Queen Silvania waved with her hand held high, wearing an impeccable smile as the carriage slowly moved down the main avenue. Everything was ready for the people's jubilation: banners waved high on the towers, the city bells rang ceaselessly, and the balconies were decked out with flowers and golden ribbons. The parade commemorated a costly victory, but the people saw no wounds, only the gleaming facade of triumph.
She wore a simple outfit, carefully chosen to appear close to the people, though the exquisite details of pearls and silver thread embroidery betrayed her royalty in every stitch. Her coppery hair was gathered in an elaborate braid, intertwined with tiny gems and silver, a symbol of her rank and mettle.
Beside her, her daughter Eleanor Wilfrost, barely fourteen years old, mimicked her with a shy smile, her back straight and her face torn between childish pride and nervousness. She followed her mother's movements, rehearsed and majestic, as if they were choreography she was still learning.
As the carriage slowly crossed the imperial avenue, entire families came out of their homes to throw flower petals. They crowded the sidewalks, climbed walls and rooftops to see their queen pass. Behind the carriage, a long column of royal guard riders brought up the rear, impeccable in their dress uniforms, banners held high in the wind.
The parade marked the beginning of five days of celebrations. Once the queen and princess entered the palace, a second, more popular parade began: street artists, jugglers, troubadours, musicians from the University of Scabia. In the great market square, food stalls and fairs opened at dawn and did not close until well into the early morning.
But behind the facade of jubilation, Silvania carried a burden she could not share.
Once in her study, away from the sight of the public and courtiers, the queen sank onto a divan. She took off her shoes and stretched her toes with a deep sigh, for an instant unconcerned with decorum.
"Mother… if someone comes in, it could ruin your image," observed Eleanor, who entered after her with careful steps.
"Who's going to come now? They're all busy celebrating as if the world were safe," Silvania replied, closing her eyes for a moment.
"You don't look happy, mother."
Silvania looked at her with tenderness, though a shadow appeared in her expression. She leaned back against the divan, with a slowness that was not feigned.
"It's nothing, my dear. Or… perhaps it is. Sometimes queens must make decisions they would rather avoid, and that is a burden that is not always shared."
A knock came at the door. A guard appeared instantly.
"Your Majesty, Advisor Edictus has answered your call."
"Send him in," she said immediately.
"Mother, your shoes!" Eleanor whispered, scandalized.
Silvania didn't flinch. When Edictus entered, he found her barefoot and her hair slightly ruffled by the wind from the procession.
He wore his usual tunic of golden brocade and a high collar. His short hair was precisely styled, and his face was stern, with his jaw always tense as if suppressing unsolicited judgments. He walked like one accustomed to being given way even before he arrived.
"Your Majesty. Princess Eleanor." He bowed slightly, then took a seat without being invited. No one would stop him.
"I held this absurd festival as you suggested," Silvania said, without mincing words.
"The members of the Witan also considered it necessary," Edictus replied, settling into the armchair. "It was essential to show the people the victory. Now they will pay the new tributes convinced that their sacrifice has meaning."
Outside, the winter sun filtered through the windows. Despite the season, the sky was clear, as if the weather had also called a truce for the occasion.
"I care more that those who fought receive what they deserve," Silvania retorted. "To compensate the families, strengthen the defenses, support the magic towers. We know their contribution was decisive."
"Especially ours, Majesty," Edictus added, with a barely-there smile.
Eleanor watched them in silence, registering every word with the attention of someone who still doesn't know how much they weigh.
"I heard your apprentice survived. But he hasn't answered my letter," Silvania said, squinting. "Do you know anything about him?"
"One of my mages brought a missive. Dyan requested to remain in Glacius until he recovers. He must be severely affected not to have returned yet. His training would have allowed him to travel even if he were injured."
"You don't seem very interested in his condition," Silvania reproached him, frowning.
"It's not a lack of interest. He fulfilled his duty. He will return when he is ready. We should not grow fond of what was trained to serve, not to depend on."
The words fell like a bucket of ice water. Eleanor looked away, visibly uncomfortable.
"You are the closest thing to a father he has. You could speak with a little more humanity," Silvania said, with a hint of contained anger.
Edictus smiled, almost with pity.
"Father? With all due respect, Majesty, that is an exaggeration. He is my apprentice, nothing more. He was trained by several masters, not just me. We don't have that kind of bond. I respect him, without a doubt. But mages are not for personal connections."
"And I must simply wait? Ignore that Captain Lena's report says he was left blind, with burns, that he can barely walk, barely speak? And that doesn't move you?"
"Do not underestimate him. Dyan is strong. And he is well cared for. Bringing him to the palace will not give him better odds. Our mages have already done everything possible. The rest is up to him."
Silvania looked down. She pressed her fingers into her palm.
"Then why do I feel so miserable about this?"
"Do not blame yourself, Majesty. The boy will return."
Silvania exchanged a glance with her daughter. In that instant, they both felt the same thing: that passivity was a cruel form of abandonment.
"Edictus," she said in a firm voice. "I will pray for his return, but if he does not come back soon, if something happens to him while you ask me for patience, you will bear that guilt. And may the gods forbid the northerners to return before he is ready. Because we will need him."
