For a long ti, Talek said nothing.
He didn’t move. He didn’t blink. His fingers simply hovered over the envelope like it might bite. The sealed letter—his father’s last words—lay on the table like a specter, a ghost bound in parchnt and wax.
He couldn’t bring himself to open it. Not yet. Perhaps never.
"You can take your ti," Alpheo said gently, easing back into his chair. His voice had shifted—less a ruler addressing a subject, more a man offering understanding to another standing at the edge of sothing unspeakable.
Talek looked up at him slowly, eyes clouded with questions. His voice cracked when he finally spoke.
"Why do you have this?"
A pause. The prince gave him his full attention.
"Why give it to you?He bore no love for you,and why now?"
The questions ca in a rush, one tumbling over the next, each born from the sa knot of grief and confusion that twisted in the young man’s chest. Alpheo, as if anticipating the flood, received them with an unreadable calm. He took a slow breath before answering, his tone even and deliberate—asured like a confessor, not a sovereign.
"As you know," he began, folding his hands before him, "your father and I were often at odds. The way Her Grace ca to the throne... it was a storm for many, and for your father, that storm never passed. . And though he fought bravely for her father, he saw her rise as betrayal to the prince who fell beneath my banners."
He paused, watching the weight of the words settle on Talek’s face.
"He was a man split in two. Torn between past loyalties and present oaths. And like too many, he drowned the contradiction in wine... and in rage."
Talek lowered his eyes.
Alpheo leaned forward slightly. "When I learned he had sided with Elios and the rebel lords, I was enraged. Betrayed, even. Not just for the politics of it—but because I believed him better than that. He had been honored. Raised. Rewarded."
His eyes narrowed.
"Had Her Grace ever shown him anything but gratitude? When your father served her father loyally—when he risked life and blood in the last war—was it not her hand that lifted your family out of obscurity? You were knights clinging to a rocky strip of land. Now you hold a keep, you sit in judgnt of n, and you wear a lord’s sigil."
Talek’s mouth opened, then closed. Sha flickered across his face like the shadow of a bird across a field. His hand clenched around the armrest of his chair.
"I—I don’t—"
Alpheo cut him off, but not unkindly. "No one holds that against you, Talek. Not Her Grace. Not I. In fact, in the short ti you’ve ruled, you’ve shown a loyalty even many older lords have lacked. You fought against your own blood, not because you were told to—but because you believed it was right."
Talek flinched. The sha was visible now, etched into his jaw, his shoulders.
"I do not scorn your father anymore," Alpheo continued, voice quieter now. "He, like many, was deceived by that false prophet. The so-called holy man who twisted faith into fire. Your father was one of many caught in Elios’ web."
He paused, letting that truth settle.
"I don’t say this to soothe your guilt—I say it because I believe it. When your father learned the truth, when he saw the priest’s real cloth... he changed. He ca to in secret. Offered his sword to end the rebellion. And gods forgive , but I accepted it too late."
Talek’s brows lifted in stunned silence.
"He died giving victory," Alpheo said softly. "The final thrust, the death that broke the rebel line. That blood... sealed the war. He was the blade that ended it all."
For a mont, both n were silent. Then Alpheo leaned forward again, this ti with the faintest touch of warmth behind the steel of his voice.
"And in those last monts where we spoke , he implored not of rebellion, not of glory. He begged for one thing only—your safety. Your future. He asked to protect your household as though it were my own."
He reached across the table, lightly tapping the envelope Talek still hadn’t opened.
"That’s why I have this. Because he trusted with it. Trusted with you. And trusted with one more thing..."
Alpheo sat back, folding his arms. His voice dropped.
"There was another matter. Sothing he set into motion before his death. A promise.A child’s future shaped by a dying man’s will. But that... we’ll speak of in ti. When you’re ready."
Talek sat frozen, the envelope now cradled in his hands like a relic. His fingers trembled slightly, lips parted as if to speak, but no words ca.
Only questions.
And perhaps, just perhaps, the beginnings of understanding.
He stared at the envelope for what felt like an age. His fingers traced the edge of the wax seal but made no move to break it. The weight of it, though light in hand, seed to press down like iron.
