My Dearest Nessa,
It has been two weeks since you left, and I must confess — Solara feels unbearably dull without your laughter echoing through its halls. The mornings are quieter, though I still find myself turning toward the door expecting you to appear, draped in crimson and mischief.
The council remains insufferable, of course. Every man in that room seems to believe he knows better than a queen who has been running this kingdom since before he learned to sign his own name. And as if their endless droning weren't enough, Caelen has decided that now is the time to rediscover his charm.
He's been trying so hard to impress me lately — arriving at council in his finest attire, offering me sunfruit blossoms as if we're still courting. I suppose he thinks I've forgotten the months of silence, the chill of an empty bed. Maris, naturally, follows him everywhere like a loyal little moon orbiting her star, offering smiles too sweet to be sincere. I've mastered the art of smiling back without a word.
You'd laugh, Nessa — I can hear you already, that deep, rich sound that used to curl around my heart like warmth after rain.
Still, not all has been dreadful. I've decided to reclaim a few pieces of myself. I've begun hosting my tea gatherings again — the same ones I abandoned years ago when duty swallowed me whole. My old friends were delighted, and the gardens have never smelled so alive.
I've taken to painting again, too — though my subjects seem to always turn out with green hair and violet eyes. Curious, isn't it?
The palace gossip is that the Queen has found her smile again. They're not wrong. But if they knew why I smile now, I imagine half the court would faint, and the other half would wish to be so lucky.
Solara thrives, and I do my best to shine as its symbol. But when night falls, and I find myself alone beneath the stars, I can't help but wish those stars would part — just enough for a shadow to slip through.
Until then, my Nessa, know that every dawn I greet, I do so with the hope that it will bring you closer to me again.
Ever yours,
Tali
My Sun, My Tali,
Your letter reached me three nights ago, carried by a Solaran courier who looked as if he'd never seen so much darkness in his life. He nearly fainted when the gates of Obsidara opened — though I suppose molten rivers and black towers can be… intimidating to those born of gold and gardens.
I've read your letter every night since. Sometimes twice. It still smells faintly of sunfruit and lilies — you, in every sense.
You would laugh to see me here, seated on the balcony of my study, surrounded by documents and council decrees, trying to look as if I'm thinking of trade agreements when all I can picture is your smile. My generals think I'm distracted by Gravemere's posturing. If only they knew the truth — that I am undone not by war, but by a woman made of sunlight.
Things in Noctyra are steady. The border holds strong, and the alliance is being met with more hope than I dared expect. Even the old lords, who once sneered at the name Solara, are beginning to call it "the realm of our allies" instead of "the realm of our enemies." Progress, I suppose, moves faster than pride.
Mother, of course, knows everything. She always does. She told me to stop pretending diplomacy is the only reason I write to you. Then, after a long silence, she smiled — that small, knowing smile she wears when she sees her daughter happy — and said, "Perhaps the sun has always belonged to the shadows."
I think she approves, Tali. Truly.
I miss you more than I can admit aloud. My bed feels too vast, the nights too long. I still find traces of Solara in my dreams — the scent of marigold baths, the softness of your laughter, the way your magic felt when it brushed against mine. I think I understand now what my ancestors meant when they said light and shadow were never meant to live apart.
You write that Caelen is trying to charm you again. Let him try, my love. Let him reach for what he no longer deserves. You were never a prize for him to win — only a kingdom he was allowed to borrow.
You are the Sun itself.
And when I return, I will make certain everyone remembers who it truly belongs to.
Until then, hold fast to your warmth, and keep shining — even if it burns those who cannot bear your light.
Always yours,
Rhenessa