The lesson had dragged long into the afternoon, all ink-stained fingers and cramped notes. Chalk dust still clung to my sleeves as we spilled out of the classroom with the others, our voices low, heads thrumming with theory none of us had fully grasped.
The corridors hummed with that restless energy, a faint hum of magic leaking from tired bodies. Stray sparks that curled from sleeves, whispers of wind lifting loose papers, the tang of ozone threading through the air. Apprentices eager to be free, eager for something beyond pages and diagrams.
I wasn't. Not really.
My head still spun with too much. The earthy scent of the training grounds still clung to me, tangled with the memory of Liana's tentative smile when she'd lingered beside me. The nobles' sharp words in the dining hall, the way Amara had smiled at Rosalind as though she already belonged at her side, still left me unsettled. It all clung to me like smoke. I felt stretched thin, worn raw by too many moments in too few days, and still the Academy pressed more upon us.
Rosalind, though… she looked untouched by any of it. Her stride never faltered, her back held straight, her eyes moving over the crowd without settling. Where I carried every moment like stones in my chest, she carried nothing on the surface. Her mouth held that faint, practiced curve that never quite became a smile, her lashes lowered just enough to shadow her eyes so I couldn't quite read where her thoughts went. If her fingers strained against her skirts, she gave no sign.
I couldn't tell if she was at peace or simply refusing to let anyone see the storm inside.
Before, I could always read her, small tells in her posture, in her hands, in the way her silence shifted. But here, since the Academy, it was different. A wall had risen between us. I knew she liked to do things on her own, to keep me from worrying, but still… I wanted to be there for her. And it ached, knowing she wouldn't let me.
And I wondered, not for the first time, what it cost her to seem so composed when I felt so frayed.
"Did you—" I didn't even know what I meant to ask. Something small about the lesson, the way the steward's words still rattled in my head, or even just to ask if she was tired too.
Anything at all, just to make her look at me the way she used to.
Anything at all, just to hear her answer.
But the noise came first. The sudden swell of voices ahead, apprentices crowding near the dormitory hall. My words broke off, left unfinished, as we turned the corner and the crowd came into view.
Near the dormitory hall, a desk had been set up. Stacks of parchment, scrolls rolled tight with red string, a ledger open beside them. A senior apprentice stood behind it, his voice carrying over the chatter.
"Letters are recorded to your name," the apprentice explained to the cluster that gathered. His robes brushed the stone as he shifted, long fingers tapping the ledger. A faint glow stirred in the lines of ink where he touched, the wards reacting to his presence. The steward nodded once, as if to affirm the truth of it. "No need to bring coin. The Academy deducts directly from your stipend. Postage, seals, courier. Handled by the scribes. You write, you sign, you submit. Simple."
He reached for one of the scrolls and lifted it high enough for us to see the crimson wax pressed at its end. A glimmer of warmth shimmered through the diamond shaped seal, enclosing four simple glyphs, one at each corner — a tongue of flame, a curling wave, a jagged peak, a spiral gust. At its center, a four-pointed star cut the wax into quarters, binding the shapes together like a compass. For a heartbeat it seemed to pulse faintly, as though the whole design breathed.
Gasps stirred around me, apprentices craning for a better look, but my breath stayed caught in my chest. It was so small, no larger than a coin, and yet it carried the weight of the Academy itself. A single seal that could cross miles, find its way into a parent's hand, declare to the world that we belonged here.
Their faces lit with pride at the sight of it, but my stomach tightened. To them it was proof. To me it felt heavier, more fragile. A promise pressed into wax that someone on the other side would read my words, and care enough to answer.
"Every apprentice receives the Academy's seal for their letters. A mark of prestige," he said smoothly, his thumb brushing the impression. "Use it well. Your families will know where you write from, and that the Academy itself has sanctioned it."
At the corner of the desk stood a small stand of quills and bottles of ink, each stoppered with glass beads that glimmered faintly, catching and holding the torchlight. A faint draught stirred the quills, as though the ink itself breathed. The air smelled sharp of iron gall and faintly of smoke, as though magic lingered in the liquid. "You'll have your own ink and quill in your dormitories," the senior added, "but these are provided should you wish to begin now."
He gestured last to a rune-etched box at the desk's edge. Faint blue light flickered across its surface, humming with quiet authority, making the hair on my arms prickle. "Once sealed, place your letter here. The ledger will confirm the charge."
At once, apprentices pressed forward. Fingers brushed parchment and wax like treasures, voices tumbling over one another as they imagined what to write, who to impress, how their parents would react when the Academy's crest arrived at their doors.
"Father will mount it in his study," one boy laughed, already tucking parchment under his arm. "First letter from the Academy's halls."
"My sisters will swoon when they see the seal," another girl whispered, her grin wide. "I'll write the moment I return to my dorm."
