When had Sina last stepped into the Monarch's study? A long, long time ago—back when she was still Rosina, weak and helpless. Two months after what had once been her father's study had become her brother's.
That day she had waited outside in the antechamber from late afternoon, fingers knotted stiffly together, lips pressed tight, her weary eyes fixed on the painting hung across the wall.
It was a family portrait—herself, Roen, and their parents—painted when she was six and Roen fourteen. It hadn't been a pleasant day, sitting for hours in that suffocating chamber, holding the same pose, being told to smile the same smile.
She, restless as always, had been the first to squirm. But Roen, patient, had bribed her with the promise he'd read to her later, and so she had borne it. Mother, composed, had held her close and brushed away the tears when she started fussing again. And Father, though usually stern, had swung her up during the breaks just to keep her still a little longer.
Good memories. Good days. Swept away in a single night.
Two months after the poisoning, the mourning air still clung to the palace, palpable and stagnant. Too many had died—her parents among them, alongside ministers, judges, administrators, and their families. All those unlucky enough to be invited to that banquet, meant to celebrate her betrothal to the Crown Prince of Loraque.
She had survived, but her body betrayed her. A single eager sip of that poisoned wine had ruined her. Food barely passed her lips without being retched back up or twisting her stomach in agony. Her tongue no longer trusted taste. Fear of whether anything set before her was safe kept her from eating at all. She had been a wreck in that antechamber, small and frail, waiting for Roen.
It was late evening when he returned, worn to the bone from another day crammed with councils and marshals and new ministers, one demand after another. At the sight of her, he'd stripped off his cloak, draped it around her thin shoulders, and led her inside.
The Dravinian conflict was at its peak. A week before, the culprits convicted in the investigation had already been executed. All evidence had pointed squarely westward. Dravina had denied the crime, offered no condolence, but had declared openly that Nivara deserved such tragedy. It was reason enough to fan the flames higher. The conflict with Dravina had consumed every meeting, every word, every sleepless night. Soon Roen would stand before the court and declare the war official.
And yet Rosina had come to him with words that made no sense. Words she knew sounded futile, foolish, but that she could not leave unspoken.
"I don't think it was Dravina," she had told him once the study door closed behind them.
Roen had frowned, weary lines etched across his face. "Why are you saying that?" His voice was wary, the tone of a man too long in meetings. He sank into the chair opposite her, rubbed at his temples, and looked at her, waiting.
It was then Rosina hesitated. She had looked long at the weary lines etched into her brother's face, the faint tension in every muscle as he bore the weight of two crowns—King and High Marshal—upon his own shoulders. Yet when his eyes met hers, they were still tender. If she spoke what lay in her heart, would it only deepen the chaos already consuming Nivara?
After a long silence of inward debate, she relented.
"It's only a feeling," she said at last, letting her gaze drift aside before she reached over to lay a light hand on his shoulder. "Don't think too much about it. I only came to check on you."
Roen released a long, heavy sigh. His eyes traveled over her thin frame, how frail she had grown, bone where softness had been. His expression softened with grief and worry.
"Look who's talking," he murmured. "It's you who needs to be checked on. You shouldn't be waiting here for me, not hours without even a coat. You should be resting. Come—let me walk you back."
But Rosina had refused him. Instead, she insisted he join her in the Monarch's Wing dining hall. That night she had forced herself to eat, every bite an effort, only so her brother would sit and have a proper meal at last.
Now Sina returned to that study once more, after so long—drawn by a summons she did not yet understand. Whatever it was, it had to be grave. Her brother would never have called her so abruptly, so urgently, otherwise.
Her steps quickened down the quiet corridors, the red light of early evening streaking through the tall windows. Passing the antechamber, her eyes caught at once on the absence—the family portrait was gone. In its place hung a painting of some meadows, bright and pastoral. A pang stirred in her chest, sharp and nameless, but she forced herself past it. She pushed open the heavy door.
"You wished to see me?" Sina asked softly as she entered.
Roen stood by the tall window, gazing out. At the sound of her voice, he turned. One look at his face was enough. The matter was indeed very, very serious.
"Sina, have a seat," Roen said. His tone sounded even enough, yet there was a faint tremor beneath it, betraying the effort it cost him to keep it steady.
She crossed the room slowly, her eyes taking in the study—the same bookcase crowded with heavy tomes, the same carpet woven with familiar patterns, the same padauk desk polished smooth with years of use. Nothing had changed. Nothing, save for the letters scattered across the desk.
She stilled. In that instant, she knew why he had summoned her, why his gaze had carried that shadowed weight. When her eyes rose to meet his again, his light-blue stare had turned to a sheet of frost—quiet, impenetrable, measuring every flicker of her face. She schooled her expression back into calm and lowered herself into the chair.
"Do you recognize these?" he asked at last, leaning against the window, arms crossed. The distance in his posture made clear he meant to keep it.
"Yes." Sina reached out, drew one envelope near, and slid free the letter. "And yet I thought Father had discarded them."
Roen studied her face, his tone guarded, clipped. "So you've suspected the Vessainti all this time."
Her eyes ran over the words, rereading what she had memorized long ago. "All I've ever had is suspicion. A hunch. A theory."
"It's about time you told me that theory, don't you think?"
When she looked up from the page, his face was unreadable—but beneath his voice she heard it, the wound. He was hurt. Slowly, she set the letter down, her fingers knotting together in her lap, as if pulling out words she had locked away for years.