"He is well cared for," Edictus repeated with unperturbed calm. "That's what his letter said."
"He lied to you. He didn't want you to see his fragility. Lena had no such qualms. Her report doesn't let me sleep." She pulled on her shoes with a tug. "If something happens to him, Edictus, it will not be he who has failed… it will be us."
The Archmage did not respond. He remained motionless, impassive, as if he already knew that in wars, even the won ones, there are always victims who are left out of the parade.
Dinner was taking place in a side hall of the east wing of the palace, away from the hustle of the servants and the discussions of the lords. A small, round table, just for two people, occupied the center of the room. The candles cast soft shadows on the stone walls, and the aroma of the game stew mixed with that of freshly baked bread.
Eleanor slowly cut a piece of bread, more out of habit than hunger. Her gaze was fixed on the tablecloth, and her knife drew invisible patterns on the surface. Silvania, sitting opposite, watched her in silence, letting the quiet settle between them like a third diner.
"Mother…" Eleanor finally asked, in a low voice. "What is really happening?"
Silvania carefully placed her spoon on the edge of the bowl. Her gesture was serene, but her eyes betrayed a slight flicker of unease.
"What do you mean, my dear?"
Eleanor looked up. Her clear eyes, still young but sharp, fixed on Silvania's.
"Don't talk to me as if I were ten. What really happened in the north? No one tells me the details, they just talk about a victory, but if that were the case you wouldn't be so downcast. Who is this Dyan? Why are you so worried about him? Why is no one being clear?"
Silvania leaned forward, lacing her hands on the tablecloth. She was a woman of solemn bearing even in intimacy, but there was something maternal in her gaze this time, a patience woven with concern.
"Sometimes silence is not a lie," she said softly. "It's a form of protection. You heard what happened to him, but I wouldn't want to say how it happened, because only those who were there could tell you."
Eleanor frowned.
"Protect whom?"
Silvania sighed. Her voice, when she replied, was lower.
"Those who are still learning to carry the weight of the world. Those who still have a clean heart."
"And you think that describes me?"
"Still, yes. That's why I don't want you to run towards the shadows just because you glimpse them. Everything in its own time, Eleanor. Soon you will know more than you wish."
The young woman looked down, but her jaw remained tense.
"I don't like that you suffer alone. I want to be of help to you, mother." Eleanor hesitated. "Besides… you seem to be afraid of something."
"I'm not afraid." Silvania smiled with a sad undertone. "Only guilty."
Eleanor swallowed. The stew had grown cold on her plate. Suddenly, dinner seemed less important than all that was unsaid.
"Is there anything I can do?"
Silvania reached out and caressed her fingers.
"Yes. Keep learning to lead. And listen more than you speak. That will be enough."
Eleanor nodded, although there were still questions in her eyes. She poured herself some water, and in the silence that settled again, she understood that she would not have all the answers that night. But perhaps, she thought, she was already beginning to understand the right questions.
At dusk, Silvania sat at the small desk in her room. She took out a parchment and, after dipping her quill in ink, began to write once again, with a painful urgency:
To the attention of Dyan Halvest, apprentice of Edictus and servant of the Kingdom,
Perhaps it was a mistake to write to you directly. Maybe I didn't underestimate your wounds, but simply that you couldn't read my letter because of them. That possibility—as Lena has told me—has begun to unsettle me persistently. Therefore, I have addressed this new letter to her, hoping she can read it for you.
I have no certainties about your condition, and that ignorance weighs on me. It distresses me not to know how serious your wounds are, how much pain you face, how you really are. You are too young to bear such a cruel fate… and yet it was I who sent you to the front line. Forgive me for that. Forgive me also because, if necessity demands it, I know I will do it again.
I strive to be a just queen, but the justice I long for does not always reach everyone. It does not reach the dead, nor their families. It does not reach those who, like you, have been wounded for obeying my orders. Sometimes I think about my guilt, about the blood that weighs on my decisions. It hurts me. But it does not stop me.
I hope you understand that this damage was not intentional. I would have liked to have been able to care for you with my own hands… but everyone has their duty, and mine is to govern. According to Edictus, yours was to be there.
I trust that Lena is giving you the care you deserve. I still don't know her well—like so many captains—but there is something in her words that makes me think she is sweeter than she appears. Perhaps the refuge she offers will serve as a comfort.
Winter is at its peak, and this letter may take a long time to arrive. Perhaps your reply will take even longer. Even so, you do not leave my thoughts. Will you be able to forgive your queen for the burden she placed on your shoulders? I want to believe so, because in your eyes I saw a strength that I know will return.
Young Dyan, my mind and heart await news from you. I am concerned about your condition, yes, out of guilt… but also for something more. Because there is still a long way to go, and I do not want this to be the end of it.
I ask you, with shamelessness and without remedy, to write to me. Tell me about your condition, your progress, your spirits and your pains. Not to flatter me or to pretend, but with sincerity. I don't want comfort, I want truth.
Tell me you are better—but only if it's true. I hope you are. So you can return. So that this time, even if just a little, you let me take care of you. To soothe this guilt. To calm this worry that doesn't let me sleep.
Come back soon.
With respect,
Silvania of Wilfrost Queen of the Winter Eternals