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The hallway hadn’t changed. It was still quiet. The air still smelled faintly of polish, parchment and strangely, static. Back then, she’d been nervous, yes—but it had been a nervousness folded in with some kind of knowledge. She’d known what she was walking into. That he would be angry with her.

This time, the uncertainty cut deeper.

She stood still now, no pacing, no restless movement—just a woman holding herself rigid as if motion might unravel her entirely. In her hands rested a pristine white envelope, its surface unmarred by fingerprints or creases. Gold wax sealed it shut, the Menenius crest pressed neatly into its center, ceremonial and final. Cerulean’s name was written across the front in elegant cursive, the gold ink catching the light when she tilted it.

Inside was the letter: formal and persuasive. A recommendation for Cerulean to assume the position of Headmaster of Haven, written to be delivered to the council. It was power, distilled into parchment; even now, they knew the kind of power the Menenius name held in Mistral. It was proof that she had kept her word. A promise, fulfilled, just as he had fulfilled his own. He had secured her transport, enlisted Cobalt’s help, ensured she crossed the icy sea to Solitas safely.

On paper, everything balanced. But paper didn’t account for memory.

She could have mailed the letter. That was the sensible choice. The clean choice. No history, no complications—just wax, ink, and distance. Instead, she was here again, standing in the same hallway, heart thudding unevenly as her fingers curled tighter around the envelope. She told herself it was about closure. About doing things properly. And maybe part of that was true.

But she couldn’t shake the memories of that week she had spent in his mansion—how it lingered, heavy and insistent, like a bruise she kept pressing just to remind herself it was real.

She remembered his home: the way it had felt too large at first, too quiet, until it wasn’t. Nights blurred together there, charged with an intensity she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time. Passion tangled with anger, grief snapping at the edges of every touch. She had unloaded everything onto him—every sharp, jagged emotion she carried—because she knew he would not fold under the weight of it. He absorbed her storms without flinching, without trying to soften them or send them back.

She remembered waking in silk sheets, the morning light filtering in too gently for how wrecked she’d felt inside. The disorienting intimacy of it—the way familiarity had crept in when she wasn’t watching. How being held afterward had felt less like comfort and more like surrender. That was what haunted her now. Not regret, exactly, but the knowledge that something raw and unfinished still lived between them.

That was why she hadn’t mailed the letter.

It wasn’t duty that had brought her back to this hallway. It was the echo of shared nights, of words spoken in the dark and never revisited in daylight. The question of whether that week had meant the same thing to him...or if it had simply been a transaction, neatly concluded.

The envelope felt heavier than it should have. She drew in a slow breath, steadying herself, and lifted her hand toward the door. Whatever waited on the other side—resolution, distance, or something far more dangerous—she was already here.

“…Hi, Cere,” she says first, the soft nickname, one she hadn't called him since their engagement, escaping before she can stop it. It’s quieter than she intends, almost tentative, like she’s testing whether the moment will hold. Her golden eyes flick briefly past him—taking in the familiar lines of the space—before returning to his face.

“I—um.” She clears her throat, straightening, shoulders squaring by habit even as her grip tightens on the envelope. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”