The evening after the Petal Festival, the halls of Floravere Palace grew hushed. The echoes of laughter and dancing had faded, leaving behind only scattered petals and candlelight flickering low in their glass lanterns.
Alone in his study, Lucien sat at a heavy oak desk with a half-drunk glass of red wine and a blank sheet of parchment. The ink had dried on his quill hours ago.
He stared at the paper as if it might forgive him first.
Then, slowly—reluctantly—he began to write.
"Elira,
I don't know if I have the right to write to you anymore. Or if you'd even read this if I sent it. Maybe that's why I'm writing it at all. Because it won't reach you.
I saw you last night. You looked… free. And it hurt. Not because I wished you were unhappy—though I suppose, if I'm honest, some part of me did. It hurt because you looked like someone I never got to meet. Someone you had to become without me.
I know what you think of me. I've heard the words whispered behind fans and garden walls. Controlling. Jealous. Cold. But I never meant to be. I only wanted to hold on to you so tightly because I was afraid the moment I loosened my grip, you'd vanish. I didn't know… I was the reason you were already disappearing.
When you smiled at him—Jarell—it was like watching sunlight land somewhere it belonged.
And I hated him for it.And I hated myself more.
I don't expect forgiveness. I don't think I deserve it. But I wish you'd known: I did love you. I just didn't know how to love without fear.
—Lucien"
He folded the parchment. Pressed the seal with wax. But he didn't address it. Instead, he left it on the corner of his desk—just out of reach, just like her.
And he left the room.
Later that evening, Axellan entered the study to retrieve a ledger. His eyes landed on the sealed letter and, hesitating only briefly, he picked it up.
The seal wasn't broken. Not meant for him. But something in his gut stirred—something long and tired and knowing. And Lucien hadn't hidden it. Not truly.
He cracked the seal and read.
And when he finished, he stood for a long time in silence.
Then he sat in Lucien's chair and leaned back, eyes closed, hand over his mouth.
---
The two of them had been sitting in the royal stables, not yet men, not quite boys. Lucien was hunched over, fists clenched, watching Elira laugh in the distance with a visiting noble.
"Why does she need to talk to him?" Lucien had muttered.
"She's just being polite," Axellan said.
"She's mine," Lucien snapped. "She shouldn't have to smile at someone else like that."
Axellan frowned. "Do you think she belongs to you?"
Lucien hadn't answered. He had just muttered under his breath:
"I feel so small when she forgets I'm watching."
---
Axellan folded the letter again, gently, and tucked it into his coat—not to deliver, but to keep. As a record of who Lucien had been, and who he still might become… if he ever chose to face the truth instead of chasing the echo.
Outside, the palace bells tolled midnight.
And the letter remained unread by the one it was meant for.