The palace hummed with a quiet intensity. Every corner seemed touched by the approaching inevitability of the wedding—fresh flowers in the halls, tapestries pressed and hung, the air scented with lavender and rose oil. It was beautiful, undeniably so, but it felt hollow.
The night stretched on, silent and still unyielding. My chambers, once a haven, now felt too large and too small all at once. Octavian's words mingled with my own thoughts, tangling themselves into something impossible to ignore. I lit a single candle and returned to my desk, its surface still scattered with the remnants of my earlier letter.
A fresh sheet of parchment lay before me. The pen felt heavy in my hand as I began to write, the words coming slower than usual.
Deliah had been my confidant for years now. We had started exchanging letters not long after the war began—a practice encouraged by our mothers in hopes that the correspondence would forge a bond strong enough to heal what swords had broken. But over time, the letters became more than duty; they became a lifeline.
I smoothed the parchment and dipped my quill into the inkpot, letting the familiar rhythm of writing guide me.
Dear Deliah,
I hope this letter reaches you before the frenzy of the wedding overtakes everything. I also trust this letter finds you well and full of joy as your wedding day approaches. It feels strange to write those words, knowing how quickly the months have passed since the announcement. I find myself unable to sleep tonight, my thoughts too loud for quiet and my heart too restless for stillness. I find myself thinking of you—of us, and of the letters that have tethered us through every storm.
Do you remember, Dearest Deliah, how we used to imagine futures free of obligation? In those letters, you were the romantic, painting vivid pictures of possibilities. You believed in love's power to heal, to transform. I was not so brave then. I could not see beyond the cold, hard lines of reality.
I still remember when we first spoke of such things, our musings on what marriage might mean for women like us. I wonder now… does your heart find truth in those dreams of freedom from long ago?
Your hope was once my map. Now, I feel as though it is my turn to extend that same hope to you.
Your marriage, though arranged and bound by duty, does not have to be an ending. You are clever, Deliah, too clever to let your story be written entirely by others. You have a way of bending the world toward you, like sunlight drawn to the sea. I have no doubt you will find a way to carve joy into this new chapter.
And as for me? I'm beginning to realize that perhaps I've let the weight of expectation become my excuse. Octavian reminded me tonight of who I used to be—the girl who dreamed without fear. He challenged me to remember her, to let her voice grow loud enough to be heard again.
I write this not to burden you, but to promise. If you can find a way to balance duty and desire, then so can I. I will not stop fighting for a future that feels like mine.
Yours,
Ophelia
I sealed the letter with care, though my heart trembled as I pressed the wax with my crest. Tomorrow, it would join the courier's pouch, its fate entwined with the miles it would travel. But tonight, it was enough to have written it.
As I extinguished the candle and slipped into bed, I held onto a fragile thread of something unfamiliar but welcome: courage.
It felt as though this was the start of something.