The World He Shaped

Sylva's Notes – Entry 12:

"There is a strange ache in watching others fight your battles. An ache made of guilt, of hope, of helplessness. So I stay busy. I patch wounds before they bleed. I pour tea before it cools. And I speak to the quiet girl who has forgotten how to speak to herself."

⸻

The soft clink of glass echoed through the vaulted stone hall as Sylva moved among the shelves, sliding tincture vials into their designated slots with practiced precision. Despite the gentle rhythm of her work, her eyes kept drifting to the arched window overlooking the northern road.

The horizon remained still.

Four times now, she'd checked it. And each time, she told herself it was just to measure the light.

Caelum, seated at his long desk scribbling field tonic formulas, didn't even look up. "You're pacing with your hands again."

"I'm working."

"You're twitching," he said mildly, dipping his quill.

"You're insufferable."

"Mm. Still not as bad as you."

Sylva rolled her eyes but didn't argue. Her fingers reached instinctively for a packet of dried emberleaf — not because it was needed, but because she needed to keep them occupied.

"I thought you said they'd be fine," she said at last, trying to keep her voice casual.

"They will be. They've trained for this." He looked up, his tone softening. "You know Lucien wouldn't have gone unless he believed the odds were with them."

Sylva made a noncommittal noise, then drifted toward the back stairwell — toward the girl waiting quietly in a room two floors above.

⸻

Aerisya sat curled in a high-backed chair near the hearth, wrapped in a gray shawl that dwarfed her already-slender frame. A soft fire crackled, casting dancing gold across her pale skin. She wasn't asleep, but she barely moved, her eyes staring into the flames like they might flicker her memories into something bearable.

Sylva knocked once, entered without waiting, and set down a tray of tea, broth, and two lavender biscuits.

"I bring tribute," she said, brushing off imaginary dust.

Aerisya didn't answer at first. Her eyes blinked back into the room, then shifted to Sylva with a faint smile.

"Chamomile again?"

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"You're going to turn me into a flower."

Sylva smirked. "That's the plan."

They shared a quiet moment before Aerisya reached for the cup, fingers trembling slightly before they steadied. "Thank you."

Sylva eased into the chair opposite her, pulling her legs up beneath her.

"Do you think… they've found her yet?" Aerisya asked softly, eyes still on the fire.

"If anyone can, it's them," Sylva said truthfully. "Red, Mara, Royce — they're the best we have. And Lucien's no stranger to the field."

Aerisya's lips curved faintly. "He said he would go himself."

Sylva raised a brow. "He did. And I've never seen a man more obvious."

"What?"

"Don't pretend. He looks at you like he's composing a speech in his head."

Aerisya flushed, ducking her gaze. "It's not like that."

"Mm. Of course not."

"I barely know him."

"And he barely knows how to hide a crush," Sylva said, sipping her tea.

Aerisya blinked at her, stunned. "It's not—he's just… kind."

"Dangerously so," Sylva said, setting her cup down. "Try not to break him. We've only just gotten him out of the palace."

Aerisya laughed — unexpectedly, freely — and for the first time, Sylva saw her shoulders relax.

⸻

Later that afternoon, Aerisya ventured with Sylva into the central hallways of Raven's Nest. She wore a borrowed cloak — soft, wool-lined, and far too luxurious for someone who had spent the last five years in chains. Everything here felt surreal.

The stone corridors were warm, lit not with torches but soft lanterns enchanted to mimic natural light. The walls bore murals — scenes of green fields, forests, and blue skies.

"Is that… the west valley?" Aerisya asked, pausing by one.

Sylva nodded. "Painted by one of the freed artisans. We don't just give people shelter. We give them purpose."

They passed the open atrium. Children played near a stone fountain — elven, human, and beastkin alike — chasing each other without hesitation.

Aerisya stared, stunned. "They're… free to play?"

"Yes."

"No guards?"

"No guards."

They continued past the kitchens, where laughter drifted from within and someone was arguing over the right way to slice root vegetables.

Aerisya looked at Sylva. "This place… it's not what I imagined."

Sylva gave her a knowing look. "It's better."

⸻

By evening, they returned to the sitting room, a bit winded from the walk but carrying warm rolls from the bakery wing. Aerisya ate slowly, savoring each bite like it might disappear.

"When I was in the keep," she said after a while, "we used to imagine places like this. Quiet places. Warm ones. But I always thought I'd die before I found one."

Sylva was silent for a beat. Then: "You didn't."

Aerisya turned to her. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Make everything sound… simple. Bearable."

Sylva considered it. "I've seen enough pain to know it doesn't end all at once. But it starts with stillness. With safety. With a cup of tea and a person who doesn't demand anything from you."

Aerisya set her empty plate down. "That sounds like a luxury."

"It's your birthright now."

⸻

Later, Sylva helped Aerisya untangle her hair. They sat on cushions near the hearth as the wind whispered against the shutters.

"I used to braid Lethiel's hair," Aerisya murmured. "She hated it. Said I was too rough."

Sylva chuckled. "So was she. We'll call it even."

When the braid was finished, Sylva handed her a small bronze mirror. Aerisya stared at her reflection for a long time.

"I don't look like her anymore," she said softly.

"No," Sylva agreed. "You look like someone who survived."

⸻

It was nearly midnight when Caelum knocked gently.

Sylva opened the door and saw his face — still, controlled, but his eyes betrayed the weight of the message he carried.

He handed over a folded note.

Sylva read it. Then smiled.

"They found the compound," she said. "They freed them all."

Aerisya stood so fast the blanket slipped from her shoulders. "And… Lethiel?"

Sylva looked up, voice soft with triumph. "She's alive. She's coming home."

Aerisya stared at her, trembling.

Then sat. Then cried.

Sylva handed her a handkerchief, sat beside her, and said with a smirk, "If you cry too hard, I get to tell Lucien."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"Fine. Maybe not."

They sat together in the quiet, the fire casting long shadows, as the dawn slowly crept toward the horizon.

⸻

Sylva's Notes – Final Entry:

"Today, she cried without fear. She laughed without apology. And she dared to believe the future would not betray her. That's more than healing. That's hope."