Three weeks in the Azure Depths had taught Saguna that healing involved more than mending wounds. The palace beneath the waves operated by its own rhythms, where morning light filtered through water in patterns that painted everything in shifting blues and greens. He had grown accustomed to waking to the sound of gentle currents rather than wind, to air that tasted of salt and carried the distant songs of water spirits.
He stood on one of the observation decks, watching schools of luminescent fish navigate between the palace's coral towers. A letter had arrived that morning through the Academy's communication network, and he'd been reading it repeatedly, trying to process emotions he hadn't expected.
Saguna,
I don't know how to write this letter. I don't know how to put twelve years of grief into words, or how to explain what it means to learn that grief was wrong.
