The Weight of a Discarded Memory

Ivelin Roadmia did not take off the necklace all night. She stared at the black gem that cast a cold, shimmering light beneath her throat—a piece Lucion had chosen for her himself, long ago. Back then, he hadn't been a king. To be precise, he had been a prince, but one whom no one regarded as such. Perhaps that was why the small gem he offered felt less like a royal gift and more like a cautious, trembling confession.

"Black suits you well," Lucion had said that day.

Ivelin had not smiled. A noble lady does not smile carelessly; every expression carried the weight of her family’s dignity and political standing. Yet, she had accepted the gem. And she had never thrown it away. It was a strange thing. It was truly a useless object—not a token of engagement, not an official royal gift, and certainly not something worth recording in a contract between families. And yet, she could not discard it. Now, that very gem had become the subject of a command.

Ivelin sat before her mirror as the dawn began to break. The black stone still clung to her throat. Her maids did not enter the room—or rather, since last night, no one had dared to open the door first. In the Roadmia estate, rumors traveled faster than servants. The young lady was refused entry to the palace. His Majesty pointed out the necklace. He said he would not accept memories. The servants didn't say it to her face. Instead, they softened their footsteps at the end of the hallway. They lowered the sound of teacups being set down. When Ivelin passed by, their bows lasted a half-beat longer than usual. That was the Roadmia way of mourning. No one had died, of course. Only a relationship had.

"My Lady," a maid called from outside the door.

Ivelin looked into the mirror and replied, "Come in."

The maid entered, carrying a small silver tray. On it lay a message from the Duke of Roadmia. Ivelin read it.

The second. Ivelin’s finger pressed against the edge of the paper. The first pledge had been accepted, but she herself had been turned away. The family was spared, but she had been left standing outside the gate. Yet, her father was already preparing a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠second pledge. It was the Roadmia speed—a family that organized paperwork before their emotions had even finished collapsing. They were the kind of people who would calculate inheritance taxes while standing in a funeral parlor. And Ivelin was a daughter of that house.

She looked at herself in the mirror. The necklace was there. It was what Lucion had rejected—or rather, what Lucion had accurately identified. Ivelin raised her hand and touched the cold gem. Her fingertips paused.

"My Lady?" the maid called out cautiously.

Ivelin did not answer. Click. A small metallic sound echoed. The necklace came undone. The black gem fell into her palm. It was lighter than she had expected. Ivelin could not understand why it had taken an entire night to remove something so light. No—she understood perfectly. It hadn't been a piece of jewelry. It had been her last excuse, the final thing she clung to, believing she could still reach Lucion.

The Duke of Roadmia’s study was cold. The bookshelves were filled with war records and family documents, and the walls were lined with portraits of past heads of the house. Those portraits always seemed to say the same thing: The family lives longer than emotion. Ivelin hated that sentiment, though she wasn't sure if she had the right to hate it.

The Duke sat at his desk. "The necklace?"

Ivelin bowed her head. "I have removed it."

"Good." The word wasn't praise for a daughter; it was the satisfaction of an accountant who had just erased an unnecessary line item from a ledger. The Duke pushed a new document toward her. "Reports indicate His Majesty has drafted a second Royal Decree. It concerns recognizing the military achievements of the soldiers who fought in the Noxvine Defense."

Ivelin’s fingertips froze. "Not the achievements of Prince Belion?"

"Watch your titles," the Duke said coldly.

Ivelin clamped her mouth shut. After a brief silence, she tried again. "Not Belion's achievements?"

The Duke tapped the document, looking satisfied. "Indeed. It seems His Majesty does not intend to break the shield, but to split the handle."

Ivelin stared at the document in silence. The Noxvine Defense—the name was no light matter to the demon nobility. Countless families had bled, and countless soldiers had died nameless. And Belion had become a hero atop that pile of corpses. Now, Lucion was stripping the soldiers' blood from that hero's name. It was cruel. It was brilliant. And... it was unfamiliar. The Lucion Ivelin had known would never have divided people in such a way.

