The moonlight spilled across Aria’s chambers like a silver tide, pooling at the foot of her bed where a cedar trunk lay open, its contents scattered in slow disarray.
She hadn’t meant to go through it.
Not tonight.
But Elara had cried out in her sleep—three short, sharp whimpers—and Aria’s heart had clenched with the ghost of memory. Her own childhood had been full of those midnight cries, unanswered. She would not let history repeat itself, not even in dreams.
So she had rocked Elara back to sleep and found herself kneeling beside the old trunk, the scent of lavender and dust rising like ghosts as she opened the lid.
Most of it was clothing—old Luna robes, scraps of ribbon, an embroidered shawl with the Vale crest stitched in gold thread. And beneath it all, an envelope sealed in wax that had long since cracked with age.
No name on the front.
No seal of council or command.
Just a folded, yellowed piece of paper with handwriting that made her breath catch in her throat.
It was her mother’s.
She hadn’t seen it since before the rebellion. Before the purge that had taken her mother from her.
Her hands trembled as she unfolded it.
Dearest Aria,
If you are reading this, then something has gone wrong. Or perhaps right. I never was good at predicting either.
You are stronger than me. I have known that since the day you were born—eyes wide, fists curled like you meant to fight the world from your first breath.
They told me I could not raise you in SilverCrest. They said Luna-blood girls were dangerous. I believed them. I let fear make choices I should have made with love.
But you must never do the same.
Aria swallowed, eyes burning. The script swam on the page.
They will tell you that power must be earned through pain. That leadership is a crown forged in blood. But that is only half the truth. Power can also be born in mercy. In silence. In choosing not to break someone just because you can.
I didn’t always live by those words. I made enemies I shouldn’t have. I trusted wolves who wore my face and wanted my voice silenced.
But you… you will speak. And they will listen.
And one day, when your own child cries out in the night, I pray you are there. I pray they never know the kind of silence I gave you.
The last line was shaky, rushed.
Forgive me, my moon-born girl. The world is cruel. But you are not alone.
There was no date.
No signature.
But Aria didn’t need one.
The tears came quiet, without sobs, just the slow ache of a wound reopened gently.
She folded the letter again with reverence, brushing a thumb over the edge as if to feel her mother’s presence lingering there.
Zara appeared in the doorway, sensing the stillness. “Everything okay?”
Aria nodded, her voice caught in her throat. She handed Zara the letter without speaking.
Zara read quickly, lips tightening. “She knew. All those years ago. She knew they’d try to erase you.”
“They tried,” Aria said softly. “And they failed.”
Zara knelt beside her. “What do you want to do with it?”
Aria looked toward the fire.
“I want to read it aloud,” she said. “To the council. To the wolves. I want them to hear what strength really sounds like. Not orders. Not politics. Just love.”
Zara smiled faintly. “Then we give them that.”
The next morning, the inner hall was filled with wolves from every house and corner of SilverCrest. Elders. Scouts. Midwives. Even warriors who had once bowed to Evelyn now stood with wary curiosity.
Kael was not there.
Evelyn, either.
That suited Aria fine.
She stepped up to the stone podium without regalia, without fanfare. Just the letter in her hand and her mother’s words in her heart.
“I found something last night,” she said. “Not a prophecy. Not a decree. Just a voice we were never meant to hear.”
The room hushed.
And she read.
Word for word.
No embellishment.
No interpretation.
Just truth.
When she finished, the silence that followed was heavy, sacred. No one clapped. No one howled.
They simply listened.
And remembered.
Afterward, one of the oldest midwives approached her. “That was your mother’s voice.”
Aria nodded.
“She was fire,” the woman said. “But you… you’re the spark that survived the burn.”
Aria looked down at Elara, swaddled in Zara’s arms. The child’s eyes were open—gray and stormy.
Like hers.
Like her mother’s.
Three generations bound by pain, survival, and something stronger than either.
Legacy.
