The air in Valoria had changed. What once smelled of roses and rain now carried the scent of dust and smoke. The fields no longer glowed golden beneath the sun but lay heavy and silent, as if holding their breath.
Inside the Whitmore estate, the servants whispered, the soldiers marched, and every clock seemed louder than before. War had arrived.
Clara stood before her mirror, adjusting the folds of her pale blue gown. Her reflection looked calm, almost cold, but her heart felt like glass—ready to break.
Behind her, Evelyn entered quietly, holding a letter sealed with the crest of the Royal Army. "It came this morning," she said softly.
Clara froze. She didn't need to ask who it was from. Her fingers trembled as she reached for it.
It was Nathaniel's handwriting—strong, steady, and painfully familiar.
My dearest Miss Whitmore,By the time this reaches you, I'll be far from Valoria. The king has called for every able man to stand. I go not for glory, but for duty. I do not know when I'll return—or if I shall—but know this: your face will be the last image I carry into battle, and the first I hope to see again.—N.G.
Clara's vision blurred as she folded the letter. She pressed it against her chest, refusing to let Evelyn see her tears.
"Will he come back?" Evelyn whispered.
Clara straightened her shoulders. "Of course he will. He's too proud to die."
But deep down, she wasn't sure if she said it to comfort Evelyn or herself.
That evening, a farewell dinner filled the Whitmore house. Soldiers in blue uniforms stood tall and silent as lords and ladies made speeches about courage, loyalty, and sacrifice. Clara listened, but the words felt far away—empty echoes in a hall that no longer felt safe.
Nathaniel stood at the far end of the room, his uniform crisp, his expression unreadable. Their eyes met once—just once—and the world seemed to stop.
He crossed the room toward her, each step slow, measured. When he reached her, he bowed slightly. "Miss Whitmore."
"Captain Graves," she replied, her voice softer than she intended.
"I came to say goodbye," he said. "The troops march at dawn."
She tried to smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Then I wish you victory."
He looked at her for a long moment. "And I wish you peace."
Their words were polite, distant—but their silence spoke of everything they couldn't say.
Outside, after the guests left, Clara wandered into the gardens. The moonlight lay pale across the fountains, and the night wind whispered through the roses. She found Nathaniel there again, standing near the stone bridge.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said quietly.
"Neither should you," she replied, her voice trembling.
"I leave in a few hours," he said. "I couldn't go without seeing you—just once more."
Clara swallowed hard. "You already said goodbye."
He stepped closer, the faint scent of smoke and pine surrounding him. "Not properly."
She looked away, her heart pounding. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
His hand brushed against hers, gentle and fleeting. "Then I'll keep this one. I will come back to you, Clara. No matter how long it takes."
She met his gaze then, her pride and her fear locked in battle. "And if you don't?"
He smiled faintly. "Then the wind will carry my promise to you."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The world was quiet except for the sigh of the trees and the faint murmur of soldiers preparing for dawn.
When Nathaniel finally walked away, Clara stood frozen, watching until he disappeared into the dark.
Only when she was alone did the first tear fall.
At sunrise, the drums began to roll. Horses neighed, boots struck the cobblestones, and the streets of Valoria filled with banners and farewells. Women waved handkerchiefs; men shouted blessings.
Clara stood on the balcony, her face pale but proud, as Nathaniel rode past with his men. He looked up—just once—and for a heartbeat, their eyes met.
The wind caught her hair, lifting it gently as if to remind her of his promise.
Then he was gone.
That night, the house was quiet again. The laughter was gone, the music silent. Only the ticking of the clock filled the halls.
Clara returned to her room, Nathaniel's letter clutched in her hand. She unfolded it one last time and whispered to the night,
"Come back to me, Nathaniel."
The wind rose softly outside, as though answering her.
And so began the long waiting—the war of hearts that no army could win.