Chapter 218: A LETTER FROM THE EAST
While Rianor was still immersed in the flurry of his school project, in a quieter wing of the castle, Roland Sudrath was facing the arrival of a guest he had never expected.
That morning, a thin veil of steam rose from his porcelain cup. Roland had just poured his coffee—pitch black, bitter, without a single grain of sugar—when a peculiar fluttering of wings caught his ear from the window. The sound was specific: flap, flap, flap—feathers slapping against the air in a quick rhythm before stopping abruptly with a soft thud.
A white pigeon landed on the cold stone windowsill. Its feathers looked ruffled—a clear sign that the small bird had just completed a grueling journey across mountain ranges and vast oceans. At its leg, a tiny silver tube glinted in the dawn light.
Roland set his cup down slowly. Clink. The sound of porcelain hitting the table rang out in the silent room. His hand reached out to grab the tube, but he froze for a moment. His heart beat faster, thumping against his ribs in an irregular rhythm. It was a sensation hovering between overflowing hope and suffocating anxiety. He recognized that tube. He recognized the coiled dragon engraving adorning its cap all too well.
With held breath, he opened it carefully. A roll of parchment was pulled out. His right hand unfurled the paper while his left hand instinctively clenched into a tight fist at his side, his knuckles turning white.
He recognized the ink strokes even before his brain could process the message. Seraphina’s handwriting. A figure who hadn’t appeared for a long time, yet whose shadow had never faded for a single second from his memory.
I am coming. Two weeks from now. We have things to discuss.
Only three sentences. Short, concise, and lethal. Roland read it again. And again. His eyes traced every inch of the letters, every blot of ink, even the spaces between words—as if trying to unearth the emotions hidden behind the silent paper. Yet he found nothing. No tone, no clues. Was this good news? Or was "we have things to discuss" the universal code for a goodbye?
He let out a long sigh, his shoulders sagging as he laid the letter on the table. "Hmm... what is this supposed to mean?" he murmured softly to the empty room.
His mind began to wander uncontrollably. Two weeks. Why wait that long? Why not now? Was Draconia in danger? Or had Emperor Tharazion finally decided to sever the thread between them? Or worst of all... was Seraphina herself tired and needed two weeks to compose her words of farewell?
Roland looked up, staring at the high ceiling of his chamber. "If it’s bad news... why does the handwriting have to be this neat?"
Of course, the ceiling remained silent.
He stood up, walked to the window, and cast his gaze toward the east. Outside, the snow was still falling lightly—white flakes dancing momentarily before vanishing into the earth. In the distance, factory chimneys continued to spew grey smoke. The world didn’t care about him; the world kept spinning. But inside Roland’s chest, time seemed to freeze at the very second he read that letter.
"Two weeks... it’s a long time."
Roland decided to seek out someone he knew wouldn’t give him sweet, flowery answers. Someone who would stare at him with a face as flat as a wall and hurl truths as bitter as gall without any embellishment.
In the vast South Paddock training grounds, Riven Sudrath was kneeling on the grass. Before him, a small boy stood gallantly. Kaelven—the son of Riven and Elena, now one and a half years old—was gripping a small wooden sword with his tiny hands. The sword looked massive against his small frame. His balance was still shaky, his legs trembling under the weight, but his eyes—a pair of sharp blue eyes—stared at the straw dummy in front of him with a seriousness that was almost terrifying.
"Hold it lower, Kael," Riven said softly. He adjusted his son’s hand position with his large, calloused fingers. "Not too high, or you’ll topple easily when pushed."
Kaelven pursed his lips tight, focusing intently. Whoosh! He swung the sword. Thud! The strike hit the belly of the straw dummy. It wasn’t hard, certainly, but his aim was incredibly accurate.
"Good." Riven patted his son’s head—the same proud pat he always gave Rianor or Raphael.
Roland stepped closer. His leather shoes crunched against the winter grass that was starting to yellow. "You’re training him this early?"
"He’s the one who whined to join in." Riven stood tall, looking at his brother with a searching gaze. "Every morning, he’s already standing beside me, clutching that wooden sword. I have no reason to refuse him." He paused, noticing his brother’s troubled face. "What is it?"
Roland reached into his pocket, pulling out the letter that was now slightly crumpled from being squeezed too often. "Seraphina. She’s coming in two weeks. She said... there are things to discuss."
Riven snatched the letter, reading it with lightning speed—efficient and no-nonsense. He folded it back and returned it to Roland. "And? Where’s the problem?"
"I don’t know what she means, Riven. I don’t know what I should be preparing for."
Riven stared deep into his brother’s eyes. The question he posed sounded like a verdict. "Do you still love her?"
It was the same question he had asked when Roland was about to leave for Draconia months ago. Back then, Roland had answered with visible doubt in his eyes. But now, there was no more room for hesitation.
"Yes."
One word. It came out just like that, as natural as a breath.
Riven nodded curtly. "Then... just face it." He patted Roland’s shoulder—a blow heavy enough to make the younger brother stumble slightly. "Don’t run. A Sudrath isn’t raised to be a coward."
