He stared at the newest page and groaned.
Kairi,
Penpals sounds wonderful Great like something I can do. Want to do?
He wadded it, missed the basket, and let it stay missed. How did a person do this when the wanting was the point? He was excellent at declining interest with surgical kindness. Interest itself, in ink? He had too much of it and none of the right words.
Forearms to the desk. His head admitting defeat into his arms. Eyes closed. Breathe.
She wrote to Prince Dato. She sketched the willow. Jayce said there’s one she loves in Brindlecross.
A laugh escaped before he could sit on it. I know where you live now.
He tensed a little bit and gritted his teeth. Catalog it. Decide what belongs on paper and what belongs in the dream. Did she know?
He glanced at her letter and reread it again. He already knew but rereading it wouldn’t hurt. Her letter gave no sign. Good. Or terrifying. Both.
“All right,” he told the empty room. “Dato, you can do this.”
He drew a fresh sheet. The pen felt heavier than a blade. He groaned at his own imagination of being out down by a pen rather than a blade.
Dear Kairi—
He scratched out Dear, tapped his mouth, and tried again.
My Lady Kairi,
He paused, and something unclenched, a tone that would let him be both title and person.
The words began to come, not smooth, but honest:
My Lady Kairi,
Jayce delivered your letter as if it were a matter of state, and I am treating it as such: with attention, and with care. Please give him praise on my behalf when he brings this reply, he earns it more often than he admits.
I have never been anyone’s pen pal. I look forward to having a first with you. Ordinary things sound like the right place to begin, especially as Jayce tells me you may be in the capital in a little over a month. I would like to know a little about you before then, and I will try to make myself knowable in return.
A few truths, to match yours:
— Season: Autumn. The air goes clear, and the forests turn to maps you can read from the roofline.
— First reach in the morning: guard under-armor and leather bracers. I like how the fit asks me to stand up straight.
— An hour without a crown: sparring with the Shadowguard or slipping into the city to walk until the noise in my head remembers how to be quiet.
— Reading for pleasure: lately, Tearian folk stories and customs. We learned of your and your brother’s heritage; I would rather arrive informed than embarrass myself and make someone else carry the cost.
If you’re willing, I have questions:
What did Jayce say that made you risk this correspondence with me?
You mentioned mint tea. Are there others you love, or any you’d like to try?
Favorite bread? (I will argue for honeyed oat; I will also accept being proven wrong.) Jam or jelly?
Jayce says there’s a willow near you that keeps its own kind of quiet. When you are in the city, will you walk the gardens with me and help me find a place that feels similar, for you, and perhaps for us?
And last for this letter: is there anything small I can bring you on the escort that would be useful or simply kind?
Thank you for your sketch. It sits by my lamp and reminds me there are calm places that are not dreams.
— D. Lyon
P.S. If you prefer I address you differently, tell me and I’ll earn the permission.
He read it twice, once as a prince, once as the man who preferred to be called Kylar and decided both could live with it.
Three quick knocks and one after. He didn’t turn. “Hello, Silence,” he called.
Tessa slipped in and took in the field of casualties with a single slow blink. She leaned to the desk, smoothed one crumple, then another, reading with that tilted attention that missed nothing.
she signed dryly,
“I was working through it,” he said, sheepish. “I’m happy with the last one. Had to find the right mind.”
She opened another draft, this one slashed to ribbons with corrections.
“That’s why it lives on the floor.”
She held up a different attempt with so many scratched lines it looked wounded.
Dato laughed despite himself. “Of course he has.”
He nudged the clean page toward her. “This is the one. Tell me before I ruin it.”
She read, eyes moving fast, mouth giving away nothing. At the end she tapped the signature with one finger.
“Is he still haunting the library?”
< Barracks or Ryder,> she signed.
Dato folded the letter, slid it into an envelope, and lit the stick. Wax pooled; the Lyon pressed true. He stood, rolled his sleeves, and the two of them stepped into the corridor, Tessa half a pace back, watching corners like she always did.
“Barracks first,” he said.
She didn’t answer out loud. She didn’t have to. Her hand rose, brief and sure, signing what he already knew he needed:
He did. Dato started walking then stopped and felt the letter in his pocket and something like hope in his ribs. “..What if she hates it?” He asked softly. Tessa put a firm hand on his shoulder and shoved him forward toward the friend who would see it safely to the girl under the willow.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The barracks smelled like oil and leather and last night’s onions. Jayce waved off a knot of night watch and followed the sound of laughter to the little kitchen.
