The letter was sealed in faded crimson wax, its edges worn as though someone had handled it many times before sending it away. Clara found it tucked behind the false lining of an old jewelry box—her mother's favorite, the one she hadn't dared open since the funeral.
Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the parchment.
"My dearest Clara,"
If you are reading this, then I am no longer with you. And for that, I am sorry. Not just for leaving you too soon, but for the weight I placed upon your shoulders without your consent.
There are things I should have told you sooner. About the crown. About the blood-bound pact I signed in your name. But how does a mother explain that she chose a cage for her daughter—one lined with thorns and politics?
I was running out of time.
Your father once believed loyalty to the crown could save our house. But loyalty is not a shield, Clara. It is a leash. When I saw the kingdom devour people with brighter minds and purer hearts, I realized the only way to protect you was not to shield you—but to arm you.
The blood-bound decree wasn't a betrayal. It was a key. One that would bind you to power so the court could never discard you like they did me. Alaric—Prince or not—needed a tether to something human. I believed, perhaps blindly, that you could be that tether. That you would not just survive the court—but change it.
I see the fire in you. You refuse to kneel. You demand the world make space for your voice. Never lose that.
The court will try to reduce you to whispers and titles. Let them try. But remember this:
You are not their pawn.
You are my legacy.
And the storm I could never be.
If there's ever a day you doubt yourself, read this again. And know that I have never loved anything more fiercely than I love you.
With all my heart,
Lady Evelyn Whitmore
Clara's vision blurred. The words swam as tears welled in her eyes, falling silently onto her lap. She pressed the letter to her chest, as if the paper might bring back the warmth of her mother's arms.
Her lips trembled.
"I thought you left me in chains," she whispered. "But you… you gave me the key."
The chamber was quiet, the only sound her uneven breath. She sat there, knees drawn up on the velvet bench, feeling every ounce of grief she had locked away now surge forward like a wave.
For years, she'd hated the silence her mother left behind. The questions. The secrets.
But now—now she had something more powerful.
She had a reason.
And in that reason, Clara found the steel to rise again.
She wiped her tears, folded the letter carefully, and slid it into the lining of her bodice.
By the time she walked out of that room, the court would not see a grieving daughter.
They would see Lady Whitmore's heir—and the storm she was born to be.