It was late afternoon when the Archivist reached the Monarch's Wing. The harsh blaze of midday had softened into pale gold, a gentle light spilling over the gardens surrounding Ivara Palace's most private and extravagant quarter.
For years, the Archivist had been charged with safeguarding all the Late King's papers—official correspondences, private letters, administrative records. He began with the most urgent matters, then moved through the lesser ones, his eyes passing over thousands of pages to be appraised, ordered, and consigned to the Archive's Wing. Now, with the war drawing to a close, his long task was nearly finished; eight years of careful sorting brought at last to completion. He had come to inform his King.
He did not come empty-handed. Resting in his palms was a small silver box, carved with intricate designs. When the King's assistant summoned him in, he rose from the sofa in the antechamber and followed, step by measured step, into the King's study.
At his desk, Roen reluctantly set aside his work. The pen slid into its holder, the loose papers gathered into order, all before he lifted his gaze to the visitor.
"Your Majesty." The Archivist bowed with practiced formality. "The master ledger is ready for your review."
"Good. I'll see it after the memorial," Roen answered, calm and even, his eyes steady on the older man.
"Of course. The memorial must come first." The Archivist inclined his head. "But I have heard that you have decided this memorial shall be the last, Your Majesty?"
"Indeed." Roen rose from his chair, moving toward the tall windows. The sun, softened by its descent, gilded his blond hair in pale light as he stood gazing out. "Eight years is enough. All things must end. With the western war closing, so too should the grieving."
The Archivist held the words in silence. From behind, he could not read the King's face, and so his reply carried both caution and an undercurrent of genuine concern.
"Are you certain you are ready, Your Majesty?"
Roen did not turn. His gaze stayed on the garden, his tone light, steady, resolute. "We've kept this kingdom standing through peace, not war. And for peace, there are things one must release."
The Archivist bowed his head, though unseen. "We may no longer grieve," he said, his words weighted like a vow, "but Nivara shall never forget."
Roen offered no reply. Instead, he turned from the window and crossed toward the Archivist, his pale blue eyes glinting with curiosity as they dropped to the silver box still held in the man's hands.
"What is that box?" Roen asked.
The Archivist lowered his head, lifting the small chest forward with both hands, as if presenting an offering. "These were discovered in the last trunks of documents and letters left from His Late Majesty. Strangely, they had once been sorted under low-urgency files, which is why they reached me so late. But after examining a few, I realized they are personal letters. I thought it best you see them yourself, so I gathered them here."
Roen's brow knit faintly. He accepted the box and carried it back to his desk. Inside lay a neat stack of envelopes, paper dulled with age. One by one he lifted them, scanning carefully.
They did seem personal—some in his father's unmistakable hand, never sent. Others addressed to his father, written by different senders. A few bore no markings on the front at all, yet they shared the same paper—fine envelopes etched with delicate floral engravings, more intricate than any common stationery. He turned one of them over and paused, his eyes widening slightly as something struck him.
"This is... violet wax?" He tilted it in the light, studying the seal stamped into the strange-colored wax that still clung to the flap, though it had long since been opened. "I've never seen such a color used before."
"Oh yes, the violet wax letters." The Archivist's tone remained calm; he had noticed them too when he sorted the stack. "The seal suggests they came from Vessaint, Your Majesty."
"How so?" Roen gave the Archivist a doubtful look, recalling the most recent letters he had received from Vessaint on horse trade matters. "All the ones I've received from them were sealed in blue, if I'm not mistaken."
"That is true, Your Majesty." The Archivist inclined his head, taking his time with the explanation. "Vessaint has long used blue wax for diplomatic correspondence—tradition, as you say. But historically, there is also precedent for a wax of this very specific violet shade."
"Really?" Roen set aside the rest of the stack and drew a letter from one of the violet-sealed envelopes, holding it closer. "And what does the difference mean?"
"This shade is reserved only for matters of the highest importance."
Roen's hand stilled, his attention narrowing on the man's words. "Of the highest importance?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. The pigment required for this violet is both costly and laborious to make. Its use is meant as both a gesture of respect and a mark of pride. And not only that—"
A knock cut the Archivist short.
"Come in," Roen called, settling back into his chair, the letter still between his fingers.
His assistant slipped inside with her head lowered, her voice quiet. "Your Majesty, Her Highness has asked whether you would prefer to have dinner in her quarters, or here in yours."
"Tell her to come here." His answer was immediate. He had no desire to make his sister trouble herself with cooking again. "Ask what she prefers for dinner as well. Tell the chefs to prepare it."
"Yes, Your Majesty." The assistant dipped her head and slipped back through the door.
Roen returned his focus to the Archivist, lifting the letter closer again. "You were saying?"
"Ah, yes," the Archivist resumed, unhurried. "The violet pigment is not just expensive to craft. For generations, the Kings of Vessaint have favored it in their formal attire. The shade is said to complement their eyes."
"Their eyes?" Roen glanced up briefly before bending again to the page.
"Indeed. Perhaps Your Majesty has never met King Salen in person, but I once traveled on envoy under His Late Majesty's command. His eyes were a striking gold, vivid and luminous, like coin just drawn from fire. Rare, unforgettable. From all I have heard, it is the mark of the Vessar dynasty."
"Interesting." Roen's reply was distant, almost perfunctory. His focus had already settled deep into the letter.
The Archivist noticed, but knew better than intrude. He only watched as the King sifted through the violet-sealed envelopes one by one, line by line, the crease between his brows deepening with each passage. When at last the final letter was set aside, Roen rose suddenly. The light in his face had shifted to something grave, implacable.
The Archivist felt his own throat tighten. Whatever was in those missives, the weight of it was undeniable. But he had no chance to ask.
Roen had already crossed the room and pulled the door open in one decisive motion.
"Go to the Princess's Wing," he commanded, his voice cutting firm to the aide waiting outside. "Tell my sister to come here. Now."
---
Sina returned to her bedchamber through the tunnel in the late afternoon. The first thing she did was send Daliya to the Monarch's Wing to ask her brother what he preferred for dinner. Only then did she undress and sink into the bath, letting the hot water ease her bones.
She had decided against confronting the Bach brothers on the spot. By the time she noticed, their group had already reassembled, the session moved on. Not just that, Vellien Tressine was standing right there. And what would she even have said? "Um, excuse me, why do you not look like your brother at all?" She would sooner bite off her tongue than ask such a thing in front of so many.
Even the idea of seeking Soren out later made her uneasy. He'd probably try to press another meal into her hands, the way he had last time, those puppy-like golden eyes earnest as he offered her the linen-wrapped food. She would take it, unable to refuse him outright—and then end up discarding the food, weighed down with guilt for wasting both his effort and the meal itself. Just the thought of repeating it again was dreadful.
And yet, how could she risk her life so easily? Not when the truth about him was still uncertain, especially after noticing how unlike his supposed brother he looked. Maybe they were distant cousins, which would explain the difference. But until she could confirm it—and until Rosette Liane reported his findings—she could not, would not, give him her trust. Not enough to sip whatever soup he might hand her like some soft, naive creature. Not when her brother's safety still depended on her wariness, with enemies crouching in the dark.
Sweet as he had been at twelve, Soren at twenty was something else. A kindness still lingered in him, yes, but cloaked in a mystery she couldn't pierce.
By the time she had scrubbed the heavy thoughts from her mind and stepped out of the bath, Daliya had returned. But instead of her brother's answer about dinner, the head maid brought a different message: the King wanted to see her.
Not later in the evening. Not at dinner. Immediately.