Chapter 99 Letters Home

  It was near midday when the first of the trade wagons began to crowd the southern gate of Avalon. The road shimmered under the sun, dust rising in slow, lazy curtains as merchants, pilgrims, and riders alike pressed toward the city. Among them came two mounted men, their cloaks drawn tight despite the warmth, the glint of steel barely visible beneath their travel-worn gear.

  The gate-watch barely marked them at first, just another pair in the day’s procession, until one reined in sharply at the post and called out, his voice cutting through the clamor.

  “We bear a message for the House of Avalon! By charge of Knight Dathren!”

  The guards exchanged uncertain glances. Dathren was no name any of them knew, nor did his crest appear on any of the city’s rosters. The elder guard frowned, motioning them closer. “You ride under whose authority?” he asked.

  The taller rider, his face shadowed by the brim of his helm, held up a leather satchel darkened by road dust. “By the Knight’s order,” he said, “this is to be delivered to the citadel of Avalon. It was entrusted to us upon the road by our master.”

  That gave the guards pause. The word travelers these days could mean anything—spies, brigands, or worse, priests. Still, they could not deny a sealed satchel bearing a knight’s sigil, however obscure. The elder guard gestured for it to be passed down.

  The rider dismounted long enough to hand it over. The weight surprised the guard—heavier than parchment ought to be. Inside were tightly bundled letters, and beneath them, something wrapped in linen: a clay pot or jar, sealed in red wax.

  “What do you make of it?” asked the younger guard.

  “Something for the citadel," the older one muttered. “Let the hall sort it.”

  The riders saluted briefly, turned their horses, and disappeared among the slow-moving wagons. A moment later, they were gone—absorbed into the press of travelers and the glare of afternoon sun.

  When the guards later tried to recall their faces, neither could say what they looked like—only that the name Dathren still hung uneasily in their minds, like a word half-remembered from a dream.

  …

  The following day dawned bright over Avalon, the citadel alive with noise. Servants hurried through the stone courts, and within the high chambers, the air was thick with voices and greetings. Guests from the far north had arrived—distant kin, allies, and watchers cloaked in civility.

  Lisette leaned over the balustrade above the grand stair, her hair catching the sunlight. “Another carriage!” she exclaimed. “And look—two of the girls are about my age!”

  Her excitement was irrepressible. She had ordered tea laid out in the east solar, demanded the prettiest cups, and instructed the maids to cut the honey cakes in delicate crescents. “We shall be friends,” she said, “unless they prove dull or spies. Or both.”

  When she turned from the railing, her laughter froze. Across the hall below, the steward stood stiffly before her mother, holding a strange leather satchel.

  “A day ago!” her mother stated loudly.

  Lady Seraphine’s face drained of color as soon as her eyes fell upon it. She reached out, her fingers tightening on the strap. The steward bowed, stammering, “It came by hand, my lady. From the outer gate, last night. They said it was to be given to the House directly.”

  Seraphine barely heard him. The weight of the satchel was wrong—too heavy, uneven. It felt alive with something unspoken. Without another word, she turned and swept from the hall, skirts whispering across the marble. Her mind raced, leaping between dread and disbelief.

  Could it be? After all these months of silence? Had he—her son—finally written? Or had some darker tidings found their way to her door?

  The corridors seemed to close around her as she climbed, the air pressing close. The sound of her heartbeat thundered louder than her steps. She reached the oaken door of her husband’s office and pushed it open without ceremony.

  Lord Eldric was not alone. One of the Close Council—Master Odran—stood at the far side of the table, a ledger still open before him. Both men looked up at the intrusion.

  “Seraphine?” Eldric’s brow furrowed. “What is it?”

  Her voice was tight, trembling against composure. “I beg your pardon, Master Odran,” she said quickly. “Will you please leave us?”

  The treasurer blinked, surprised by the sharpness in her tone. He hesitated only long enough to bow, closing his ledger and retreating through the side door. The latch clicked softly shut behind him.

  Now, only the two of them remained.

  Seraphine crossed the room and set the satchel upon the desk. “It came this morning,” she said. “Delivered to the steward by men from the southern road.” Her hands shook as she drew out the bundles—letters bound in twine, and at last, a small clay pot wrapped in linen and sealed with red wax.

  Eldric leaned forward, reaching for the uppermost packet. When his fingers brushed the wax seal, his breath caught. Pressed there, faint but unmistakable, was the crest of a sun—Caelen’s mark that was defined to be used for the first letters.

  He snapped his head up. “Caelen.”

  Seraphine stared back, her eyes wide, worried, and confused. “It’s from him, Eldric. It has to be. But why all these different letters? And why this jar?”

