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1473 - 1483.

cordelia was born in the hush between tides—those rare, still moments just before the sun breaks over myr’dalas and casts its pink light across the water. that morning, a seaquake struck the cliffs, and the first thing anyone remembered was the sound of her crying—louder than the waves, raw and unrelenting. it was said the sea answered her, and the ancient stone walls of house vaelisar shuddered with each gust of wind.

then duke, eiran vaelisar, a man forged by years of campaign and command, held the small, screaming child in trembling arms and felt something he hadn’t felt since his first battle—fear. not of the child, but of the world she would inherit. and so he named her cordelia, “daughter of the sea,” in honor of the tide that bore her, and the strength he hoped she’d never need to use.

from the beginning, she was unlike most privileged noble children—quiet, watchful, soft-spoken in a house built on steel and order. other nobles bred their daughters for spectacle or marriage; eiran, in contrast, kept cordelia close beneath his wings. she was never far from his shadow on the days he was free of his duty to serve, his stride measured to her smaller steps as they walked the ramparts, waves crashing beneath. he read to her from war journals but winced with fascination every time she repeated a general’s name. when she showed an early interest in maps, he bought her stories instead of the many fairytales, she only grew devoted to the goddess selunareth. when she asked to learn the sword, he gave her a brush she snapped cleanly in half during an altercation with a relative.

still, he could not keep the world at bay. when cordelia was just eight, an assassin slipped past the guard at a banquet and carved a path toward her father’s throat. the duke survived, but barely—and it was cordelia, hidden beneath a banquet table, who remembered the assailant’s accent, the limp in his step, the way his left eye twitched at the smell of wine. her testimony led to the capture. she had not screamed. she had not cried.

the fear that cordelia lacked hosted itself onto eiran as if it were a parasite that fed off his bravado.

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PLAYLIST.

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tw: cordelia's timeline will have mentions of death under the subtitle of loss & legacy. if that is something you are uncomfortable with, skip past the first three paragraphs of said section.

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full name: cordelia vaelisar

ᝰ.ᐟ of vaelisar, house of the sablefin, swearing allegiance to the kingdom of thaloriel

date of birth: 35th day of rekindra, 1473 (27)

place of birth/hometown: myr'dalas enclave

rank: noble

occupation: mistcaptain in the moonveil army

ᝰ.ᐟ skills:

vaelisarian sword arts, espionage, tactics

ᝰ.ᐟ powers:

tideweaving, uses mist and steam to conceal herself

limitation: tidal burnout

orientation: biromantic/sexual (implied)

marital status: engaged

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ᝰ.ᐟ a young woman who has a piercing gaze that betrays her delicate features. dark black hair that falls to her waist, often tied in a single braid or neat bun due to the nature of her occupation.

ᝰ.ᐟ height: 165cm

ᝰ.ᐟ build: lithe with faint muscle definition on the legs and arms from training. dressmakers describe her as a soft classic, opting to dress her in smooth, flowing silhouettes in more formal settings.

ᝰ.ᐟ signature scent: fig (top) coconut (middle) fig tree & cedar (base)

think diptyque's philosykos

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HEAD OF HOUSE: duke loros vaelisar

ᝰ.ᐟ relation to subject: uncle

MEMBERS:

⟡ eiran vaelisar

ᝰ.ᐟ relation to subject: biological father

ᝰ.ᐟ status: former duke, deceased

⟡ kaelen vaelisar

ᝰ.ᐟ relation to subject: biological brother

ᝰ.ᐟ status: naval admiral in the moonveil army

⟡ cordelia vaelisar

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mbti: isfj (defender)

enneagram: 9w8

having been trained in espionage, cordelia has mastered the art of appearing unassuming to the untrained eye. in her line of work, it's better to be disarming than it is to make a statement from the first impression. she's naturally soft spoken, and in fact, some may even describe her to be gentle and supportive. cordelia uses this natural charm to her advantage in a battlefield to draw enemies in before dealing a lethal strike.

despite this, cordelia is rather awkward in situations where she should feel relaxed. it manifests in different ways in different scenarios. she may be overly chatty when silence floods a room, and deafeningly quiet when attention falls on her. the duke often worries if his dearest daughter had become emotionally stunted when he decided to honor her wishes of training to join the moonveil army.

she's extremely loyal to her cause, often to the point of seeming overbearing at times.

