It had been a fortnight since I returned to Caerthrone. After spending a week in Belwyth, Kaelen was to ride ahead to Helieth and Roltier. He suggested I travel back to Caerthrone in the meantime. Since I had no real purpose accompanying him on the campaign, I agreed.
Now I sat in Kaelen's official chambers, sorting through all the administrative affairs—letters to dignitaries, castle expenses, troop logistics, and more. I was used to this sort of work at Dresdened Castle, but Aureliath had far more responsibilities. The paperwork alone could swallow an entire day.
As if that wasn't enough, I had taken it upon myself to organize the old scrolls and parchments. They were in utter disarray, and I couldn't sit by knowing they were in such a state.
"You know you're basically punishing us for something we didn't even do," Emelia huffed as she dropped the last stack of scrolls onto my desk.
"Punishing you? If that were the case, you'd be in a dungeon, not here," I said, opening a scroll. "This one, again, should be with last year's documents. How did anyone find anything without a system?"
"I'd honestly prefer the dungeons," she muttered under her breath.
I ignored her, continuing to sort through the parchments.
"When most people miss someone, they write letters or stare wistfully out the window," she said. "They don't reorganize ancient scrolls."
"They weren't organized to begin with. And for the last time, I don't miss him."
Liar, a voiced scolded from within.
"Denial keeps you walking in circles. Acceptance leads you down a straight path," Emelia recited, mimicking the tone of some wise old sage.
"Can I please have some tea? Or is that too much to ask?" I deflected.
"If it means getting away from these scrolls, I'll bring you a whole barrel," she said with a grin. I glared at her.
I continued sorting, placing scrolls in piles according to the year they were written. I was nearly finished when I opened a brittle one—likely from the early days of the revolution.
List of the dead.
I froze, my eyes scanning the names. It was a record of those killed during the uprising's first days. Among the first listed were Orin's parents, also Craven's wife and children. I quickly rolled the scroll shut, unwilling to read more.
Even as I placed the last scroll on the shelf, I felt no sense of accomplishment. Just an too familiar weight pressing down on my chest.
I was the cause of the revolution
And all of these deaths
That day, when Grandfather sent Orin and his parents to the gallows—that was the final straw that broke the camel's back. The crowd erupted into riots. The guards, trying to control the chaos, drew their swords. Blood followed. That spark became a wildfire that consumed the House of Starwyn.
The people stormed the castle. My parents, Saelow, and I barely escaped. They found my grandfather. He was beaten, paraded through the streets, and finally hanged from the same gallows where he'd once condemned others just days before.
All of it—because of me.
Because I stole food for the gardener's sickly son.
My feet moved before my thoughts caught up with them. Soon I stood before the ruins of the old Starwyn castle. Two guards shadowed me.
"I wish to go in alone," I said.
"My Queen, it's not safe," one of them warned.
"I'll be careful," I replied, already stepping inside.
The grand foyer, once vibrant with life—maids rushing past, butlers bowing—was silent. The great chandelier that had once gleamed above was now a mangled heap on the floor. Torn parchment and debris replaced the fresh flowers that used to fill the corners with color and fragrance.
I ascended the grand staircase. Its velvet carpet runner, once plush beneath my feet, was long stripped away. I walked the corridor to my grandfather's suite first. The walls were bare, the furniture shattered. The doors torn off their hinges laying on the floor. At some point, a fire had swept through—half the room was blackened with soot.
In my parents' suite, only the charred frame of their bed remained in a corner. Emptiness filled the space. Emptiness filled me.
Saelow's room was worse. The door gone entirely. His desk—once neatly arranged with books and maps—now tilted against the wall, two legs missing. His chair lay broken in half. His belongings smashed beyond recognition.
I stepped back, throat tightening. My vision blurred with tears. A ringing grew in my ears.
What if we hadn't escaped?
What would have happened to us?
I turned toward the one place I hadn't yet gone. My own room.
I opened the door.
It was dark. Strange. My room had always been filled with light. I noticed the curtains—though sagging—still hung from the rods. I pulled them open.
And gasped.
It was as though time had stopped.
Dust coated everything, but the room was untouched. My great-great-aunt's portrait of when she was a toddler still hung by the door taking up most of the wall—the one I insisted be placed in my room because she looked like a doll. Grandfather had grumbled about how large it was, but relented, saying, "What my little Nyriane wants, she gets."
My study table still stood against the wall. My practice sword leaned where I'd left it. The bed, the wallpaper, even my toys—all exactly where I'd left them.
And there she was.
Annabelle.
My doll lay on her side, right where I'd set her down in a rush, planning to grab her before we fled. But in the chaos—I forgot.
I picked her up. Her hair was a little tangled, but otherwise, she was the same.
I hugged her tightly, tears spilling freely.
Why?
Why did they leave my room untouched?
I looked around, desperate for an answer. But the silence offered none.
Just dust.
And memories.
And grief.
I placed Annabelle back on the bed. And quietly left.