  They just stood there. Not speaking a word as they looked over the stack of letters. The fire crackled softly, and outside, the city felt miles away in that quiet, joy tangled with fear.

  For this was the first word their son had ever sent home—

  and the Veils alone knew what message he had sent.

  The hour was quiet, the lamps low. A long band of afternoon light crossed the rug, gilding the edges of books and the rim of the silver kettle cooling on the table. The world beyond the thick glass windows seemed distant—the bustle of courtyards, the murmur of servants, even the tolling of the bell from the lower tower. Here in the lord’s solar, there was only stillness, and the slow exhale of dust motes turning in the light.

  Lord Eldric sat on the edge of the couch, the satchel open before him. Lady Seraphine settled beside him, the faint scent of her perfume rising as the leather creaked. Neither spoke for some time. They simply looked at what lay spread between them—letters, bound with a cord and sealed in wax, impressed with the mark of the sun.

  At last, Eldric reached for one, turning it in his hand. “The hand is clear,” he murmured. “Mirelle’s, without doubt.”

  He broke the seal, and together they bent over the parchment.

  The words were steady and practical, written in that calm, measured voice they both remembered. Yet as they read on, small details began to draw tight the lines around Eldric’s eyes. A half-smile, an exhaled breath; Seraphine’s fingers tapped the edge of the page. At one point, they both stifled a laugh, shaking their heads. And then again—another turn of phrase, dry and absurd—and this time they could not help it.

  Eldric snorted softly, muttering under his breath, “Gloamhollow. He would go there?”

  Their laughter faded as quickly as it came. Seraphine’s brow furrowed, her voice barely above a whisper. “The White Company? Why does he need the White Company?”

  Eldric’s eyes flicked to her. “We have many letters to read,” he said gently. And they continued.

  Pages slipped one over another, the fire cracked once, and still the minutes seemed to blur. By the time they finished Mirelle’s correspondence, the sun had burned for an hour, and yet no word explained the sealed pot wrapped in linen. Only hints, absences—silences that spoke louder than ink.

  Eldric set the final page down. “Nothing,” he said quietly. “Not a single line of it.”

  Seraphine nodded, and her gaze fell upon the remaining stack.

  There were more letters now, arranged neatly upon the table. Three bore the looping scrawl of a young hand—Lisette’s name written in a hurried but unmistakable script—those they set aside carefully. Of the rest, one was marked For Milady, another For Father, two with Aldric’s name upon them, and one, strangely, For the Cook.

  They divided the stack without a word. Seraphine took hers and broke the twine with a knife. Eldric did the same, and for a long while, there was only the soft sound of parchment shifting. The silence deepened, thick as velvet, broken only by an occasional sigh or the low murmur of a word mouthed without sound.

  Whatever was written within those pages held weight—too much, perhaps—for both their faces had changed. Eldric’s eyes grew still and fixed; Seraphine’s lips parted, her brow furrowing as though her heart itself were listening. Then suddenly, bright as a struck chime, her laughter cut through the quiet.

  “Oh, stars above—Eldric!” she exclaimed, rising to her feet with the letter in hand. “The pot is not even for us! It’s for Lisette—and the cook!”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Her laughter was like glass ringing, and for an instant, the years fell from her face. Eldric raised an eyebrow, half in disbelief. “The cook?”

  “You’ll find out later,” she said, still smiling, shaking her head at the absurdity of it all.

  Eldric, however, had gone still. His hands rested on his knees, eyes fixed on the parchment before him. The letter’s words swam in his vision, simple but incomprehensible: within four months, ten tons.

  He read it twice, three times. Then he looked up, meeting Seraphine’s eyes across the room. Without a word, he passed the page to her.

  Her laughter faded as she read. And then she sat and fell silent.

  They sat again, side by side, the letters scattered between them like fallen leaves. The light dimmed. The room seemed to listen with them, the air itself holding its breath.

  In that stillness, amazement and dread mingled—the dawning sense that their son’s letters carried not only news, but the turning of the world itself.

  The room was hushed again, and the faint scent of wax and old parchment hung in the still air. Lady Seraphine stood beside the table, her hand resting on the final stack of letters as if uncertain whether to disturb them further.

  At last, she looked toward her husband—Lord Eldric, seated in the afternoon light, the lines of his face half shadowed. Without a word, she began gathering the letters, one by one, with the same care she would give a fragile relic.

  When she came to the clay pot, she paused. Her fingers lingered on the cool surface, tracing the seam of the red wax seal. She lifted it, along with the letter marked For the Cook, and the three addressed to Lisette. Turning to her husband, she said softly, her voice steady now,

  “If you call the steward and the treasurer, I will call the cook.”

  Neither of them moved at first. For just a moment, everything hung in the air between them—years of shared struggles and quiet understanding. Then she nodded, turned, and slipped out, her footsteps softening as she walked away down the stone hall.