"This is a congratulatory letter to be presented to His Majesty," the Duke said. "The Roadmia family remembers the soldiers of Noxvine. His Majesty’s decree is just. Belion’s treason and the soldiers' achievements must be separated." He slid a pen toward Ivelin. "You write it."

Ivelin looked at the pen. "Me?"

"His Majesty refused your entry to the palace. But he will still remember your handwriting."

"Father."

"I am not asking you to sell your emotions," the Duke’s voice was calm, which made it all the more cruel. "If His Majesty will not accept memories, we need only send loyalty."

Ivelin took the pen. Her hand did not tremble. A daughter of Roadmia does not collapse in such a way. But she could not write the first line. Lucion. She could not write that name. Your Highness. She could not use that title, either. After a long while, she wrote the first line.

[To the legitimate monarch of Vergrad, His Majesty Lucion.]

His Majesty. That word again. At first, it had felt strange. Now, it hurt. Ivelin wrote the letter. The sentences were precise. The etiquette was flawless. The loyalty was beyond reproach. And within it, there was no Ivelin. Every sentence she wrote pushed her further away. Not a fiancée, but an envoy. Not a woman cast aside, but a hand of the family. Not memories, but documents. That was the only entrance Lucion had permitted her.

Ivelin wrote the final sentence. [The Roadmia family, upholding His Majesty’s decree, will honor the soldiers of Noxvine.]

The Duke read the document and nodded. "Good."

Ivelin set down the pen. Ink stained her fingertips—a black deeper than the gem. She realized then: Lucion hadn't just rejected the necklace. He had rejected her attempt to use that necklace as an excuse to get back into his life.

"Ivelin," the Duke said. "You must secure the next audience."

"Yes."

"And when you do, do not be the first to misunderstand." Ivelin looked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠up. The Duke continued, "His Majesty is no longer your fiancé."

She knew that. She had thought she knew that. But the moment she heard those words from her father’s lips, she felt a strange, suffocating pressure in her chest. Ivelin bowed her head. "Yes."

That afternoon, the black gem necklace went back into the drawer. But it was not placed on silk as it had been before. Ivelin put it in a small box and locked it. She did not wear the key around her neck. She did not put it in the drawer, either. She placed the key next to the letter—beside the envelope stamped with the Roadmia crest. The document of loyalty and the key to her memories lay side by side. Ivelin did not yet know which was heavier.

The letter arrived at the Black King Castle as the sun was setting. I received the envelope from Hermun. The Roadmia crest. It had come again. They were truly diligent. It felt less like the family of an ex-fiancée and more like a subscription service. Can't even cancel it? The free trial period had ended ages ago, and now only the penalty fees remained.

"A letter from the Duke of Roadmia," Hermun said.

"Did Ivelin write it?"

"The handwriting appears to be that of Lady Ivelin Roadmia."

I stared at the envelope for a moment. My fingertips did not pause this time. That fact bothered me more than anything. I broke the seal. The sentences were flawless. The etiquette was perfect. There were no personal words. The name Lucion was absent. There was no mention of the black gem. Only His Majesty. Only loyalty. Only the Royal Decree.

I laughed after reading it all.

"She’s learned well."

Hermun asked, "Are you pleased?"

"No." I folded the letter. "It means she’s become useful."

I realized it as I said it—this wasn't a compliment. It meant she had become straight enough to fit back into the scabbard. I placed the letter on my desk.

"Send a reply to Roadmia."

"What shall the content be?"

I thought for a moment, then said, "Loyalty received."

Hermun picked up his pen. "And the request for an audience from Ivelin Roadmia?"

I tapped my finger on the desk. Once. Twice. This time, I didn't stop.

"Still pending."

The tip of the pen hovered over the paper. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I said, "The documents have arrived." My voice was calm. "But the person has not."

Hermun bowed his head slowly. "As you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠command."

Outside the window, the sun was sinking completely. I looked at the Roadmia letter once more. Ivelin had taken off the necklace. I knew that much. But she hadn't opened the door. She had only just managed to stand properly in front of it. And I had no intention of opening that door just yet.