We pass through forests where the birches stand white and unyielding. At dusk, their trunks catch the light and look likelines of silver pikes, all in formation. I thought you’d like that. Order out of chaos. A parade of trees for no one but us.
I am well. I keep my blade sharp, my men sharper. If the Eastern Reaches mean to test us, they will find we do not bend easily.
Something true, as you asked: the stars look brighter here, though the nights are darker. Perhaps because there are fewer lamps to fight them. I thought of you when I saw them. They reminded me of your halls—all glitter, all fire, and yet a cold between that burns worse than frost.
I’ll write again when the chance allows.
—C
Clyde stared at the letter long after the ink dried.
It was a lie, mostly. He had softened the edges, hidden the despair, scrubbed clean the blood that still clung to his nails. He’d written for Aerion’s sake, not his own. A shield in words, as much as his sword was in battle.
But the last line, about the stars, slipped out before he could stop it. Too much truth. Too close to what he couldn’t say aloud.
He folded the parchment carefully, sealed it with wax, and took it to the courier with a warning sharp enough to cut.
Then he returned to his tent, lay down with his sword at his side, and closed his eyes to the sound of the wind clawing at the canvas.
The letter reached Aerion three weeks late, stained with mud at the corners and creased as if it had been folded too many times in too many hands. He shut himself in his chambers the moment the courier placed it in his palm. No servants. No chamberlain. No interruptions.
The fire burned high in the hearth, throwing gold across marble and velvet, but Aerion barely felt it. He broke the seal with his thumb, unfolded the page, and read.
The stars look brighter here, though the nights are darker. Perhaps because there are fewer lamps to fight them. I thought of you when I saw them.
He read the words twice, his lips parting as if they’d cut him. Then a third time, slow, deliberate, the ache in his chest swelling with each pass. His hand trembled. He pressed the parchment to his mouth and cursed under his breath.
The keep was warm. The wine sweet. The silks soft.
And none of it mattered.
Not without Clyde.
He flung himself onto his chaise, half-buried in cushions, staring at the painted ceiling. The words ran through him like poison, making him restless, unsteady. He wanted to scream. He wanted to laugh. He wanted Clyde back where he belonged—silent, infuriating, close enough to touch.
Instead, he reached for parchment.
His hand hovered a long time over the page. When he began to write, the ink came fast, sharp strokes cutting into the white.
You’re infuriating. And I read that twice. Three times, if you must know. I’d blame boredom, but that would be a lie.
I wore red at court yesterday. You’d hate the cut. Too much collarbone. Every lord stared like I’d grown wings. I imagined it was you instead. It didn’t help. In fact, it made it worse. You’ve ruined my fun. Do you know that? The chase used to thrill me. Now every smile feels hollow, every touch an insult to the one I want.
The court whispers that I should be choosing a bride. They prattle about alliances, heirs, stability. As if I am some broodmare to be led into a pen. I laugh at them, of course. I tell them I will wed only if the stars fall from the sky and therivers run with gold. But at night, when their voices are gone, I wonder if you’d laugh too or if you’d tell me I was a coward for hiding behind my sharp tongue.
Do you dream of me, Silent Hound? You must, to write of warmth in a place like that. Tell me the truth. Tell me more. Because I can’t stop thinking of you. It’s infuriating. I catch myself listening for your silence in the halls, expecting to turn and find you there. I pace at night like some restless animal, and all I hear is your voice—too few words, too heavy, lodged like a stone in my ribs.
What else do you dream of? Do the stars look like my jewels to you, or my eyes? When the fire burns low, do you imagine me beside you? Or do you try not to?
Write again. I command it. If the ink freezes, carve it into bark. If your hand shakes, bleed it onto the page. But answer me.
—A
He stared at the page afterwards, jaw tight, chest rising and falling too quickly. Too little, too much, all at once. He wanted to burn it, as he had others. But this time, he didn’t.
He sealed it with wax, pressed his signet deep, and gave it to Heston.
When the door closed, Aerion sagged against the chaise, head tilted back, eyes burning with something he refused to name.