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LIKES

ᝰ.ᐟ street fairs and festivals - avid enjoyer of seeing other people happy. likes seeing the hustle & bustle that comes with festivities despite appearing withdrawn.

ᝰ.ᐟ collecting weaponry and jewels - close associates have likened her to a crow that gravitates towards shiny things. if it catches her eyes through a trick of light, she begins bartering with the merchant.

ᝰ.ᐟ floating on water under a moonlit sky - when thoughts begin to trouble her, she seeks out bodies of water where she can silently wade away against gentle tides.

ᝰ.ᐟ hardworking people - she develops a sense of respect towards people that fully strive towards their goals, even if they're an enemy.

ᝰ.ᐟ selunareth - a fascination that burgeoned ever since the duke read her bedtime stories about the goddess. she strives to embody her values, silently and purely worshipping her.

DISLIKES

ᝰ.ᐟ condescension - when people begin to patronize her or those weaker than themselves, her patience begins to thin.

ᝰ.ᐟ violent tides - they bring a sense of uncertainty, it unsettles her.

ᝰ.ᐟ disappointing others - especially her father. everything cordelia does, she strives to do her utmost best. and although she loathes to show it on her face, she often beats herself up and mulls over failed missions and lost comrades.

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brief description of connection.

threads:

summary of thread - location

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TBA.

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eiran once declared, “you will never walk the path that brought blood to my hands.”

cordelia remembers his profile clearly when he uttered those words to her. his somber gaze could not tear itself from the portrait of lewellyn, the late duchess, her mother. for a man who had spilled blood of others and his own for the glory of a nation, perhaps...he had too much to lose.

cordelia could only nod wordlessly in that moment. yet in moments of secrecy, she wielded wooden blades and mirrored the drills taking place in the courtyard.

the first to notice was loros, her uncle and the duke's younger brother. loros did not smile often—but he saw everything. and he saw cordelia, barefoot in the shadowed gallery behind the training yards, copying the guards’ movements with careful grace.

“your stance is too stiff.”

cordelia froze.

loros didn’t explain himself. didn’t offer comfort. he just adjusted her elbow, pressed her shoulder down, and handed her a practice dagger from his belt.

“if you're going to disobey your father,” he said, “you may as well do it right.”

beyond mastery of the blade, loros taught her espionage and tactics. to burn maps after memorizing them, to decode ciphers with a moment's glance. she thought he was preparing her to protect her father, just as her father had once protected her; it would be not be long before she realized he was preparing her to live without him.

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kingdom: thaloriel

rank: soldier / commoner preferred, but noble is fine too

themes: shared survival, soft loyalty, unspoken bond, devotion wrapped in silence

age/gender: 24+ (any gender)

“don’t ask me to be calm where your life is concerned.”

years have passed since cordelia rescued you from your drowning village - a mission she was never meant to lead, only observe as a tidewalker. death was imminent but cordelia made sure you survived.

once strangers, now you follow her like a moth to flame. simply because debts must be repaid, and this one with your life. fellow soldiers may call it loyalty, perhaps even an obsession. yet cordelia does not try to name it at all. to her, you're a comrade that has fought side by side ever since.

nevertheless, she does not want you to be bound by duty.

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💍 the betrothed blade - lioren caelithar

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💍 the betrothed blade - lioren caelithar

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kingdom: thaloriel (or other kingdoms-some details may need to be adjusted)
rank: noble

themes: political tension, soft loyalty, restraint

“i don’t need a husband,” she once said.
“good,” you replied. “i’m not here to be needed.”

the betrothal was arranged shortly after cordelia’s ascension to mistcaptain—meant to solidify ties between two powerful houses in thaloriel. strategic. cold. tidy. the epitome of how house vaelisar moved. this union was to be a seal of stability after her father’s death.

cordelia never objected. nor did you.
but neither of you ever quite treated it like a promise. not out loud.

in public, you're allies. cordial, controlled, not a hair out of place. rehearsed smiles in banquet halls, the first waltz of eachother's evening.

in private, there are moments—shorter than a breath—where the weight of what you could be presses close. a glance too long. a hand offered without needing to be.

neither could ever fathom to define this thing between you.
but still, she finds herself turning toward you in a storm.

