Dozens of them—some wrapped in red string, others worn at the edges from too many rereads. A small brooch. A pair of earrings. A map sketched with ancient roads now long erased.
Her fingers brushed over the first letter on top. The handwriting was elegant, unmistakable.
Wrenlow’s eyes welled, but no tears fell. She smiled. A small, aching thing.
“…You stubborn, reckless girl,” she whispered into the stillness.
She closed the box gently. Refastened the seal. Replaced the box.
Silence once more.
When she stood, her back ached—but her mind was sharper than ever.
Too much was unraveling.
Ariya was down. Elowyn was in danger. And the storm that had taken so many before was rising again—this time with names Wrenlow had long buried in the dark.
She walked back to her chair, picked up her
