to stand beside the desk.
“You’re writing in case something happens,” Scheuer said.
October’s fingers rested on the closed cover. “Maybe.”
“Then don’t only write the dark parts,” Scheuer said. “Leave her more than fear. Leave her something she can keep — a part of you she might not know.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do.”
\---
The storm didn’t break the next day. By evening, Baldwin came to find her still at the desk.
“What are you working on?” he asked from behind her chair.
“A letter.”
“To who?”
“Elara.”
He leaned a little, eyes flicking to the page. “Are you sending it?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Then it’s for you,” he said, brushing her shoulder before leaving. “Don’t let it keep you up all night.”
When the door shut, she dipped her pen again.
You would like it here, Elara. The air is so clear it almost tastes sweet. The nights are quiet, except when the wind sings through the mountains. But it is not a peace you can rest in. It feels like something is waiting just beyond the next ridge.
\---
The more she wrote, the more imagined memories bled into the pages — not of the past, but of the girl Elara might one day be.
One day, maybe you’ll creep into the library on your own. You’ll find the highest shelf and swear that’s where the real secrets are kept. And you’ll be right. I hope the dust drifts in the sunlight for you, and that you whisper so much you forget to read.
She wrote of a day that hadn’t yet happened — a day Elara might tell her she was leaving their home to see the world. October imagined herself smiling, even laughing, and then sitting alone in the dark to cry.
Then, without planning it, she wrote something harder.
If anything happens to me, I want you to know — I never regretted coming here. I never regretted loving the people I loved. Even when it hurt.
She stopped and waited for the ink to dry.
\---
“You’ve been quieter,” Scheuer said the next morning as they dressed for a formal meeting.
“I’ve been thinking,” October said.
“About what?”
“How to leave things better than I found them.”
Scheuer’s hands stilled on the fastenings of her coat. “You sound like someone preparing to go.”
“I’m not leaving,” October said quickly. Then, softer: “I’m just making sure I’ve said what matters.”
\---
By the end of the week, thirty pages were filled. The journal felt heavier in her hands.
She slid it into the hidden drawer Baldwin had once shown her under the desk. Only Scheuer knew now.
“Promise me,” October told her sister one night, “if I can’t… make sure she gets it.”
“You’ll be here to give it to her yourself.”
“Promise me anyway.”
“I promise.”
\---
That night, she added a final entry before sleep.
If you’re reading this one day, Elara, it means I couldn’t tell you in person. I hope you’re somewhere safe. I hope you’re with people who see you — really see you — and keep you warm when the wind is loud. Remember this: storms are not always meant to destroy. Some clear the air. Some bring the rain you need. Don’t fear every dark cloud. But keep your coat close.
She closed the journal, slid it back into the drawer, and let the fire’s glow wash over her.
Somewhere down the hall, Baldwin’s voice echoed as he gave orders to a guard.
The wind was still fierce. But the words were safe now.