It’s strange, isn’t it? Trying to write to someone you talk to all the time. I feel like I can be much more serious in letters—it’s the lack of body language options. Or maybe the lack of my body, period. How can I make jokes if all I have is ink and not my wonderful bosoms? Oh, does a lady not speak of her bosoms in a letter? I’m terrible at this. Send me back to Y’shennria for five more years.

I’m writing this, mostly, because I’m nervous. And maybe that’s a bad idea, because you know me—I get to blabbing when I’m anxious. Too many words, but none of them with any meaning.

So. I’ll cut myself off and cut to the point.

I love you.

Did you know that? Even if you did, I wanted to say it one last time.

But no one is ever really gone.

I wish you the happiest of lives. A long life, too. But not too long. You know how I feel about eternity.

Wherever you go, I will be.

Yours,

Elizera Y’shennria

Sitting in his chair at the high table of the negotiations room of the palace, Lucien d’Malvane felt as though the Pendronic ambassador was looking at him with the eyes of a hungry hyena.

“Surely Your Highness is aware he is approaching twenty-two years of age now.” The ambassador licked his lips uneasily. “The Golden Empress wishes to express her high regard of you, and of your ancient bloodline, and begs you consider her daughter—”

“And I’m very flattered, to be regarded so highly by the Golden Empress.” Lucien wove his voice in the careful silks politics required. “But I’m sure I’ve sent out more than one notice of the dissolution of the kingdom of Cavanos and its noble hierarchy, sir. All noble families are in the process of being formally stripped of their lands and birthright, and the assets redistributed among the commonwealth. This, of course, includes the royal bloodline.”

The ambassador’s fine red mustache twitched as he made a small bow in his chair, ruffled collar barely containing his hidden disdain. “Of course, Your Highness.”

“Then, if the royal family is dissolved,” the former prince began slowly, but not too slowly as to offend, “it seems there’s very little need to call me ‘Your Highness,’ am I not correct?”

“You are, your—” This time, the ambassador caught himself, and he coughed into his sleeve. “Your Excellency.”

The tall, pale beneather sitting against the wall among the ambassador’s silk-clad guards rolled his ruby eyes. Lucien prayed to whatever god was left that Malachite could hold his tongue long enough for the former prince to drill the facts of the new Vetrisian Empire into the ambassador’s head.

“Ah-ah.” Lucien put up one finger and waved it playfully at the ambassador. “Excellency is still a noble title.”