Leila sat at her writing desk, the quill trembling in her fingers. The dream had not faded. It lingered in her lungs, every breath a reminder of how it felt to die with her daughter’s cries ringing in her ears.

The chamber was still. Too still. Even the festival sounds from the capital had dulled — no more wild drums, no more laughter. For three nights and three days the city had howled for their King’s mate. Now the torches were guttering low. The celebration was ending.

And she, in her tower, felt as though her life had already ended.

Her hand shook as she dipped the quill into ink. For a long while she simply stared at the page, her reflection rippling faintly in the black pool. She had never written a letter so heavy before. This would not be a message of etiquette, nor a dutiful update. This would be her confession.

She began slowly, the words uneven at first.

My dearest Nanny,

Her throat tightened. The tears burned, but she forced herself to continue.

I do not know if this letter will ever reach you. But I must try. I must leave something of myself behind, for you are the only soul who ever loved me as I was. Perhaps by the time you hold this, I will already be gone.

Her hand faltered. A tear fell onto the page, bleeding into the ink. She pressed her lips together, steadying herself, and went on.

I have seen it. Night after night. Not memories, as I once dreamed, but the years that lie ahead. I have seen myself with child. I have felt the pain of bringing her into this world with no hand to hold mine, no voice to tell me I was strong. I have seen the daughter I bore — my fairy, my light. I loved her with everything in me. But I raised her alone. In silence. In sorrow.

She paused, choking back sobs, before she forced the next lines.

I watched myself grow weaker, frailer, until death took me when she was only five. My fairy cried over my body. She begged me not to leave her. And in that moment, before darkness swallowed me, I heard a howl. A cry of grief so strong it shook my soul. I do not know whose it was. Only that it came too late.

Leila dropped the quill for a moment, burying her face in her hands. Her body shook. But she could not stop. The letter had to be finished.

She lifted the quill again, her hand smearing ink as she wrote on.

Nanny, forgive me. I am not strong. I am afraid. I cannot bear the thought of my daughter growing in such a world. If these dreams are prophecy, then she will suffer as I have suffered. If you love me — and I know you do — then please, when the time comes, find her. Hold her. Love her as you once loved me. Do not let her be alone.

Her breath came fast and shallow now. The candlelight trembled, shadows quivering along the walls. She pressed the final words onto the page.

I do not know why fate is so cruel. But if nothing else, at least she will have you. And through you, she will know I loved her beyond reason, beyond life itself.

Her hand cramped as she signed her name.

Your Leila.

The quill slipped from her fingers. She folded the letter carefully, her tears staining the parchment, and pressed her seal against it. The wax cooled beneath her trembling hands.

For a long while she just sat there, staring at the sealed envelope. Her chest ached as if she had already lived the death she had seen. Her body felt frail, her heart too heavy for her ribs to carry.

At last she rose. She carried the letter to the small drawer by her bedside and placed it inside, laying her hand over it for a moment as though it were a prayer.

“Please find her,” she whispered into the dark. “Please.”

Outside, the capital grew quiet. The last howl faded into silence. The festival was over.

And in the stillness that followed, Leila felt more alone than ever.