The letter was sealed in wax the color of dried blood.
It had waited—quietly, faithfully—at the bottom of Aria’s satchel, tucked between healing salves and warding stones, untouched through battle, exile, betrayal, and birth. She hadn’t dared to open it. Not until now.
The nursery was still. Her daughter slept beneath moon-dappled linens, tiny fists curled near her face. Outside, the forest breathed. And inside, Aria sat by candlelight, fingers trembling as she broke the seal she’d pressed months ago—when her future felt like a noose, not a cradle.
The paper smelled faintly of pine resin. She unfolded it slowly.
And read her own words.
“My little wolf,
If you’re reading this, I am not beside you.
That truth breaks me. I wanted to stay. I wanted to be your shield, your warmth, your storybook ending. But life does not always grant us the endings we deserve—only the ones we fight for.
And gods, I fought.
Not just for you, but for the right to bring you into a world that would not try to tear you from me. You are not an accident. You are not a secret. You are the loudest truth my soul ever screamed into a universe that told me to be quiet.
Your father is… complicated.
I don’t know if you’ll know him. I don’t know if he’ll earn that chance. But I want you to know this: you were never the reason we broke. That fault lies in fear, in pride, in mistakes carved deep into our bones. But never in you. You were the light breaking through all of it.
You were the reason I kept going.
If I am gone, I want you to know I did not leave. I was taken—by fate, by war, by the kind of cruelty that preys on love.
But don’t let that define your story.
Let it fuel you.
Let it remind you that even in the darkest moments, someone believed you were worth everything. I did. I do.
I hope you grow fierce.
I hope you grow kind.
I hope you laugh like your Aunt Zara, run like your grandmother once did, and stare down anyone who dares to underestimate you. I hope you find wolves who call you sister. I hope you love wildly, lose boldly, and find magic in the ruin.
Most of all, I hope you forgive me.
For not staying.
For not finishing this letter with a promise I can keep.
But if I have one more breath when you find this—know that I used it whispering your name.
Yours, always,
—Your mother, Aria Vale.”
Aria folded the paper with care, pressing it to her lips. She didn’t cry—not tonight. There had been too many tears. This was a night for sacred things.
She slid the letter into a silver-lined drawer beneath the cradle, alongside the baby’s first swaddling cloth and a tiny carved moonstone wolf.
Kael stood in the doorway.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes found the letter, then her, then their daughter—and softened in a way they hadn’t in years.
“She’ll read it one day,” Aria said.
He nodded. “And she’ll know.”
The candle flickered between them.
No war tonight.
Just three hearts—one asleep, two learning how to heal.