Zen, Darius, and Faulkner were hunched around the wobble-leg table, cups in hand; Faulkner was midway through a story about the west gate and a trio of troubadours with one lute between them.
Zen spotted him first. “Captain! Darius and I just got our slips. This escort sounds lively.”
Jayce grinned. “So Ryder moved fast.” He nodded to Darius. “Can you ride with me tomorrow and sit the post until the escort forms?”
Darius thought, as he always did, before he answered. “No, Captain. Ezra’s put me on rotation later in the week.”
“Can’t be helped.” Jayce tipped his chin at Zen. “You?”
Zen flipped a small notebook, squinting at his own scratches. “Gate duty between now and muster. Sorry, Cap.”
“It’s fine.” Jayce shrugged. “Worst case, I stay over and hand it to one of you clean.”
Darius pushed back his chair, the decision already rising through him. “I can lead the escort when it moves. Who’s on it?”
A nudge from behind. Jayce glanced over his shoulder.
“Prince Damon, Darius, Zen, Jayce, Silence, and myself,” Dato said evenly from the doorway. “As Kylar.”
Three chairs straightened; three men did too. “Highness,” they chorused, reflex winning.
“You don’t call me that in the barracks,” Dato grumbled, already pulling a folded envelope from his inner pocket and holding it out to Jayce. “For the lady.”
Jayce took it with a small bow of the head and slid it away, inner pocket to inner pocket.
Tessa had posted up at the jamb, arms folded, eyes doing the quiet sweep that saved lives.
Darius stood, chin tipping as he re-sorted the pieces. “Kylar, you’re clean until muster. Go with Jayce now. You and Silence can sit the town until the escort rolls.”
Dato’s gaze went to Jayce, something like static running behind his eyes. “You’re… taking someone with you?”
The unit watched it happen. The Prince, the guard, and the boy all trying to occupy one body at once. Zen and Faulkner assumed Dato was calculating court schedules and duty swaps. Darius, who had seen Kylar plan in mud and in silk, noted the glitch and filed it beside the letter that had just changed pockets.
Jayce clapped Dato’s shoulder. “I’ll ask Ryder if I can borrow you,” he said, voice low. “Would give you an advantage over Damon.”
Zen perked up. “Our princes are… competing?”
Tessa brought both hands up and clapped once—sharp—then signed with crisp economy.
Dato went pale. Zen and Darius moved in concert, grabbing an elbow each and parking him in the nearest chair. Faulkner made himself scarce; Tessa shut the door with a neat click and took the hinge-side, impassable as a post.
Jayce leaned against the counter and did not intervene.
“Ky,” Zen said, grin wide as midsummer, “are you actually interested in a girl? We were starting to take bets you were into men.”
Dato’s mouth opened, shut. He blinked once, resetting. “I’m flattered you were taking a bet.”
Zen snorted. “Answers the question, though.”
Darius steepled his fingers, the way he did when turning a fight into a lesson. “Ground rules for the trip, Kylar. You said ‘as Kylar.’ Are we concealing your title from her?” He cut his eyes to Jayce. “We testing her?”
Jayce’s mouth thinned. “We’re not running an examination.”
Dato shook his head. “I’m not testing anyone. I want to speak to her like a person before I’m a problem.”
Zen leaned back and pointed. “That sentence says you’ve been mishandled by too many ladies.”
“Give him credit,” Darius said, deadpan. “He’s never had a princess to mishandle him.”
Zen cackled. “True.”
Dato dragged a hand through his hair, choosing honesty. “People see the crown first. She might not. I—” He stopped, corrected. “I hope she won’t.”
“That,” Jayce said, “is sane.”
Zen tapped the table. “So what are we, then, around her? Honest names or duty names?”
“Honest in the yard, duty in the street,” Jayce said, automatic. “If Ky’s in leather, he’s Kylar. Damon will not be in leather.”
Dato lifted a hand. “And… I’d like to keep the mask up as much as possible around her. If you can follow my lead on that.”
“Saints help us all,” Darius muttered, but it sounded like agreement.
Tessa signed, slower so no one missed it.
“Agreed,” Jayce said immediately.
Dato glanced at Jayce’s pocket, then away. “I’d like to ride with you now, if Ryder gives leave.”
Zen rocked forward, grin crooked. “You nervous?”
“Enthusiastic,” Dato said, and the word did too much work.
“Call it what it is,” Jayce murmured, amused. “Bad at waiting.”
Dato huffed. “Fine. I’m bad at waiting.”
