Ruins And Royalty

The Importance of a Letter - Chp 8 Part 2

“Stronger grip with your left hand! Lift the blade of the gladius.” Sir Damos’s voice cut through the courtyard, measured and unrelenting. He paced in a slow circle, eyes fixed on me with the sharpness of a hawk.

I obeyed, raising the blade before striking the wooden post again, and again. The vibrations shuddered through my arms, foreign and unwelcome. This was no ordinary drill. Damos had introduced me to dimachaerus, the brutal art of dual wielding and meant for close combat. Two blades, two chances to attack or defend. It is difficult, very unnatural, and only mastered by the most skilled of warriors.

“Loosen your grip,” he ordered. “You’re holding too tightly.”

I stopped mid-strike, sweat dripping down my temple. “Didn’t you just tell me to tighten my grip?” My tone edged with irritation, my lungs burning for breath. Fighting with both hands was hard enough; forcing my left hand to mimic the right felt like asking a bird to swim.

He shook his head. “Too loose, you’ll lose the blade. Too tight, you’ll exhaust your muscles, and lose it anyway. Balance, Nightingale. Balance keeps you alive.”

I scoffed under my breath, then resumed, hacking at the post in uneven strikes, searching for that elusive middle ground.

“Faster.” His command snapped again, sharp as the c***k of a whip.

I lowered both blades, turning on him. “I asked you to train me with the Chakrams, not this.”

“The enchanted Chakrams are not only for throwing,” he said, tone flat as stone. “They are dual-wielding weapons as well. Without mastery of dimachaerus, you will cut yourself long before your enemy.” He gestured curtly at the post. “Strike.”

My jaw tightened. “Then why not let me practice with the Chakrams?”

“Because you are not ready.” His words landed like blows themselves. “You will earn them when you can master two gladiuses without faltering. Only then will you touch a circular blade.”

Frustration flared hot in my chest. Waiting grated against me like sand in a wound, but there was no arguing. Sir Damos was Pandora’s greatest trainer; his word was law. To be chosen as his pupil was an honor few dared even hope for. And so, despite my temper, despite the ache in my arms, I raised the blades again.

“You hold yourself well, Nightingale. Posture of a warrior. Unyielding and disciplined. You will make a fine successor.” Sir Damos’s voice carried a rare note of pride, and the words stirred something within me, a flicker of motivation that dulled the ache in my arms.

Still, his eyes never left me. He paced in his circle like a wolf stalking its prey, correcting my grip with a sharp nudge here, adjusting my stance with a muttered command there. Each detail mattered. Each fault was exposed. By the time the practice drew to a close, sweat soaked through my tunic, my muscles trembling. We exchanged a few clipped words about the following day’s drills, then he dismissed me.

Relief carried me toward the Royal Bathhouse, until a figure stepped into my path.

A royal messenger bowed stiffly, holding out a rolled parchment tied with a red ribbon. The wax seal gleamed with the imprint of a heliotrope blossom pressed deep into it.

“My Prince, a letter has arrived for you.”

I froze, a ripple of recognition running through me. The flower’s mark… it had to be him. Prince Zander. He would use such symbols.

“From whom?” I asked regardless, masking my sudden anticipation behind calm composure.

“The youngest Princess of Yarrow, Izara Windane.”

The words struck like cold steel. Disappointment tightened in my chest, though I kept my face unreadable. Slowly, I took the letter from his hands.

A bitter thought crossed my mind. He must still be furious with me. The gesture of silence was louder than any words. I forced myself into nonchalance, shrugging it off as though it were nothing, then cracked the wax seal with my thumb.

A part of me braced for the words inside.

“My dearest Prince Aaron Nightingale of Emperos. I have sent this letter upon my arrival in the Kingdom of Yarrow for the celebration of my youngest brother’s 19th birthday. The weather is splendid, and I have missed the calm and tranquility of the countryside…”

I frowned, the words grating against me. We were not close. Yet, close enough for her to recount her personal thoughts, her feelings, her idle musings. The familiarity felt forced, presumptuous. Still, I read on, curiosity outweighing irritation.

“I have sent this letter to request an audience with you upon my return to Emperos. I request that you dine with me and the Windane Royals in the Triclinium. My mother and father, Queen Evangeline and King Osran, wish to meet with you personally during this dinner. The time and date of our departure from Yarrow is yet unclear, and will be clarified in a following letter sent to Queen Nymeria and King Goran of Emperos. I look forward to seeing you again.”

I let out a sharp, humorless scoff. Rolling the parchment carefully, I returned it to the messenger, my face smooth and composed, though a flicker of impatience passed behind my eyes. Why this ceremony, this letter, this intrusion of formality? I thought, masking the edge of irritation with a measured, deliberate calm.

“My Prince, what shall I do with this letter?” The messenger asked, clearly taken aback by the cold edge in my voice.

“Burn it,” I said, clipped and final. The man hesitated, hand frozen mid-air, before bowing slightly and quickly retreating to carry out the task.

Normally, a royal letter would be preserved, filed carefully among other important documents, its contents treated with the gravity befitting the sender. But not this one. This one belonged in the ashes, a discarded formality best left to vanish.

I had no desire to dine with the Princess or her family. Were it from Prince Zander himself, perhaps I would have considered it, but even then, alone.

The purpose of this letter eluded me entirely. Why, in the name of the Heavens, would the King and Queen of Yarrow wish to know me personally, to summon me to dinner? It was a request I could not refuse. Not without offending my parents, who would surely comply out of courtesy to old alliances. Childhood friendships between Kings carried weight; declining would reflect poorly on the Nightingale name.

So I would go. When the Windane family returned to Emperos, I would attend dinner in the Triclinium, endure the pleasantries, and use the occasion to gauge Prince Zander’s feelings. He was family in all but blood, and he would be present.

I did not want to dwell on how he might perceive my abrupt departure or the incident that had left an invisible wedge between us. Yet the thought nagged at me. Persistent and tempting me to reach out. Perhaps a letter explaining my intentions, a measured apology to clarify the situation.

The idea lingered, insistent. And the longer I considered it, the more certain I became, I would see this through, on my terms.

I made my way to the Bathhouse, letting the warmth of the water and the gentle cascade of the fountain before me give my thoughts some clarity. I used the time to decide exactly what I would say to him, rehearsing each carefully measured word in my mind.

I would begin by explaining my actions, laying bare the reasoning behind them, and make it clear just how sorry I was. I had wanted to be close in that moment and overstepped, crossing boundaries I had no right to touch. The weight of that mistake pressed on me; I feared our friendship teetered on the edge, fragile because of my own recklessness. If I did not reach out, I might lose the chance to repair it entirely.

How long he would remain in Yarrow for his 19th birthday celebration was uncertain, and I could not risk waiting until he returned to Emperos.

I exhaled sharply, sinking deeper into the water. This was unfamiliar territory, caring so much, allowing someone else to occupy my thoughts so completely. I had long cultivated an unbothered façade, but with him, it no longer applied. I missed him, and I resented that I did. Even amidst everything that had shaped my life until now, he remained the center of my attention, stubbornly impossible to ignore.