POV: Ravenna
The royal archives smelled like dust and old paper and secrets.
I'd never been down here before. Why would I? The past was dead and buried and I'd spent twenty-one years trying not to think about it.
But now the past wasn't dead. It was murdered. And I needed to know everything.
The archivist—an ancient woman named Maris who looked like she'd been born among the scrolls—showed me to the section containing records from twenty-one years ago. She didn't ask why I wanted them. Maybe she already knew. Maybe everyone in the palace knew by now that the crown princess was hunting ghosts.
"Call if you need anything, Princess," she said quietly, and left me alone.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the shelves. Leather-bound books. Rolled parchments. Wooden boxes filled with correspondence. Twenty-one years of history, preserved and catalogued and forgotten.
Somewhere in here was the truth about my mother's death.
I started with the birth announcements.
They were easy to find—a whole volume dedicated to royal births. I flipped through pages until I found the entry dated to my birth. The handwriting was elegant, formal, celebratory.
"On this day, the twentieth of Ashfall, Queen Elara of House Cindravale has delivered a healthy daughter. The princess has been named Ravenna. Mother and child are well. The kingdom rejoices."
Mother and child are well.
The lie sat there on the page, preserved forever in expensive ink.
I kept reading. Found celebration records from the day after I was born. Lists of nobles who came to offer congratulations. Gifts received. A feast held in the great hall. Everything was normal. Happy. Perfect.
Then the shift.
Three days later, the handwriting changed. The tone changed. Everything changed.
"Queen Elara has fallen ill. Healers are attending her. The kingdom prays for her swift recovery."
One day after that: "The Queen's condition has worsened. All non-essential court functions are cancelled until further notice."
And then, finally: "It is with deepest sorrow that we announce the death of Queen Elara of House Cindravale. She passed peacefully in the early hours, surrounded by those who loved her. The kingdom mourns."
Passed peacefully.
Another lie.
I closed the announcement book and reached for the medical records.
Lysander's handwriting. I recognized it from seeing him write prescriptions and treatment notes. But these were different—shakier, more desperate. Like he'd been writing while his hands trembled.
"Day One: Patient shows signs of fever. Temperature elevated. Prescribed cooling herbs and rest."
"Day Two: Condition deteriorating. Violent tremors. Difficulty breathing. Administered pain relief. Patient semi-conscious."
"Day Three: Patient unresponsive. Skin grey. Pulse weak and erratic. All treatments ineffective. Cause unknown."
And then, in handwriting so jagged I almost couldn't read it: "Patient deceased. Time of death: three hours past midnight. Cause: Unknown complications following childbirth. May the gods forgive me for failing her."
I stared at that last line until the words blurred.
May the gods forgive me for failing her.
Lysander had blamed himself. For twenty-one years, he'd carried the weight of not being able to save her, not knowing it was POISON, not knowing there was nothing he could have done.
I set the medical records aside carefully and reached for the letters of condolence.
Dozens of them. From Aetherwyn, Pyrstone, Skyreach. From noble houses across Cindravale. All saying the same things in different words. "We are sorry for your loss." "The queen was a light in dark times." "She will be remembered with honor."
Empty words from people who didn't know her. Who'd never held her hand or heard her laugh or—
I stopped.
I was getting too emotional. I needed to focus. Needed to find something USEFUL, not just—
My hand touched a leather journal at the bottom of the box.
I pulled it out slowly. No title. No name. Just worn leather and pages that looked like they'd been handled roughly.
I opened it.
Father's handwriting. Unmistakable.
The first entry was dated a week after my mother's death.
My hands started shaking.
"I cannot do this. I cannot breathe. I cannot sleep. Every time I close my eyes I see her dying and I am powerless to stop it. The healers say it was natural. That these things happen. That I should be grateful the child survived."
"But I am not grateful. I am hollow. She is gone and there is a screaming infant in the nursery who has her eyes and her hair and her FACE, and I cannot look at her without dying inside all over again."