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kingdom: thaloriel

rank: any

affiliation: infirmarium (physician or nurse)

age/gender: 25+ (any gender)

themes: friendship, emotional anchor

you are the calm eye in the storm of cordelia’s whirlwind life. beyond the grueling missions, you see what others rarely do; the fatigue etched in her posture, the tension she tries to hide behind a composed mask, the heavy sighs that give it all away. whether binding wounds or offering a quiet word, you bring a sense of steadiness upon contact.

cordelia may not speak much about what haunts her, but in your presence, she allows the smallest cracks to show. you’ve learned how to read her silences and offer comfort without forcing words she’s not ready to say.

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kingdom: any (neutral or politically tense with thaloriel)
rank: noble

themes: intrigue, political tension, burgeoning friendship through letters (and possible chance encounters)

age/gender: 24+ (any)

you met by chance— beneath the guise of a festival that felt foreign yet fascinating to cordelia. it was a moment where smiles masked silent agendas. cordelia’s gaze is unreadable, her silence a fortress. but you saw restraint; calculated, deliberate, purposeful in every action. where she viewed your kingdom as a looming threat, you presented an unexpected disarming calm.

since then, your correspondence has grown—from stiff formalities sharpened by wit, to letters tinged with something unspoken. something fragile. interest, or perhaps warning. sometimes both.

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timezone: gmt -5 (EST)
pronouns: she/her
age: 26

feel free to address me by my rpr username,  fc's name, or mobi.

due to work, my hours of activity will usually be during the evenings on weekdays and weekends.

currently i'm on break and i'll have more time, but i've also filled up my irl schedule with whimsy, dillydallying, and nonsense so activity should still be about the same as when im working.

you can nudge me about replying only if it's been more than three weeks since i've last responded, chances are my schedule has been very hectic and i haven't been able to accommodate other things!

preferred pov: third
genres: angst, fluff, humor, drama, friendship, hurt/comfort
will very rarely do smut, comfort level varies.  characters & mun must be 21+.

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(tw: death/descriptions of death)

it happened in the blink of an eye and cordelia was too late in stopping it from happening.

eiran vaelisar, the great duke of the vaelisars, was gone. assassinated - a pitiful death for a man who carried the sin of wrath deep in his bone marrow.

beside him was the assassin, knocked unconscious and heavily bruised. the seventeen year old girl dropped to her knees, wordlessly shaking the shoulder of her father, hoping that it would work like some charm to wake him. she wanted to scream in agony in place of him, yet nothing would come out. just a haunting pain that settled in her throat, begging for release.

after the funeral, loros was named head of house vaelisar. the ink on the decree had barely dried before his days filled with counsel sessions, security reviews, and the delicate balancing act of a grieving manor on the edge of fracturing. whatever mentorship he had offered cordelia was now a closed chapter—his gaze no longer her mirror, but the steel of duty.

cordelia understood.
she didn’t ask him to stay.

instead, she left.

she split her time between the velunthar isles, and the tidal sanctum. the isles gave her the discipline of blade and balance. the sanctum gave her the battlefield—the silence before a strike, the sharpness of espionage, the thrill of erasure.

by the time she turned twenty, she had earned the rank of tidewalker, a title only given to those who had survived both sea-born trials and shadow warfare. and by twenty-three, she was mistcaptain—commanding her own unit, feared not for her name, but for her precision.

they called her gentle only once.
no one made that mistake again.

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1486, Myr’dalas Enclave, Residence of the Vaelisars

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1486, Myr’dalas Enclave, Residence of the Vaelisars

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(note: the previous duke is still alive in this excerpt)

Eiran Vaelisar, hardened by battle, surprised many with his soft spot for his children. This was especially true for his daughter, Cordelia. Often, a few words from her would capture his full attention. After their shifts, footmen from the mansion enjoyed dark ale and fish stew at the tavern. They joked that the duke was a fool for his daughter. This joke held some truth.