"You know, brother," she began quietly, "I've always wondered what would have happened if you had come back in time for the banquet that night."
Roen stiffened. "I would have ended like our parents." His voice was flat, the truth laid bare.
"Yes," Sina said, unflinching, "and I would have been left all alone. A sixteen-year-old queen—clueless, trained more in etiquette than in statecraft. With Dravina pressing our borders, with half the Bureaus lying dead from that same banquet... tell me, wouldn't that have been a splendid ruin for Nivara?"
Silence followed, heavy and long. Then Roen finished her thought himself. "And you would not have married into Loraque. You would have inherited the throne and shouldered the wreck yourself."
Her lips tightened, her tone bitter. "And of course, no Ignium deal with Loraque could ever have survived such chaos. All the Vessainti would have to do was wait until Nivara's drained dry—then march in and claim the mine for themselves. No more bargaining, no more marriage pact."
He exhaled slowly, the memory of finding her in the antechamber that evening—and their many conversations since—playing in his mind. "So that was why you came to see me here that night—why you've kept saying Dravina wasn't behind it all these years?"
Sina raised her eyes to him. "I wasn't certain at first," she admitted. "As I said, it was only a feeling. So I began digging on my own. I traced every thread from the old investigation, followed every lead. But they led nowhere. Some pointed toward Dravinian clans, to certain figures we've hunted since the border conflict began—but none of it tied together. The pieces were scattered, disconnected."
Roen didn't press any further. Instead, his face only grew darker with each of her words. "What about the long-range ignisers?" he asked, his tone flat. "Are those part of your plan for fighting the Vessainti as well?"
"The open plains of the east demand a long reach," she admitted without hesitation. "They might have lain quiet all these years, but if they ever stop hiding in the shadows and bring their cavalry against our borders, we must be ready."
Roen pushed himself from the window at last. His steps carried him closer to the desk, slow, deliberate, as though he needed to see her face plainly when he spoke the words he had been holding back since she entered. His voice, when it came, was thin and low, edged with ache.
"And you've chosen to keep all of this from me—all this time?"
Sina went rigid. The change in his tone stung sharper than accusation. At length, her gaze drifted aside as she admitted softly, "You were always buried in the war, in holding Nivara together. And I had no evidence, no proof against Vessaint. I still don't. Can you imagine what would have happened if I had spoken? If you had believed me? We would have faced war on two fronts. It would have torn Nivara apart."
"I can imagine I'd have found it hard to believe you," Roen said, his voice shook as he forced the words. "But that isn't the damn point! The point is—you could have share your burdens with me. Instead you carried them alone, weaving plans and schemes as though you were the only one meant to bear them! Why do you keep suffering on your own, Rosina? Why?"
By then, his composure had frayed to breaking. Disappointment, disbelief, anger—all warred across his face, sharpened by the brilliance of his ice-blue eyes, eyes so like her own that they struck her like a mirror.
Sina sat in silence. It was clear. Her brother was not merely displeased—he was wounded, deeply.
But how could she have told him? How could she ever voice aloud the truth she herself had not dared face—that perhaps it had been her choice that set the stage for everything? The banquet, the poison, their parents' deaths, the lives of many others.
One decision, taken at fifteen. Loraque over Vessaint. Silver over grain. A Crown Prince over a lesser son. That fateful engagement, tied to the Ignium trade. Every time her thoughts strayed near that abyss—wondering if it was her fault their parents had suffered so cruel an end—she turned away, praying Roen would never know more than the convenient truth.
Her eyes slipped from his, falling to the empty space between them on the floor. With effort, her lips parted, her words spilling out fragile as breath.
"I... I couldn't imagine how you would have reacted, if you knew the whole truth. If it was really Vessaint who'd done it..."
Roen's brows knit. His hands settled heavily on her shoulders, urging her to meet his eyes. "What do you mean?"
Her answer came broken, murmured into her lap. "Had I not chosen Loraque...do you think Mother and Father would still live?"
"Rosina..."
He raised a hand to her cheek, searching her face. What met his fingers was not the familiar coolness of her skin, but something warmer, something wet. The realization struck him still. His sister was weeping.
His hand faltered, his gaze softened. The fury that had only moments ago burned through his chest, roughening his breath, dissolved at once, withered into something else—into surrender.
Slowly the King bent down, lowering himself until one knee touched the carpet at her feet. From below he looked up at her, both hands lifting to cup her face, wiping the streams that slid down her cheeks. He said nothing further, only let the silence enfold them, let the weight of shared grief find its place and hold there.
The last streaks of the sunset were dying, its last light drained from the room. No lamp was lit, no hearth burned, and the study sank steadily into shadow. Still the siblings stayed where they were, unmoving, until at last her tears ran dry and Sina steadied herself again. Then her hand came up, touching his in a quiet, tender press, her voice small and worn, like a child after a long cry.
"What else must be prepared for the memorial?" she murmured. "Let me help you."
Roen paused for a breath, then his expression softened into a faint smile. He squeezed her hands and lowered them back onto her lap. "Not much," he whispered. "I'll tell you over dinner. Shall we go?"
Her lips curved faintly in answer. She rose with him, and together they left the study.
That evening, the servants saw their King walk his sister back to her quarters, hand in hand, his cloak draped across her shoulders. The two moved in a silence none dared disturb.