Three days... 

It's been three whole days since the Knights of my father's Squadron came home. Three days of silence. Three days of no news at all of where my father is at. I keep telling myself he's okay that maybe, just maybe he had split from the Squadron and went to the King instead to deliver a report before he came home. But every hour, my stomach churns and I start to doubt myself more and more. I can't eat, sleep or focus on my studies that Portia forces me to do. How can I when I'm on edge about where my father is?

Portia has noticed that I'm out of sorts. That I won't focus and instead of upsetting Lord Edgrin about it, she decided to cancel my lessons with him. All I want to talk about is my father but Portia doesn't want to hear my restlessness. So now I find myself alone in my Estates' gardens. The gardens that my mother used to tend to when I was younger. I find myself spiraling in my thoughts as I walk by the training grounds where my father used to teach me sword fighting.

The silence of it claws at me more cruelly than any truth could. If there had been news, perhaps I could endure it—good or ill, at least it would anchor me to life again. But this absence, this waiting, this stretching of hours into endless, suffocating corridors... it gnaws. Each morning, I rise with the fragile hope that today will be different. That today, there will be a letter. A knock at the gates. A rider dismounting, a voice calling my name. But night always comes, and still the halls of the estate remain empty.

When I sleep, I find no rest as usual. My future dreams betray me. I remember them. Fire streaks across the horizon. Ash falls like snow. Men scream, horses collapse, the earth splits open with blood. And my father—always there, always slipping from my reach. His hand stretching for mine, his voice drowned by the roar of war. Each time I wake gasping, clawing at my sheets, whispering to myself that I am still here, that it is not real once again.

The last thing I remember seeing this morning is my father. Standing amongst the bodies of his men and standing there motionless he was not even turning towards me when I called for him.

These past three days I've been listening and stalking every knock on the door. I've been watching for anything that may bring news about my father. Eventually it was the fourth and fifth day and there was still no word. I'd find myself crying at night before I sleep. Portia would hear my cries and try to comfort me. I had never called for her but she came in anyways.

She simply sat down and placed her hand against my hair, smoothing it back from my damp face with the same tenderness she once gave when I was a child plagued with fevers.

"Shhh, my lady," she whispered, though her own voice trembled. "Breathe. Just breathe."

"I can't—" The words split, jagged against my throat. "What if he's gone? What if I never see him again?"

"Do not say it. We do not surrender him to death until we have proof. Your father is strong, Aria. Stronger than most men I've ever known. If there is a way back to you, he will find it."

Her certainty was a fragile thing, but I clung to it anyway. My sobs came harder, breaking against her like waves against stone. For once, I allowed myself to lean into her arms, my body trembling, my heart aching, until exhaustion pulled me under and my tears gave way to shallow, restless sleep.

On the morning of the seventh day, the knock came. I was already waiting for it. Perched on the balcony rail above the foyer, watching the empty hall below as though sheer willpower might conjure an answer from its silence. Every creak of the estate had me holding my breath. Every shadow shifting at the gates had me hoping.

And then—there were three knocks. Portia moved to the door. Steady and calm, as if her steps might soften what waited on the other side. She pulled it open, and sunlight spilled across the marble floor. A rider stood framed in the glow.

"A letter," he said. His voice was quiet, reverent. "Concerning Vincent Thornborough."

Father. My heart seized.

Portia accepted the letter with careful hands and though her fingers trembled she broke the seal. Her eyes traced the words. I leaned forward, the railing cold beneath my palms, the world narrowing to the contours of her face. For an instant—a fragile, desperate instant—I thought perhaps it was good news. I thought that the letter was saying that he was alive. That he was returning even now. And then I watched as a tear slipped silently down her cheek. One small betrayal. One crack in her composure.

The truth struck me with the force of a blade. A gasp tore free before I could silence it. Portia's head lifted sharply, her gaze darting toward the balcony, but I stumbled back into shadow before she could find me. My pulse thundered in my ears. My vision blurred.

No. No, it can't be true. It was only ink on a page. Only words. If I did not read them, if I did not hold them in my hands, then they could not be real. But they were real. They were already real.

My body carried me away before my mind could keep up. I ran down the corridor, my feet struck the floor loud and fast. My breath breaks into shards in my throat. The walls leaned in, closer and closer, until I burst through the door of my chamber and collapsed inside. The floor beside the end of my bed caught me. Cold wood against my skin. I curled against it, pressing my fists to my mouth, as if I could dam the flood inside me. But the sobs came anyway. They rose like a storm tide, breaking against the walls of my chest until they escaped.

He was gone.
I knew it in the way Portia's hand trembled. In the way her shoulders sank. In the way her tears fell.

Father.

The word burned as it left me, swallowed by silence. He had promised me he would return. He had promised he would not fall as others had fallen. And now— The house felt emptier than it ever had. The paintings on the walls seemed to stare through me. The silence pressed heavy and mercilessly. I pressed my cheek to the floor, tasting salt on my lips, whispering to myself as though repetition could alter reality.

He is not gone. He is not gone. He is not gone—

But the words hollowed as I spoke them. And the truth settled deeper into my bones.

༺ ༻

I had not moved from my bed since morning. I let the hours drown me and I let the silence swell like a tide until it carried me somewhere I could not feel. And then there was another knock but I knew who it was...

"Aria."

Portia's voice, muffled through the door. My throat tightened. I thought, foolishly, that if I did not answer, she might vanish, taking the truth with her. But the door creaked open anyway, and sunset light from the corridor spilled across the floor. She stepped inside, a folded letter held between her hands. It looked so small. So fragile. As if paper and ink could not possibly hold the weight of what it carried.

For a moment, she only stood there, watching me with those steady eyes that had seen me through every sickness, every childhood tantrum, every scraped knee. Her strength had always been immaculate. But tonight... I saw the crack through her facade.

"I should have told you sooner." Her voice faltered, quiet as the hush of a dying flame. "But I wanted... I wanted to spare you one more day." The words pierced deeper than the letter ever could. I sat up slowly, my limbs stiff, as if they belonged to someone else. My gaze locked on the folded parchment. My name was not written on it, but it might as well have been carved into my skin.

"Read it," I whispered. The word scraped raw in my throat. "Please read it for me..."

Portia did not argue. She unfolded the letter carefully, reverently, as though it were holy scripture. Her eyes swept the lines, and then her voice broke into the stillness: "To the family of Commander Vincent Thornborough, It is with solemn duty that we write to inform you... your husband, your father, your lord, fought with honor until the end. He fell in battle during the campaign against Lochway, leading his men with courage. His sacrifice ensured their survival. His name will be remembered among the bravest of Northford."

Her voice caught, but she forced herself to finish. "We extend our deepest condolences for your loss. May you find solace in his legacy."

Silence followed. A silence that roared louder than war. I couldn't breathe. My chest caved inward, crushed beneath the finality of those words. They weren't just ink anymore—they had a voice, a sound, a weight that anchored itself in my bones. I pressed my hands to my ears as though I could block it out, as though I could shove the truth back into the folds of parchment and set it aflame. But it was too late. The words had rooted themselves in me, and there was no tearing them free.

Portia knelt beside the bed. She gathered me close, arms strong and trembling all at once. I pressed my face into her shoulder, choking on the salt of my grief. "He promised," I cried. The words tore out of me, broken and childlike. "He promised he would come back." Her hand smoothed over my hair, a gesture both mother and servant. She did not tell me promises could be broken. She did not tell me war had no mercy. She only held me tighter and her silence the only kindness left. I wept. For the battlefield I had only ever seen in dreams.

I wept For my father who would never return from it. For the girl I had been seven days ago, who still believed she was safe.