Eiran, toughened by battle, had calloused hands from wielding greatswords. A scar ran down his cheek to the corner of his lip. Still, he made time to read to young Cordelia before she fell asleep. Afterward, he returned to the barracks for drills until midnight.

A parent does not need a reason to give unconditional love. Yet, some might say the duke was compensating for the absence of his children’s mother. His love for Cordelia was powerful, and his protectiveness was even stronger.

“Father…please, I want to train with the guard. I’ll start as a squire. I won’t get hurt.” His daughter, now thirteen and bruised from practicing swordplay, begged. The head butler said her self-taught practice caused several falls. One time, she even knocked a cabinet over onto herself.

“You expect me to believe you when you look like this?!” Eiran bellows, pausing to breathe after she flinches. "Delia… dear, listen to me.”

“You will never walk the path that brought blood to my hands.”

He spoke in a gentle tone, his gaze fixed on the calm portrait of Lewellyn Vaelisar. In the candlelight, Cordelia began to resemble her mother. She was silent, waiting, still. Yet, she remained defiant. Eiran knew that no matter what he said, Cordelia would find a way to train in secret.

Still, he wouldn’t take her under his wing. This would mean that Cordelia would risk everything for Thaloriel, even her life. Previous dukes may have been selfless in their support, but Eiran was not.

“Isn’t this my duty too, Father? I want to help you, the soldiers, and Brother! "Brother's sword instructor said I have the strength to be a tidewalker. I'm finally getting the hang of my tideweaving." Cordelia raised her head. She tried to stay calm as she clenched her fists.

“Enough. My decision is final.” Eiran tore his gaze away, knowing he would falter the moment he saw his daughter’s face. “If I hear word of you making an attempt to do this again, I will have you live in the capital for the rest of your life.”

Cordelia takes a shaky breath. She whispers ‘understood’ and storms off, slamming the study doors behind her. The framed map of the Myr’dalas Enclave topples over from the impact. Eiran turns around at the sound, and a heavy sigh causes his shoulders to droop.

“My dear child, I only want you to live a happy and carefree life. Not one of bloodshed or horror… no matter the proximity to it by being a Vaelisar.”

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PRESENT DAY: 70th Umbrosar, 1500, Vaelisar Estate

TW: death, depiction of blood, violence/assassination, grief, NPC suicide

“You’re busy, I could have sent a steward to the capital instead,”  Loros calls out to Cordelia, opening the main gates of the manor so that his niece could enter.

Cordelia saunters past him.  The linen of her blouse shifted with the breeze that slipped through the courtyard.  The heels of her boots echoed against the pristine marble floor, the soles were clean, lest the middle-aged man scold her for being so uncouth.  Loros trails behind.  Both were silent, not needing idle chatter to fill up the air between them.  It’s a short walk to her desired destination, her gaze falling on the padlocked doors before casting a sidelong glance to Loros.

“You’ve never used the Solar room since you assumed the position of duke.”  Cordelia hums, dipping her fingers beneath the collar of her blouse to find the chain she wears beneath.  It caught briefly on the edge of a button loop before sliding free, an ornate key hanging from the chain like a pendant.

“Well, how am I going to use it if my niece has the key?”

“Don’t jest, you have your key to the solar.  And yet, word is from the chamberlain that the only time these gates open is when the maid needs to clean the rooms.”

“Well, we can’t have dust accumulate, can we?”

“You refuse to exit the premises while the maids clean.”  Cordelia pushes the keys into the door, sighing when she hears the click.

“Father died ten years ago.  Are the wounds still fresh?”  Loros fell silent, merely following after his niece.  He stops by the doorframe, face frozen with no emotion, though his eyes tell a different story.  Cordelia can tell, yet she decides not to address it.

