The sun was just beginning to fall behind the black spires of Blood Castle when Prince Valerian stood alone on the high western balcony. A soft wind stirred the crimson banners above him. His hands held a letter — the parchment delicate, its edges scented faintly with lilac.
It was from Anastasia.
She had left it for him just before she attended the farewell feast in Varethia, the very night she fell into that deep, trance-like vision.
Valerian opened it slowly, reverently, as if each fold held something sacred.
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My dearest Valerian,
As I write this, I am preparing to attend the farewell feast with our people. My heart is full — full of questions, of hope, and of something softer I do not yet have words for.
There are so many things I wish I could say to you aloud, but I find my
