Chapter Nineteen

Ten months later.

‘To His Highness, Prince Sebastian Belmont,

I hope this letter finds you safe.

I wasn’t sure if I should write, but I figured… if you’re still out there, maybe you’d want to know.

I’m fine. Really. Or, I’m trying to be.

My parents have decided to send me to the Northern Temple. I wasn’t exactly given a say. They claim it’s for my safety, though no one’s told me what I’m supposed to be safe from. I don’t know why it has to be so far north. Or why I have to go alone.

Still, I’m doing what I can. I just wish I could have said goodbye properly.

I understand why I haven’t heard from you. People say you’re busy following your father’s orders. I can only imagine how much you’re dealing with. I hope, even with everything, that you’re still finding small moments to breathe.

Please take care of yourself. Eat something warm. And sleep when you can.

Sincerely,

Elara Whitmore’

Sebastian had read her letter at least a hundred times.

The parchment had grown soft from the wear of his fingers, its corners curling inward. Ink had smudged where his thumb lingered too long on her name. The words no longer surprised him—but they still twisted something deep in his chest every time he read them.

He never wrote back.

He wanted to. Gods, he wanted to. But what would he even say?

‘I’m still alive, Elara—but I don’t know if I’m still me.’

And after ten months, it felt too late.

The southern front stretched endlessly now. Fields once golden with wheat and wildflowers were scorched black and soaked in blood. The Valerians no longer charged head-on. Now they slithered in like smoke—burning villages, sabotaging supply lines, cutting down anyone who couldn’t run fast enough.

And every time Emberlund pushed back, another child lost a parent. Another soldier buried a friend.

Sebastian had long since stopped counting the dead. But he remembered their faces.

He remembered the first time he froze.

It was in a narrow ravine. His unit had been ambushed—blades clashing, mud slipping underfoot, screams echoing off stone. He’d raised his sword to block—and stopped.

The Valerian boy charging him couldn’t have been more than fourteen.

His armor didn’t fit. His hands shook. His eyes looked just like Oliver’s when they used to laugh over sweetbread in the palace kitchens.

Sebastian couldn't move.

Oliver slammed into the boy, knocking him unconscious. He kicked the sword aside and rushed to his dear friend.

“Don’t freeze again, Seb,” Oliver had said, dragging him behind cover. “Because next time, it won’t be a child.”

But sometimes… it still was.

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“Your Highness!”

The shout yanked him from the memory.

“They’re breaking through the east flank—what are your orders?”

Sebastian stood slowly, resting his palm on the hilt at his side. Smoke rolled across the charred hills. He could smell blood long before he saw it.

“Hold them until the reinforcements arrive,” he ordered.

The soldier ran.

Sebastian stood a moment longer, staring across the battlefield. Another village would burn tonight.

***

The fight was worse this time.

Arrows flew overhead. The clash of steel and the cries of dying men thundered in his ears. He fought hard—like a blade that had long since forgotten the warmth of its sheath.

But he was only human.

A Valerian soldier charged, catching him off-guard. The man was fast. Sebastian parried too late—the blade sliced across his arm, cutting deep.

Pain flared. He staggered, nearly tripping over a fallen body.

The soldier lunged again—Sebastian barely dodged, his boot sliding in the blood-soaked earth. He ducked under the next swing and brought his sword up in a brutal arc—driving it down into his opponent’s back.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

He didn’t stop. Even after the man dropped his weapon. Even after he collapsed. Even after his bloodied hands lifted in surrender.

Even after he cried out, “Please—please, no—”

Sebastian’s blade struck the ground one final time with a sickening sound.

Silence.

He stood over the body, chest heaving, arms trembling. Blood dripped from his sword, pooling at his feet.

When he looked up, a few soldiers had watched him from the tree line.

They didn’t speak, they didn’t need to.

He saw it in their eyes: fear.

And maybe… disgust.

***

Later that night, alone at the edge of camp, Sebastian sat beside a dying fire. His arm had been wrapped, and every small movement sent a dull ache through his muscles.

He pulled Elara’s letter from inside his coat. Traced the edges. Read her words again.

‘Eat something warm. Sleep when you can…’

He hadn’t eaten. Not really. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept through the night.

He was tired.

But he couldn’t go home. Not yet.

His father’s words echoed in his head, colder than the night wind:

“You are part of the third southern unit, sent to reinforce the first and second divisions. You will assist the military general—if he’s still alive. You are not to return to Emberlund until the Valerian threat is extinguished. Not one invader left breathing. Do you understand me, Sebastian?”

He had simply nodded, sword in hand, heart already fraying.

Now, the fire cracked low at his feet. The sky stretched above him, stars faint behind the drifting smoke.

He stared into the glow, mind drifting to Elara.

He remembered the way she stammered when she stepped on his foot during their first dance, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The way she said his name—quietly, like it was something delicate. How she always paused before speaking, thoughtful and careful in a way no one else ever was.

He missed her.

He pictured her leaning against the banister that night, counting the daisy charms on her bracelet.

“Eight… nine… ten…”

And now, ten months later, he couldn’t even remember the sound of her voice. Just the silence she left behind.

Sebastian folded the letter carefully, held it to his chest, and leaned back against the cold stone wall.

All he wanted, more than victory, more than peace—

Was to see her again, laughing somewhere in the streets of Emberlund.