Cordelia’s eyes fell to the shallow scar on the wood of her father’s study, her hand running along the divots.  They say memories fade as the seasons turn, and yet…and yet she could still remember that moment so sharply.  And even as the seasons turn, the sting has not yet dulled.

Was she so weak?

–

FLASHBACK: 20th Caelinor, 1490, Vaelisar Estate

The Vaelisar estate was overrun, not by enemies, nor by pests, but by stuffy nobility seeking to curry the favor of Duke Eiran Vaelisar.  It was, by no means, a grand celebration.  Merely four or five smaller noble families that usually swung by every two years, intending to stay in the duke’s ‘good grace’.

Though, in Cordelia’s opinion, they’d fare better if they didn’t show their faces and acted out of virtue.  But who was she to judge?  Surely her father valued the opinions of his slimy retainers than her own.

She stood by his side, holding a flute of berry juice in her hand.  She smiled politely as nobles greeted her father - rather, it felt as though her face was frozen in a smile.  Tight-lipped, facial muscles aching.

The moment the greetings ceased, Eiran tilted his head towards her direction and whispered, “You may be smiling, but your eyes look as though you want to skin these people alive.”

”How did you know, Father!  That’s exactly how I’m feeling.”  Cordelia retorts softly, feigning a chuckle for the theatrics.

”Cordelia.”

”Fine, I’ll cease.”  She sighs, finally making a significant dent in the berry juice.

“Good, you’re 17 now, polite society will talk about you more and — I can’t marry off a daughter who has a reputation for looking like she’d go on a murderous rampage any minute now.”  Eiran jokes, though it’s a joke that stings Cordelia where it hurts.

”You’re utterly impossible, father!”  She groans, stepping away from his side to get some fresh air.

“Don’t stray too far, dear!” Eiran calls out to her.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia - The Heritors of Arcadia (English W/ Lyrics)

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(2/3)

She escapes to the cliff overlooking the estate, carefully sitting by the edge.  The wind was calming, gentle—the chill was refreshing, paired with only the crash of waves in this silence.  She hugs her knees as she watches the moon above, wondering if she will ever become free of the expectations set by her father.

The manor was several hundred yards behind her, and with a sigh, she looked over her shoulder to look at it from this distance.  Instead, she was met with surprise as her gaze traveled to Eiran, who began to make his way up to where she was.  Her lips jutted forward into a pout, turning her head away quickly.

“Sulking?” Rang that familiar voice behind her.

”Observing.”  She replies dryly, “From afar.  Where the air smells less like desperation and expensive perfumes.”

The gravel shifted as he sat beside her, following her gaze to the horizon.  “When I was your age, I snuck off from my own debutante.  Hid in the stables for two hours.”

”How scandalous,” Cordelia deadpans.

“Dreadful, wasn’t it?” he mused. “Your grandfather nearly had a fit. I remember thinking if I could just get a horse saddled fast enough, I could leave it all behind.”

She turned to look at him now. There was a faint smile at the corner of his lips, his expression wistful in a way she hadn’t seen often.

“And yet you stayed,” she said.

“I did,” he replied. “And I regret nothing. Except… maybe that I didn’t teach you sooner how to fake a better smile.”

Cordelia let out a quiet laugh. A genuine one. “You could’ve led with that, instead of talking about marriage and that sort of nonsense.”

Eiran chuckled, but then his voice dropped. “Cordelia.”

“Hm?”

“I’m proud of you.” He turned toward her now. “You have more spine than half my men. For that I’m proud, and yet it worries me greatly.  Perhaps you may think me a terrible father for holding you back, but I cannot — in good faith — have you sacrifice your life for a country out of mere obligation.”

Cordelia blinked. The wind carried away her reply before she could settle on one.

She leaned her head on his shoulder. Just for a moment.

”Loros says your skills in Vaelisarian sword arts can surpass me, y’know.”  Eiran says, voice smug as though he revealed a crucial secret.

”He told you about my secret lessons?!  Ugh since when?”

”I’ve always known my dear, nothing slips past your father.  You ought to get better at being sneaky, might save your life one day.”