Zen whistled low. “Princess must be worth all that enthusiasm, hm?”
Darius’s mouth tilted. “Or Ky’s finally met someone who doesn’t trip over his crown.”
Jayce didn’t bother hiding his answer. “She’s worth the wait. At the very least.”
Darius rolled his shoulders and started counting on knuckles. “Roster holds: Captain Jayce on point; Damon as royal stand-in; Kylar in guard kit; Silence; me; Zen. We’ll pull two steady riders from Ezra for the center. We ride bright, less trouble finds bright.”
“Less of the wrong kind,” Jayce agreed. He looked to Dato. “I’ll clear you with Ryder.”
Zen flicked a glance at Tessa. “Strategy for our allegedly competing princes?”
Tessa’s hands moved, dry as kindling. Beat.
“Noted,” Jayce said.
Darius tipped his chin at Kylar. “If you want to be ‘guard,’ then be guard. Take the watch on her at stops and waterings. Keep your eyes on road and roofs. Damon will… be Damon.”
Zen snorted. “He’ll hog the carriage.”
“No one’s surprised,” Jayce said. “We’ll manage seating. Ky, you’ll get ground time with her without the velvet.”
Zen squinted, mapping contingencies. “If she puts it together before you tell her?”
Dato met his eyes, steady now. “Then I tell her anyway. Plain.”
Jayce’s face eased. “Good.”
Zen made a small trumpet flourish with his lips. “He does have it in him.”
Darius pushed back his chair. “Enough kitchen. Kits to pull.”
Jayce straightened and nodded orders. “Zen, draft the inventory. Darius, clear the two center riders with Ezra. ” He touched his inner pocket, then drew the envelope and offered it back to Dato. “Your call: want to hand it to her yourself?”
Dato weighed it, thumb on the seal, then slipped it away again. “Let me think on it.”
“Fair,” Jayce said.
They moved. The door opened on oil and leather and the long hall’s cooler air, and the little kitchen let go of its brief, conspiratorial warmth as the unit broke to do the work.
After the rest left Dato stood there a moment and glanced over to Tessa. She tilted her head and signed.
She did a small wave and peeled out into the hallway to her own rooms.
Dato stayed where the warmth had been, palms flat on the scarred table. The barracks noise ran past the door, boots, a laugh, the clang of a latch, and then thinned. He let it. He could feel the shape of yes already coming from Ryder; Jayce would ask, Ryder would sigh like a man pretending to be put out, and then he’d nod. The nod was as certain as sunrise.
Three days.
He breathed it once, like testing a bridge plank. Three days to the door he’s been walking toward for five years; then he’d stay until the escort formed and the world changed names around her. The thought came in pieces and then all at once. It hit harder than he expected. He let his knees bend and sat, briefly, because standing on that much feeling was like standing on a moving deck.
Pack.
That word steadied everything. He rose and took the long hall to his rooms, oil and leather following like familiar ghosts. Inside: lamp up, trunks open, ritual doing its quiet work. He pulled the guard kit first, leathers he’d already mended twice, bracers, spare laces, wax for seams, whetstone in its pouch, travel cloak he promised to remember. Two shirts, one good, one for road. Thread and needles. A small tin of salve. His sealing kit. The plain half-mask for street work. He hesitated over the prince’s signet and left it where it was; Kylar was going, not Dato.
He set his bowcase by the door, checked the string with his thumbnail, and laid ten clean-fletched arrows beside it. Habit turned his hands and his head followed: maps folded, charcoal tucked, coin for tolls bright enough to be respected and dull enough not to be remembered. The letter—her letter—he touched through his coat, finding the weight of the reply he’d written. He could send it with Jayce. He could hand it to her himself. He didn’t decide. Not yet.
Then a thought dawned on him. Would he watch her write back to him? She may write back to send with Jayce. He silently hoped she fretted over what words to say as much as he did.
What to bring her now. He’d asked in the letter, but asking didn’t forbid bringing something safe. He took down the slim book of Tearian folktales he’d been hoarding for “someday,” ran a thumb over the cover, and wrapped it in cloth. He added a spool of waxed linen, useful, ordinary, unthreatening, and set both atop the cloak.
He looked around the room once more, inventorying the last of the nerves until they were just numbers. Three days. Roads he knew by heart. A door he did not. He blew the lamp down to a steady glow, set his pack where his hand would find it in the dark, and told his pulse the same thing he planned to tell her when the ground was right:
Be patient. We’re going.