  Eldric stayed where he was. He stared ahead, not really seeing anything, still caught by a hint of wonder he couldn’t quite shake. The letters scattered across the table looked like pieces of some bigger pattern—something he hadn’t figured out yet.

  He leaned back slowly, the weight of the years upon him, and exhaled through his nose. The light caught in his eyes as though the fire itself had taken hold there.

  He did not quite smile. But there was something like it—quiet, thoughtful, and filled with awe.

  For in that moment, he understood: the future of the House of Avalon would reach far beyond anything he had yet imagined.

  And so he sat—silent, astonished—while the dusk deepened, and the old stones of the citadel seemed to listen.

  …

  When he had the bell rung, both men came swiftly. The steward, Baelric, still bore the look of a man half-recovered from shame and illness; the treasurer, Odran, grave and deliberate as ever, carried a small ledger pressed tight to his chest. They entered the lord’s solar together and bowed deeply.

  Lord Eldric did not rise. He sat upon the couch where the letters still lay scattered, the light from the tall windows paling over his shoulders. His hands were clasped loosely before him, and when he spoke, his tone was almost gentle.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “let us talk salt.”

  The words hung in the air, weighty yet straightforward. Odran’s eyes flickered toward the papers, then back to his lord. Baelric hesitated, uncertain whether it was command or accusation.

  Eldric gestured toward the chair across from him. “Sit—both of you. Tell me what you know of the salt cost, mines, the traders, the transport, and the taxes. Tell me everything, and speak plainly.”

  They obeyed. The steward began first, haltingly, tracing routes and duties, naming agents and markets. The treasurer followed, opening his ledger to confirm figures, murmuring as he turned each page. The quiet scratch of parchment filled the room.

  Eldric listened without interruption, his gaze shifting only once—to the letter he placed down on his desk. When they had finished, he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

  “You have served long,” he said quietly, “and well. We will investigate the Salt trade more, and I will search for a mine in our territory.”

  Odran bowed his head. Baelric’s throat worked, but no sound came. They now understood that his lordship was searching for a way to fund the tax, but they knew no salt mine existed in Avalon. Only the salt harvested from the Blue Coast, briny and of low quality.

  …

  Lady Seraphine descended the back stairs herself, her hand brushing the worn banister polished by a hundred years of service. The air grew warmer as she went, fragrant with the scent of broth and fresh bread. From the last landing, she could already hear the bustling cadence of the kitchens—the clang of copper pots, the soft thud of kneaded dough, the hum of voices bent to their work.

  The head cook looked up in astonishment as her ladyship entered. She was a stout, red-faced woman with sleeves rolled high and flour on her apron. “My lady?” she said, wiping her hands hastily on a cloth.

  Seraphine smiled faintly and beckoned her closer, drawing a folded letter from her sleeve. “I have something for you,” she said. “A letter. Before I give it—tell me, you can read, yes?”

  The woman nodded, a touch defensively. “Well enough, my lady.”

  “Forgive the hand,” Seraphine said, offering the parchment. “My son has not yet relearned a proper script. He wrote this himself.”

  The cook’s breath caught as her eyes fell upon the seal. “From Caelen?” she whispered, clutching the letter to her chest.

  Seraphine’s smile softened. “Yes. He has asked you to bake a gift for his sister.”

  The woman broke the seal with trembling fingers and unfolded the note. It was brief, almost absurdly so. “Oatmeal. Raisins. Butter. Flour, Pinch of salt. Molasses…” She frowned. “Molasses?”

  Seraphine lifted the small clay jar wrapped in linen and placed it in her hands. “I believe that is in this.”

  The cook’s face brightened instantly.

  “For Lisette’s tea party,” Seraphine said, turning to go. “Though by the time you finish, it will be near the end. Still—make plenty. For myself and for Lord Eldric.”

  The cook’s eyes gleamed. “Of course, my lady!”

  She spun on her heel, shouting orders into the din. “Raisins from the storehouse! Oats—two sacks! Flat pans, and stoke the oven! Quickly now!”

  And as the kitchen burst into motion, and for the first time, the scent of sweet molasses began to rise, curling up through the stone halls toward the light of Avalon City.

  …

  The inner garden of Avalon was a riot of color that afternoon—late blooms bending beneath the soft gold of the sun, and a round table set beneath the carved arch of a stone trellis.

  Lisette presided over it like a young queen. Her hair had been loosed from its ribbons three times already, and her laughter had carried halfway across the courtyard twice. Beside her sat her guests—Mira of House Vellin, tall and freckled, with a grin too wide for her face, and Alina of the Frostmarch, pale and timid but with a spark of mischief that grew each time Lisette said something outrageous.