Eiran’s expression softened, the faint glint of amusement fading from his eyes as he looked at her more closely. The breeze tugged at his coat, ruffling the dark strands of his hair now touched faintly with gray. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter, weighted not with command, but with worry.

“Cordelia,” he said. “Are you certain this is what you want?”

”I’ve never been more certain of anything in my whole life, it may not be the life you want for me father.  It’s the life I want to choose.”

“Very well,” he said, his thoughts swimming a thousand miles, a heavy sigh forcing itself out. “Just… promise me one thing.”

“What is it?”

“When the time comes… don’t be a hero. Be clever. Be alive.”

Cordelia squeezed his hand once before releasing it. “I can try.”

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(3/3)

TW: death, depiction of blood, violence/assassination, grief, NPC suicide

“Come,” he said, a touch of tiredness in his voice. “If we linger, your uncle will come looking. And we both know how Loros gets when he assumes the worst.”

Cordelia smirked and fell into step beside him, their return to the estate comfortable, if quiet. The main hall had quieted; most of the visiting nobles had either retired to their guest rooms or were occupied elsewhere. The scent of evening tea and burnt citrus drifted faintly through the corridors.

At the split in the hall, Cordelia paused. “You’re not joining them for supper?”  A marked sense of anxiety filled her voice, dreading the possibility of having to entertain these uppity guests on her own.

Eiran shook his head. “Just need to settle something in the Solar before then. You go on ahead.”

She hesitated.

“I won’t be long,” he added, his tone softening as he glanced at her. “And Cordelia…you have to get used to talking to strangers, social skills are important for a sentry too.”

He lingered a moment longer, his voice softening.

“You already know how to guard a kingdom. Just… don’t forget how to live in it.”

She gave a small nod, watching him turn toward the Solar, his steps steady but slower than before. Something about the moment felt… unnerving, but she said nothing. Only watched him disappear behind the tall double doors, the golden light from the hall flickering briefly across his back before they closed.

It happened not long after.

In the quiet stretch of time where dinner was being prepared and the evening oil lamps were just being lit, a commotion stirred in the west wing.

The guards’ shouts came first.

Then the shrill call of a maid.

By the time Cordelia arrived, sprinting down the corridor, it was too late.

The sight would sear itself into her for years to come.

The door to the Solar had been ajar.

Her father lay crumpled near his desk, his blood soaking into the rug like spilled wine. One arm hung limp at his side, the other twisted unnaturally, fingers curled as if they’d tried, truly tried, to grasp something. Maybe the bell cord. Maybe the dagger. Maybe the assailant.

The scent hit her first: a metallic scent of blood, one that would haunt her for years to come. Her slippers slowed against the floor, her steps no longer echoing as she approached. The guards had already forced the intruder down, his face a mottled mess of bruises and spittle. No insignia marked his garb. Just roughspun sleeves, a bloodied knife, and a small glass flask shattered at his side. One of the guards shouted something, an order, a call for aid, but it all blurred into nonsense.

She didn’t hear them.

Didn’t see them.

She only saw /him/.

Her father—/her father/—on the ground like some broken, cast-aside heirloom. Eiran Vaelisar.  The man who had spoken to her just moments before, whose voice still rang in her ears.

He could not be…/no/.

She dropped to her knees. The chill of the marble bit through her trousers, but she didn’t notice. Her hands moved on their own, reaching for his shoulder, his jaw, his collar. His body was warm. That made it worse.

“Father…” Her voice barely escaped her, dry and uncertain, like she was testing a lie.

She pressed her hand to his chest. Waited. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

She shook him, gently, then harder, as if jostling his shoulder might coax a breath from him. Her fingers curled around his tunic, heedless of the blood soaking it through. Her mouth opened to scream, to call, to demand…but nothing came. Not even a breath.

It had happened in the blink of an eye.

And she had been /too late/.

Eiran Vaelisar, the great Duke of Myr’dalas, a man carved of pride and iron and impossible love, was gone.

And Cordelia—seventeen, not yet a daughter who knew how to grieve, could only kneel beside him as the silence howled. Behind her, one of the guards cursed as the assassin’s body went slack. Foam had gathered at the corner of his mouth. The poison had taken root, fast and efficiently.

