The Alice Dome was a fortress of silence, but for Elaine, it was a prison of blasphemy. She sat on the edge of her bed frame, the wood digging into her back, a physical reminder of the rigid expectations that suffocated her. The confrontation with her brothers in the Royal Glade had been a victory of sorts, a display of the Lioness's roar, but the silence that followed was deafening. She felt trapped, not just by the walls of the manor, but by the crushing inheritance of a legacy she wasn't sure she could carry.
Her hand brushed against the side table, her fingers trembling. They bumped against a piece of parchment, dry and cracked with age. She picked it up. It was a letter, the seal broken but the wax still clinging to the corners.
She recognized the stationery. It was from the time she had run away to Velloria, the time she had chosen Carmine and a life of uncertainty over the gilded cage of her mother's making. She remembered the day Viremont had stormed into this very room, locking the doors, swearing to stay within these four walls for days and nights, refusing to eat, refusing to sleep, waiting for a daughter who might never return.
The door creaked open. Elaine jumped, quickly smudging the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. She shoved the letter under her thigh, trying to compose herself.
It was Arnold. Her knight. His armor was polished, but his face was weary, etched with the grief of a man who had served a dying queen.
"My Lady," Arnold said, his voice a low rumble. He didn't bow; he never did with her. He simply stood there, his presence a solid anchor in the room.
"What is it?" Elaine asked, her voice hoarse. "What's wrong?"
Arnold didn't answer immediately. He walked over to the bed and sat beside her. The frame groaned under the weight of his armor, but he didn't seem to notice. He looked at the spot where she had hidden the letter, his eyes knowing.
"I remember that day," Arnold said softly, staring at the floor.
Elaine stiffened. "What day?"
"The day you left," he said. "Viremont... she was heartbroken. She stormed into this room and spent her days near the bedframe, knelt to the ground, weeping little by little. I stood guard outside that door for three days. I heard every sob. I heard her whispering your name, hoping you would walk back through that threshold."
Elaine's breath hitched. She looked away, unable to meet his eyes. "I didn't know... I didn't think she cared that much."
"She cared more than the stones of this Dome," Arnold said firmly. "She asked me, through the door, if you would ever come back. As a Royal Guard, I cannot lie. I told her the odds were slim. I told her... well, she might not."
He paused, shaking his head at the memory. "Those words didn't feel right to her. As if she thought that her Elaine couldn't ever do that to her. That her daughter, her blood, would return. So she decided to wait. And so she did."
He turned to look at Elaine, his gaze intense. "She didn't give up on you. Even when you were gone, she waited. So you shouldn't either."
Elaine swallowed hard, the lump in her throat painful. She slowly pulled the letter out from under her leg, holding it in her lap. The wax was cool against her fingers.
"That letter," Arnold said, nodding towards it. "It was written by Viremont. The day she left for Windmere. She gave it to me and told me to give it to you if she didn't return."
He stood up, placing a heavy, gauntleted hand on her shoulder. "She told me it's her last words for you. So you should wait until you have figured everything out before you open it. Don't read it in anger. Don't read it in haste. Read it when you are ready to hear her voice again."
Arnold squeezed her shoulder once, then turned and walked to the door. He paused at the threshold.
"She loved you, Elaine. In her own twisted, sharp way. Never doubt that."
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
Elaine sat alone in the dim light of the room. She looked down at the letter in her hands. It felt heavy, heavier than a piece of paper should. It held the ghost of her mother, the final echo of the Lioness.
She didn't open it. Not yet. She placed it gently on the pillow beside her, a silent promise to the woman who had waited for her.
She would wait, too.
To be continued.