"Wait until my uncle sees this," a third muttered with a smirk. "He'll have to admit I belong here after all."
Their excitement washed over me, each word bright with longing, with certainty that their letters would be read, cherished, answered. The certainty scratched at something inside me.
And then the present slipped away. The hall, the voices, even the weight of parchment vanished, until I was five again — the world smaller, brighter, the afternoon sun warm against my shoulders.
✧
I had run across the room with it, the crown in both hands, my breath quick with excitement.
My hands smelled faintly of grass and crushed stems, small fingers clumsy as I held out what I'd made. A crown of pressed flowers, their colors already fading at the edges.
"Look, Father," I'd said, my voice bright, in the way only children could be. "I made it for you."
He had glanced down from his desk, quill still poised above the open ledger. A fleeting smile touched his mouth as he leaned just enough to let me place the crown on his head. "Very fine, Flora," he murmured, his voice more distracted than warm.
For a moment, pride spread golden in my chest. But then he turned back, quill scratching across parchment, shoulders already angled away. The crown slipped slightly askew as he bent over his work, the smile gone as quickly as it had come.
The sunlight dulled, felt colder. A cloud passed over the day.
I stood there staring at him, then at the flowers, their petals trembling in my hands as I took them back. The ache was sharp and shapeless all at once. Somehow, even then, I understood what it meant to be looked at without being seen.
✧
I lingered at the edge, listening. My throat felt tight, the air suddenly too thick.
Rosalind didn't move. She stood a little apart, her shadow long against the stone floor, her hands perfectly still at her sides. Only the faintest twitch of her fingers betrayed her restraint, like the fire under her skin was pressing to be used, to reach, to burn. Her face was calm, composed in the way it always was when she refused to let anyone see the truth. But I knew her stillness wasn't indifference. It was distance.
The longer I watched, the more the air pressed heavy in my chest with ache.
I forced myself forward. My hand reached, careful, as though even parchment might burn. The stack shifted beneath my fingers, smooth sheets rasping together in a sound far too loud in my ears. One, two, three… enough for myself. My hand lingered, caught on the edge of the fourth. What if my father didn't answer? What if my stepmother smiled politely and tucked it away, unread? What if no one had the time to care?
Letters meant answers, meant proof I mattered. But what if no one answered at all?
The thought hollowed me, but I reached again. The breath in my throat stuck, heavy with dread. Then I pulled two more, tucking them beneath the rest like a secret I wasn't supposed to keep. For Rosalind. For the words she would never give herself permission to write.
When I turned back, Rosalind's eyes caught mine. They lingered, unblinking, following the edge of the parchment in my hands before lifting slowly to my face. Faint lift of her brows angled the shape of it, not surprise exactly, but quiet acknowledgment, as though she had already guessed what I'd done. For a breath her mouth softened, the curve easing, a hint of something warmer. Almost a smile, before she tilted her head the smallest degree. Not dismissal, not approval, but the kind of look that said without words: it doesn't matter, but thank you.
Though I knew it did, even if she wanted to look unbothered to anyone but me.
So I held the parchment tighter. For her.
We said nothing more until we reached our dormitory. The lamps had been lit, their glow pooling gold against the stone, and the scent of chalk and ink still clung to my sleeves. I set the stack of parchment down carefully on the small table between our beds, smoothing the edges with my palm as though it needed taming.
"I might have taken too much," I murmured, my voice low. "In case you wanted to write." The words slipped out softer than I meant, carrying the thought I hadn't dared to say aloud in the hall: because I know you won't reach for them yourself, and I can't stand the thought of you having nothing if you did.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her hand twitch against her skirt, just once. Small, sharp, like she'd already known but hadn't wanted it named aloud. Silence stretched for a moment, so taut it almost hurt.
Then she exhaled, barely audible, and her head dipped the slightest degree. "I know. Thank you."
Her voice was quiet, but not smooth. It caught faintly on the edges, like the words had been dragged across old wounds before reaching me. For a moment, the walls she kept so carefully built seemed thinner, and I saw the ache beneath them.
It felt like the sun broke through again.
Something swelled in my chest. Relief, fierce and fragile all at once. Not because she thanked me, but because she hadn't shut me out. Not this time.
Even if only for me, even if only for a moment, it was enough.
I touched the top sheet with my fingertips, the promise of ink and words waiting, though I knew most of mine might never be answered. Still, the gesture mattered. Even silence deserves a page.
"Anytime," I whispered, the syllables trembling like a vow in the lamplight.
The lamplight flickered, catching her profile in gold and shadow. She didn't look at me, not fully, but I thought I saw the corner of her mouth soften, as if the words had reached her anyway.
I held on to that, the way I held on to the parchment, fragile and unyielding, both of them proof that I would not let her stand alone. Not now. Not ever.
Even if the world forgot her, I wouldn't.