Then, with a quiet breath, he finally asked, "Why now?"
Alpheo did not answer imdiately. He reached for his own goblet again, swirling the wine absently as if searching for the right words within the golden liquid. When he spoke, his tone was even, thoughtfulr.
"As you know," he began, eyes on the slow spiral of his drink, "when your father stood as my prisoner after his capture, he... refused to see you."
Talek’s head lifted up
The prince nodded slowly, his voice lowered now, as though speaking of a man long buried.
"He refused every request. Would not grant you a visit. And not out of cruelty, mind you... but sha. I believe that in the final days, he was too ashad to face you. Too proud, perhaps, to see what you had beco , a man of honor , when he himself had failed in so many of those things."
Talek’s jaw tightened, his hands balling slightly around the envelope, as Alpheo watched carefully. The prince’s face remained still, but within him sat the lie—unspoken, cold, and well-practiced.
In truth, it had been Alpheo himself who had denied the etings, who had seen in Robert’s wavering eyes that he needed one last push to do his bidding. And so, Alpheo had made certain the two never spoke again.
But now, he used that silence like a chisel on stone.
"I believe," he said softly, "that the last ti you and your father truly spoke, he still carried the burden of his choices. But he was proud of you. That I saw clearly. Proud, and... afraid to ruin whatever strength you had found by facing you with his failure."
Alpheo leaned forward, tapping the edge of the envelope gently, like a rchant pointing out a treasure.
"Everything he could not say to you that night? I believe you’ll find it in there. His will, his truth, his final thoughts—all poured into those pages."
Talek swallowed hard. The seal remained unbroken.
"He gave it to with clear instruction," Alpheo continued. "That I should pass it to you only at my own discretion. Not in the chaos of battle, not in the smoke of mourning—but when the mont felt right."
He paused, his gaze sharpening.
"I had ant to wait longer. Give ti for your grief to dull its edge. But after what happened in the trial, after seeing how close you ca to following your father’s path—how near you stood to letting vengeance rule over duty—I believe now is the ti."
Talek’s head bowed slightly, the envelope cradled in both hands now. His thumbs hovered over the seal, trembling.
"Whatever answers you seek," Alpheo added, voice softer now, "they are no longer with the dead. They are in what the dead left behind. Open it when you’re ready."
And apparently he was ready at that very mont.
The seal cracked like dry bark under Talek’s thumb, and the envelope opened with a reluctant sigh. Inside, folded with care and stained faintly at the corner—by ti or perhaps by wine—was the letter. The parchnt trembled in his grip as he unfolded it, and with slow, cautious eyes, he began to read.
At first, the words were absorbed in silence. His lips moved faintly, tracing the rhythm of a voice he had not heard in months.
But then, the silence broke. A sharp breath. A quiver of the mouth. And before he could stop it—A tear.Then another.Until a quiet weeping stole his composure, and the letter trembled in his hands as he tried to wipe his tears, "I’m sorry... I’m so sorry, Your Grace."
He turned his head slightly away, ashad of being seen like this—less a lord, more a son.
Across the table, Alpheo said nothing. He rely reached for a folded handkerchief, placing it gently upon the wood between them. Then, he took up the golden carafe once more and poured Talek a fresh cup.
"Do not be ashad," he said, voice soft, almost reverent. "There is no sweeter drink for the dead than the tears of those who loved them."
Talek said nothing. He rely reached for the cup, fingers wet, and drank as if trying to swallow the grief itself.
And Alpheo watched him quietly, almost kindly.
A mont passed. Then another. The prince’s eyes drifted toward the flickering candlelight, its fla bending gently as if bowing to the scene before it.
But behind that fla, within the stillness of his gaze, laid the truth.
Because that letter, those carefully chosen words—the ones now cradling Talek’s heart in sorrow—had never passed through Lord Robert’s fingers.
No, Robert had died in silence.
Not all battles were won with steel.
So were written in ink. And so, with tears.
I have high expectations for you, Alpheo thought as he left the room, leaving the boy to cry out his soul over words that his father had never written.
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