"I cannot look at her. She has Elara's eyes and I am dying."
The journal slipped from my fingers and hit the table.
I stared at the words.
I cannot look at her.
Twenty-one years. Twenty-one years I'd believed he was disappointed in me. That I wasn't good enough. Wasn't strong enough. Wasn't enough to make up for killing my mother.
But that wasn't it at all.
He wasn't disappointed in me.
I was a reminder. A walking, breathing reminder of what he'd lost. Every time he looked at me, he saw her. Saw the woman he loved dying. Saw the life he'd had ripped away.
And he couldn't bear it.
I understood now. I understood why he'd been distant. Cold. Why he'd avoided me, pushed me away, forced me into a competition I didn't want. Not because I'd failed him.
Because looking at me hurt too much.
The grief hit me like a physical blow.
I bent forward over the table, hands pressed against my mouth, trying not to scream. Because I'd spent twenty-one years carrying guilt that wasn't mine. Twenty-one years hating myself for something I didn't do. Twenty-one years believing I was the reason my father couldn't love me.
And it was all a LIE.
Someone killed my mother. Someone poisoned her and made it look natural and let me grow up thinking I was a murderer.
The tears came hot and fast and I couldn't stop them.
I don't know how long I sat there crying. Time stopped meaning anything. There was just grief—raw and terrible and all-consuming. Grief for the mother I never knew. Grief for the childhood I lost. Grief for the relationship with my father that was poisoned before it even began.
"Rav?"
I jerked my head up.
Morgana stood in the doorway, her expression shifting from concern to alarm when she saw my face.
"Oh gods." She rushed over. "What happened? Are you hurt?"
I shook my head. Couldn't speak. Just gestured helplessly at the journal on the table.
She picked it up. Read the entry. Her face went pale.
"Oh, Rav."
"She was murdered." The words came out broken. "My mother. She was murdered, Morgana. Someone poisoned her three days after I was born and made it look like childbirth complications." I sucked in a breath that hurt. "I spent twenty-one years thinking I killed her. Thinking I was the reason Father couldn't love me. And it was all—it was all—"
"A lie." Morgana's voice was fierce. "It was all a lie."
"Yes."
She pulled me out of the chair and wrapped her arms around me. I collapsed against her, sobbing into her shoulder like a child.
"I didn't kill her," I choked out. "I didn't—I didn't do it—"
"No, love. You didn't. You NEVER did."
"Someone else did. Someone else killed her and let me believe—"
"I know. I know." Morgana held me tighter. "But we're going to find them, Rav. We're going to find whoever did this and make them pay."
"I spent my whole life carrying guilt that wasn't mine."
"I know."
"I thought I was broken. Wrong. Not enough."
"You're not." She pulled back to look at me, her hands on my shoulders. "You are not broken. You are not wrong. You are enough exactly as you are. And your mother would have loved you fiercely."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." Her voice was absolute. "Because she chose to save you. She used her gift, poured her life into that scale, made sure you would survive even if it meant she wouldn't. That's love, Rav. That's what a mother's love looks like."
The tears came harder. I buried my face in my hands and let myself break. Let myself grieve for the woman I never knew. For the life we should have had together. For all the years I'd wasted hating myself for something I didn't do.
Morgana held me through all of it. Didn't try to make it better. Didn't offer empty platitudes. Just held me and let me cry until there were no tears left.
Finally, when I could breathe again, I pulled back.
"I'm going to find them," I said. My voice was raw but steady. "Whoever killed my mother. Whoever tried to kill me. I'm going to find them and I'm going to destroy them."
"I know you will." Morgana squeezed my hands. "And I'll be right there with you."
I believed her.
And for the first time in twenty-one years, I felt like maybe—just maybe—I could stop carrying guilt that was never mine to carry.
Maybe I could start living for the mother who died to save me.
Maybe I could finally be enough.