They would get no answers.

There would be no justice.

Only this.

Her father’s blood. Her own still heart. Her trembling hands were soaked red.

Cordelia bowed forward until her forehead pressed against his shoulder. She didn’t cry—not yet. It was too soon for tears. Too soon for understanding. But in that moment, the fire that would shape her future sparked quietly inside her, slow, cold, and without ceremony.

—

BACK TO PRESENT DAY:

“There were many… families present that day. Why didn’t their presence matter?” Cordelia asked, her voice low, almost to herself, as though she were testing the weight of the question aloud.

She tore her gaze away from the faint outline of the scarred floorboards and moved behind the old desk, fingers brushing lightly across the shelves, grounding herself in the familiar.

Loros didn’t answer right away. His arms crossed loosely, but his jaw was tight, as though chewing on something he didn’t want to say.

“They were all detained and questioned,” he finally said, the words carrying the weariness of someone who’d lived them far too many times. “But it became clear soon enough that they were all too dull-witted to pose a real threat. Or offer any valuable intelligence.”

His sigh was heavy, pinched with frustration and memory. “As… ambitiously stupid as some of them were, all the evidence pointed elsewhere. Nothing stuck. Nothing. If you want to look over the case files… they’re in the restricted corner of the archives.”

Cordelia paused, her gaze lingering on a leatherbound book without a title. She pulled it from the shelf, weighing it in one hand. The leather was worn, the spine familiar.  There was a silent hope that opening the book would allow her to read the words of someone who was once familiar.  She said nothing as she pressed it to her chest, before gathering a few more volumes:  older texts on formation theory, revised treatises on tideforging, and a faded manual on Vaelisarian swordplay.

“I think…” she said after a moment, her voice clearer, more resolved, “I’ll make a visit before I leave for the capital.”

Loros nodded silently from behind her, but his eyes stayed fixed on the spot her father had once stood, that same scar in the desk Cordelia’s fingers grazed.

The books felt heavier than they should have, though she made no complaint as she stepped into the hall, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

(3/3)

“Come,” he said, a touch of tiredness in his voice. “If we linger, your uncle will come looking. And we both know how Loros gets when he assumes the worst.”

Cordelia smirked and fell into step beside him. At the split in the hall, Cordelia paused. “You’re not joining them for supper?”

Eiran shook his head. “Just need to settle something in the Solar before then. You go on ahead.”

She hesitated.

“I won’t be long,” he added. “And Cordelia… you already know how to guard a kingdom. Just don’t forget how to live in it.”

She gave a small nod and watched him disappear behind the double doors.

It happened not long after.

The guards’ shouts came first. Then the shrill cry of a maid.

By the time Cordelia arrived, it was too late.

Her father lay crumpled near his desk, his blood soaking into the rug like spilled wine. One arm hung limp, the other twisted. No insignia marked the assassin. Just a knife, and the shattered flask of poison he had swallowed before the guards could pull him away.

She didn’t hear them.

Didn’t see them.

Only him.

“Father…” she whispered, kneeling, shaking him, fingers trembling against his cheek. There was no breath. No warmth. Her mouth opened—but no sound came. No scream. No sob.

It had happened in the blink of an eye.

And she had been too late.

Behind her, the assassin’s body went slack. There would be no confession. No closure.

Only this.

Her father’s blood. Her own shaking hands. And silence.

—

BACK TO PRESENT DAY:

“There were many… families present that day. Why didn’t their presence matter?” Cordelia asked, tearing herself away from memory. She scanned the shelves behind the desk, grounding herself in motion.

“They were all detained and questioned,” Loros said. “But it became clear soon enough they were too dull-witted to be part of it. If you want the case files… they’re in the restricted archives.”

Cordelia’s fingers settled on a leatherbound book. Familiar. She pressed it to her chest and collected a few more: formation theory, tideforging, Vaelisarian swordplay.

“I think,” she said, voice quiet but certain, “I’ll make a visit before I leave for the capital.”

The books felt heavier than they should have. But she said nothing more, the door clicking softly shut behind her.