  “I declare,” Lisette announced, holding her teacup aloft, “that if ever I marry, it will not be to a dull man. I would rather wed a poet, or perhaps a knight who loses every battle but looks magnificent doing it!”

  Mira snorted into her cup. “You’d have to feed him, Lisette!”

  “Then he shall eat cake and praise me for it,” Lisette said solemnly, before collapsing into another burst of giggling that left all three girls breathless.

  Their voices rose and fell like birdsong—mock arguments about gowns, scandalous speculation about the visiting northern boys, and fits of giggles that made the servants exchanging tea refills shake their heads fondly.

  But as the light began to fade and the air cooled, Lisette’s joy dimmed. The steward’s shadow stretched across the threshold of the garden door, and his hand reached for the latch. Already? she thought. It cannot be over yet!

  Then, to her surprise, another figure appeared behind him—the cook, red-cheeked and smiling, carrying a silver tray draped in linen.

  “What is this?” Lisette demanded, sitting forward eagerly. Mira and Alina leaned in, eyes bright with curiosity.

  The cook bowed slightly. “A gift for your tea, my lady. Sent by Caelen.”

  Lisette’s eyes widened. “Caelen? Is he here? Is he here?”

  The other girls exchanged looks of sympathy—they knew her brother’s name, and that he was long for recovery.

  “No, my lady,” the cook said gently. “He sent a recipe.”

  “A recipe?” Lisette repeated, baffled.

  The cook set the tray down with a flourish. “If my lady permits… I will serve you.”

  Lisette’s grin bloomed like dawn. “You may!” she declared, sitting straighter, though her legs bounced beneath the table.

  The cloth was lifted—and the aroma drifted out, warm and rich: butter, oats, sweet raisin, and something profound and new. Brown, round, and faintly crisp at the edges.

  “What are these?” Lisette asked.

  “Oatmeal, raisin, molasses cookies,” said the cook proudly. “Small, crispy cakes—if you will.”

  The girls needed no further invitation. The first bite silenced them; the second brought laughter and wide-eyed delight. “It’s sweet!” Mira gasped. “Sweet and strange!” Alina nodded, crumbs dusting her chin.

  Soon the plate was empty, the laughter louder, and the garden filled with the sounds of joy—pure and unrestrained.

  As the cook departed, she slipped one last cookie from her apron pocket and, remembering the letter’s odd postscript, placed it on the windowsill near the ivy. She didn’t question it. If the boy had asked for it, then it would be done.

  By the time she crossed the archway, the cookie was gone—crumbs scattered, as if something small and unseen had nibbled it to nothing.

  …

  The lamps in the council antechamber burned low, throwing long shadows across the inlaid floor. Beyond the windows, the Citadel slept, its towers dim and watchful under the moon.

  Lord Eldric sat beside the hearth, still in his coat from the day, one hand resting on a folded letter. Opposite him stood Lord Luceron of Litus Solis—the Sea Lord, the keeper of the southern march. His cloak smelled faintly of salt and candle smoke, and his expression was that of a man already tired of bad news.

  “You said you had word,” Luceron murmured.

  Eldric inclined his head. “From my son. He’s taken up residence in Gloamhollow.”

  For a heartbeat, Luceron said nothing. Then his face tightened, and he let out a low breath. “That place?” he said. “Eldric, that is a cursed hollow. Not fit for man or beast—or even the dregs that call themselves pirates. Nothing grows there but whispers.”

  “I know,” Eldric replied quietly. “But he found something there.”

  Luceron’s gaze sharpened. “Valuable?”

  Eldric gave the faintest shrug, as if to dismiss the word. “Enough to be worth silence.”

  Luceron studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “I’ll not pry. But what do you mean to do?”

  “The White Company is being sent,” Eldric said. “They’ll take up residence with him. Keep a perimeter, discreetly. He’ll continue his work.”

  Luceron frowned. “Should I speak with my son? Have a few of the City Guard ride north, lend hands?”

  “No.” Eldric’s tone hardened. “Keep it quiet. No one outside Avalon is to hear of it. Even you—and your son—must stay clear. Whatever Gloamhollow holds, it must sleep in shadow for now.”

  Luceron’s eyes narrowed. “You think it’s tied to the southern roads.”

  “I think,” Eldric said slowly, “he’s already begun something there. And if he has, it will change more than trade routes.”

  A silence stretched. The fire hissed softly.

  At last, Eldric rose. “After I meet with the Crown Prince, I’ll go myself. We’ll speak of taxes and laws then. But this—this must remain between us.”

  Luceron gave a grim nod. “Then the sea will keep its silence, old friend.”

  And the two lords parted, their footsteps fading like conspirators into the sleeping stone of Avalon.