Echoes of Cecilia
The winter dawn spilled pale light across the stone floors of the Royal Academy, catching dust motes that danced like ghosts in its beams. Arthur woke before the bells tolled, the cold pressing against his skin despite the heavy blankets. Fenrix lay curled at his feet, a living shadow whose steady breath calmed the thrum of memory and worry alike.
Today felt different. The weight in his chest had shifted—not just the heaviness of exile or suspicion, but a deeper pull, like a thread drawing him toward something half-remembered, half-dreamed.
Arthur rose, dressed in the Academy's black-and-silver robes, and traced the edge of the Grimoire where it rested on his table. His mother's book. His only inheritance. Yet even it felt incomplete, a puzzle missing its final pieces.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. A squire in crimson livery stood in the doorway, head bowed low. "His Majesty's messenger bids you come to the queen's wing, my lord. Alone."
Arthur's heart beat once, hard and hollow. "Did she say why?"
"She did not," the boy replied. "Only that it concerns your mother."
For a breath, Arthur couldn't move. Then he drew a slow breath, fingers brushing Fenrix's fur. "Stay," he murmured to the wolf, who watched him with luminous eyes.
Fenrix rumbled low but obeyed, tail thumping the flagstones as Arthur stepped into the hall.
---
The queen's wing lay at the heart of the Academy's oldest keep, where winter never quite relented and magic soaked the very walls. Candles flickered in sconces shaped like twisted vines, casting long, shifting shadows.
The guards at the heavy doors stepped aside without a word. Inside, the Queen of Caledonia waited beside a tall window, pale light catching the streaks of silver in her dark hair. Her gown was a deep violet, the color of bruised twilight, embroidered with the same crest that Arthur wore over his heart.
"Your Majesty," Arthur greeted, voice careful, as he stepped forward and dropped into a shallow bow.
"Arthur," she said, the single word carrying a weight that stilled the air. "Come closer."
He obeyed, boots quiet on the old rugs. The Queen's gaze held his, unreadable but sharp as moonlight on steel.
"I knew your mother," she began, voice soft but unflinching. "Not as a traitor, but as my sister by marriage. Cecilia was… complicated."
Arthur swallowed, throat tight. "I know little of her life before me. Only that she loved deeply—and paid dearly."
The Queen inclined her head. "And yet, there are truths even you do not know. Truths she dared share only with parchment and ink."
From a carved box beside her, the Queen drew out a small, leather-bound volume. Its cover bore no crest, only a rose etched faintly into worn leather.
Arthur's breath caught. "Is that…?"
"Your mother's diary," she confirmed. "Hidden for years beyond even my reach. Found only recently, behind stone in the old east wing. I thought… you should see it."
She extended it toward him, but her hand lingered, fingers brushing the cracked leather. "Know this, Arthur: what you read may comfort, or it may wound. Some truths do both."
Arthur took the diary, the leather soft under his fingertips, worn by time and touch. For a moment, he couldn't open it. The idea of hearing her voice again—even only in ink—felt like reopening a wound half-healed.
"I understand," he whispered.
---
She gestured to a low seat by the hearth. Arthur sank into it, the diary heavy in his lap. The Queen remained standing, hands folded before her, watching the dancing flames.
He opened the diary, breath shallow. The first pages were dates, written in his mother's graceful hand—curves of ink he recognized from the Grimoire.
> "Spring, Year of Falling Petals."
> "I write these words with trembling hand, for the secret I carry would see me branded traitor. And yet, love makes traitors of us all."
Arthur's heart clenched. His mother's words, raw and immediate, alive despite the years.
> "I have met him again. The knight they call fallen. His eyes see me as no crown prince ever did. I know the danger. I know what it would mean. But when he holds me, the world itself feels less cruel."
Arthur swallowed hard, heat burning behind his eyes. His father—never named, but present in every stroke of ink.
> "If this love be treason, then let my heart be a rebel until its final beat."
The Queen turned her gaze to him, but Arthur kept reading.
> "Tonight, I dreamed of a child. Hair pale as winter dawn. Eyes that hold sorrow and hope alike. Could it be that fate is not yet set against me?"
His breath caught. *She saw me. Even then.*
---
Page after page revealed not politics or plots, but confessions of love, fear, and loneliness. Moments when Cecilia stood in moonlit halls, torn between duty and desire. Words that spoke of a kingdom built on brittle pride—and of a woman who dared love despite knowing its price.
At last, near the final pages, ink blotted and hurried:
> "I have fled the capital. My love is gone—taken, they say, by 'accident.' But I know better. The prince's shadow stretches long, and even here I feel its cold hand."
> "Yet I carry hope. Life stirs within me, and with it, purpose. If this child is born, I will teach him to love truth over crowns, compassion over power. Even if it costs me everything."
Arthur's vision blurred, tears burning unbidden. The Queen stepped closer, her voice a quiet balm.
"She wrote this for you, Arthur. Even if she never knew your face."
He traced the last words on the final page:
> "And if he is to carry my curse, let it also be my gift: the will to stand, even when all else falls."
Arthur closed the diary, holding it to his chest, the leather warm from his touch. For a moment, the walls around him felt distant, the firelight softer, and he was a child again, listening to a mother's lullaby whispered against a storm.
---
When he finally raised his head, the Queen studied him with something almost like sorrow.
"She was many things," she said. "Foolish, stubborn, brave beyond reason. And she loved fiercely. That is her true legacy—not exile or death, but love carried forward."
Arthur swallowed, voice raw. "Thank you. For showing me."
"She wanted you to know," the Queen replied. "And perhaps… I needed to remember as well."
---
Outside, the wind howled against ancient stone. Arthur stepped onto the balcony, diary held tight, Fenrix waiting below like a silent sentinel.
For the first time, the Academy's towers felt less like prison walls, and more like sentinels guarding old truths.
Arthur whispered into the winter air, voice steady despite the ache in his chest: "I will honor you, Mother. Not as a prince. Not as a weapon. But as your son."
The wind carried his words into the pale dawn, and for a fleeting breath, he almost thought he heard her voice in return:
*Stand, Arthur. And let them see you.*
**To be continued...**