Chapter 57: _ My Father’s Letter

"Look at you, walking like the palace is on fire," a warm voice scolded from the archway ahead.

I came to a sudden halt.

Wardmother Olda stood near the foot of the sweeping staircase, holding a heavy silver tray laden with hot chamomile tea and fresh honey cakes.

She was small, wrapped in thick wool despite the indoor warmth, her graying hair pinned up in a bun.

Olda was technically a servant, brought from the Dragon Realm to manage our quarters. But to me, she was far more than that. After my mother died and my life dissolved into blood, secrets, and harsh political expectations, Olda was the only person who treated me like a boy instead of a weapon.

She had bandaged my knuckles when I trained until my skin tore, forced me to eat when I went days without appetite, and held me when the nightmare illusions of my mother’s death overwhelmed my sleep.

She was the closest thing to a mother I had left in this world.

"Olda," I softened my tone, stepping forward to take the heavy tray out of her frail hands before she could strain herself. "You shouldn’t be carrying this. Where are the footmen?"

"Oh, those lazy boys would drop the cups before they reached the second floor," she huffed, dusting off her apron with a fond look in her eyes.

She pinched my jaw gently... a gesture that would have gotten anyone else in the realm executed on the spot. "Look at you. Covered in soot and dragon scales, wearing a tunic that costs more than a village. How was the ball, my boy?"

"Suffocating. Drunk heirs, loud music, and unnecessary drama." I admitted honestly, setting the tray down on a nearby side table.

"Ah, the burden of being young and miserable," Olda chuckled, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

She smoothed down the lapels of my tunic, her old eyes scanning my face. "And? Did any young lady manage to catch your eye tonight? Or did you stand in the corner looking like a rain-soaked gargoyle as usual?"

I brushed a hand back through my silver braids, exhaling. "Olda, you ask me this after every single court gathering."

"Because I’m old, Remus! And I want to see you smile at someone who isn’t a four-ton lizard before I go meet the Ancestors," she snapped playfully, tapping my chest with her wooden spoon. "You can’t keep ignoring females forever. You are the Heir to the Dragon Throne. Eventually, you will have to pick one. The court demands a Queen, Remus."

"The court demands too much," I muttered.

She stared up at me. "You carry the weight of the whole realm on your shoulders, child. You deserve a little warmth. Is there truly no girl in that vast academy who pleases your eyes?"

I looked down at her weathered face. The temptation to keep up my usual cold wall was strong, but Olda had spent eight years watching me suffer in silence. And for some reason, this burden of Elira... it became the first one in my entire life that I couldn’t keep bottling inside.

I had spent eight years swallowing every question, nightmare, and suspicion surrounding my mother and the girl I’d never stopped searching for. I had learned to carry secrets until they became indistinguishable from my bones.

But Elira was different. Thinking of her made silence feel unbearable. Perhaps because, for the first time, I wasn’t afraid of what the truth would do to me. I was afraid of what would happen to her if I kept pretending I didn’t care.

And thus, I leaned down, bringing my lips close to Olda’s ear, and whispered:

"Actually, Olda... I finally found one who pleases my eyes when I look at her."

Olda gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Remus! You mean it?! By the Flame God, who–"

"Remus! What are you whispering to Olda?!" A shrill voice cut through the hall.

I turned my head to see Vaela sweeping down the upper landing with her nightgown dragging behind her. She had a suspicious and jealous glare fixed directly on us.

"Nothing for you to worry about, Vaela," Olda called back, shifting her posture back to that of the stern Wardmother. "I was merely scolding your brother for dragging dragon dirt into my clean corridors."

"It didn’t look like scolding. You two were whispering! Remus, what were you telling her? Why are you hiding things from me?" Vaela snapped, her eyes narrowing as she picked up her skirt and started marching down the steps toward us.

The possessive edge in her tone made my jaw tighten. I couldn’t do this right now. Not with Vaela’s dangerous fixation, and certainly not with my father’s letter burning a hole in my pocket.

"I have work to finish, Olda. Goodnight," I said quickly, giving the old woman a quick squeeze on her arm.

Before Vaela could reach the bottom landing, I spun on my heel and took the private corridor toward my study at a rapid pace, ignoring Vaela’s calls behind me.

"Remus! Wait! I’m coming with you!"

I reached my doors, stepped inside, and slammed them shut, throwing the iron deadbolt before her hand could even touch the brass knob. A second later, her muffled knocks rattled the wood.

"Remus! Open the door! Why are you locking me out?!"

"I am working, Vaela," I shouted back, keeping my tone stern. "Go to sleep."

She stomped her foot on the stone outside, muttered a bitter curse, and finally, her footsteps faded down the hall.

Silence returned to the room.

I let out a long, shuddering breath, leaning my back against the locked door. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across my painting easels and book-lined walls.

I pulled the black-sealed letter from my tunic.

With a quick flick of my wrist, I broke the remaining wax and unrolled the parchment. My father’s authoritative handwriting filled the page. But as my eyes scanned the lines, the cold dread in my chest transformed into pure shock.

My father hadn’t sent an update on academy politics. He had let me in on a top-secret royal intelligence report.

Remus, the letter read.