9
Vellum
I begin this in the fifth year of my captivity, though I long ago ceased to count the days, or the hours. I know the time only by my son’s growth, which is both a joy and the sun ticking down toward the beckoning end.
I do not know why I didn’t consider doing this sooner. He won’t miss the vellum. Wastefully, The Pretender stacks the precious resource ceiling to floor in my chambers, which he almost lovingly calls my suite, but has always been an equitably decorated prison. The great Sky Dungeons at Duncarrow. I gave birth to my son here. I expect we will both die here.
The vellum is for the letters he demands I write him, professing a love that is the opposite of any emotion I could ever feel for the man responsible for my greatest sorrow. He is not even a man, but something