Kaelven, who had been listening with a confused expression while still brandishing his wooden sword, suddenly raised his left hand into the air. "Don’t lun!" he shouted in his toddler lisp. "Don’t lun!" His eyes gleamed with excitement, as if he had just discovered the greatest magic spell in the world.
Roland let out a soft laugh, looking at his nephew. "Heh, he certainly picks up lessons from you quickly."
"Better that he doesn’t get used to being confused for a long time like his uncle." Riven patted Roland’s shoulder again, this time more gently—a rare gesture of support. "You too. Stop making a face like you’re about to die."
Roland offered a thin smile. For the first time since dawn, the tightness in his chest eased slightly. It wasn’t entirely gone, but at least he could breathe a bit more freely.
From the training grounds, Roland dragged his feet toward the Alpha Building. He thought perhaps Rianor could offer a different perspective—something logical, cold, and not involving wooden swords or spirited shouts. Perhaps his brother could calculate statistical probabilities and prove that his anxiety was merely logical garbage.
He found Rianor in his messy office. His elder brother stood before a giant chalkboard, surrounded by piles of sketches and complex formulas. His hands, smeared with chalk dust, were drawing something that looked like an underground ventilation system. Beside him, a crystal tablet glowed dimly, displaying rows of numbers that only its owner could understand. The pungent scent of ink and machine lubricant filled the room.
"Rianor, I have something to talk about—"
"Later." Rianor didn’t even turn his head an inch. "I’m calculating the load angles."
Roland froze at the threshold. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds passed with only the sound of chalk screeching against the board and Rianor’s low murmurs—"If this part is shifted two centimeters, then the load will be..."—followed by the rough sound of pages being flipped.
There was absolutely no further response. Rianor was truly drowned in his own world—a world that only knew the precision of lines and angles, not the complexities of the human heart.
Roland let out a long sigh, his shoulders sagging again. "Fine. Angles are clearly more important than your own brother."
He turned and left with a mix of annoyance and understanding. Rianor was always like this. When it came to technical matters, the world around him seemed to evaporate—including his brother who was currently in the midst of a romantic crisis. He was used to it, though this time he really wished his brother could spare at least five minutes.
As evening approached, Roland finally made his way to the family tea room. This was his last resort—and perhaps the right one from the start.
Lucian and Aurelia were sitting comfortably on the sofa near the warm, crackling fireplace. There were no important meetings, no piles of state documents. Just a husband and wife enjoying afternoon tea in peaceful silence. The fire crackled softly, sending dancing shadows against the walls. The soothing aroma of chamomile filled the air.
Roland entered, bowing low. "Father, Mother. Sorry to intrude, may I sit?"
Aurelia smiled gently, patting the empty spot on the sofa beside her. "Since when does my own son need permission just to sit?"
Roland settled himself there. He didn’t speak immediately; instead, he was busy fiddling with the edges of the letter in his hand—a nervous habit he only just noticed. The paper was beginning to wear at the folds.
Lucian set his porcelain cup slowly onto the table. Clink. "Let the burden out, Roland. What is it?"
Roland told them everything. About the letter, about the agonizing two-week wait, and about the fears that had haunted his thoughts all day. He had traveled all over the castle looking for answers, and now he stood before the two people he respected most, hoping for a small miracle from their lips.
Lucian listened intently without interrupting once. After Roland fell silent, his father posed the same question Riven had: "Do you love her?"
"Very much, Father."
Lucian nodded calmly. "Then, just face it."
Roland looked at his father in confusion. "But what if—"
"Don’t feel defeated before your sword is even drawn, Roland." Lucian cut him off with a deep yet authoritative voice—the voice of a leader who had weathered thousands of storms. "You don’t know what she’s going to say yet. Stop inventing worst-case scenarios in your own head. It will only drain your energy before the actual battle begins."
Lucian leaned forward, his gaze softening. "She is a dragon princess, and you are a Sudrath. There is no reason for you to feel inferior before her."
Aurelia, who had been listening while holding her cup, finally spoke up. "If she is willing to travel that far just to talk, Roland, it means you mean a great deal to her." She looked at her son with a sparkle of deep understanding. "Trust in the thread you have spun together. Don’t let fear tear it apart so easily."
Roland was speechless. He stared at the letter in his fingers, now worn and slightly oily from being touched so often. He then looked at his parents in turn—Lucian, who was as solid as a rock, and Aurelia, who was as warm as sunlight. "That makes sense... yes, it makes sense."
Aurelia chuckled softly. "Of course. Mother always has a way of making sense."
Lucian only pulled the corner of his lips slightly. It was almost a smile, yet he remained dignified.
Night arrived. Roland stood tall on the balcony of his room, facing directly east.
The biting cold night wind hit his face, bringing the distinct scent of snow and the lingering smell of industrial smoke from afar. Below, the lights of Iron Hearth city flickered—thousands of points of light proving that the civilization built by his family never slept.
The letter was still in his grasp, but this time he didn’t squeeze it anymore. He just held it gently, feeling the rough texture of the parchment against his fingers while letting the wind play with the edges of the paper.
East. Draconia. Two weeks to go.