As days passed, Levi became even more distant, disappearing into the woods for hours or lingering near the back of the chapel during evening prayer, silent and unreachable. Finn tried to distract himself with chores and jokes that didn't quite land, and I just kept watching, waiting—hoping that something would snap the tension coiling around the three of us.

But nothing did.

It was like we were holding our breath, all waiting for something we couldn't name.

Then one day, the mail came.

"Mail!" The cry rang down the corridor like a bell tolling at the wrong hour—sharp, startling, and out of place in the quiet rhythm of St. Augustine's. I paused at the top of the stairwell, blinking down at the common room below where the sound had echoed. The word didn't belong here. Not really. We didn't get mail. Not unless you counted the monthly supply list or the occasional letter to Madam Hawke from the board.

The other orphans perked up slightly, peeking around doorframes or looking up from half-finished chores. Even they seemed aware of how rare this was.

I descended the stairs slowly, careful not to make a sound as the messenger handed a small stack of envelopes to Ellyn, a staff member. She flipped through them until her brow furrowed and she held one out at arm's length, like it might bite her.

"Finn," she called, squinting at the front of the envelope. "You've got a letter."

My stomach twisted.

I spotted him near the entryway, standing stiffly beside Levi, who was watching the scene unfold with narrowed eyes. Finn took the envelope from her gingerly, his hands stiff. His fingers brushed the seal, and I noticed how carefully he turned it over—like he wasn't sure it was real.

I approached them just as Finn was staring down at the envelope. I couldn't help but glance at Levi, who looked more curious than skeptical for once. His arms were crossed, jaw tight, but his usual scowl had been replaced by something quieter. Not soft—Levi was never soft—but a shade less guarded. Still, he radiated a strange tension.

"You gonna open it or not?" Levi's voice was low but
impatient. It cut through the air like a blade—not cruel, just direct.

Finn hesitated. "Well, yeah," he said, his tone light but edged with uncertainty. "I just... I don't know. It feels weird, getting a letter."

Slowly, almost ceremoniously, he broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment. The silence between the three of us stretched taut, every word unspoken pressing heavier on my chest.

Finn's eyes skimmed the page. His lips parted slightly. For a moment, his expression didn't change, as if his mind was struggling to catch up with what he was reading.

"It's from a distant relative of mine," he said finally. "He supposedly wants to take me in."

Silence. I blinked.

Finn had never mentioned family—none of us had any, not really. That was the point. That was why we were here.

"When would you leave?" I asked, the question spilling out before I could stop it. My voice sounded too small, even to my own ears.

Finn glanced at the letter again, then up at me. "A few days. Maybe sooner."

A few days.

The words echoed like footsteps in an empty hallway. I glanced between them—Finn, trying not to show how shaken he was, and Levi, staring at the floor like he was suddenly far away.

"You okay?" I asked Levi quietly, noticing how unreadable his face had become again. The crack I'd seen earlier—the flicker of emotion—was gone.

He nodded, eyes avoiding mine. "Just surprised," he muttered.

I didn't believe him.

Before I could press further, movement caught my eye. The messenger had returned, heading briskly toward the main hall with another letter in hand. But this one was... different.

Thicker. Heavier. Bound with a black wax seal pressed with the emblem of a stag. The kind of letter you didn't send unless it mattered.

Levi saw it too. I felt his body go still beside me, every muscle locked in place. He stared so hard at the letter I thought it might burst into flames. His face betrayed nothing, but I could feel the shift in the air—like something had snapped awake inside him.

The word "Vale" was scrawled across the front in curling ink. I barely breathed the words aloud: "Madam Hawke got a letter from Lord Vale."

That name. Heavy. Dangerous. Everyone in Avaloria knew it. Lord Vale wasn't a man you wrote to on a whim, he had power, influence, and no reason to concern himself with orphanages.

So why now?

Levi's whisper was barely audible. "Why would Lord Vale be sending letters here?"

"I don't know." But unease twisted in my stomach. The timing didn't sit right—not with the notice, not with Finn's mysterious letter, not with the sudden tension in the orphanage halls. Even the staff seemed off.

As the three of us lingered near the staircase, two staff members passed nearby, speaking in hushed voices. I caught only fragments—"strange visit," "no warning," "Lord Vale," "too close to the crown." The words disappeared into the hallway, leaving only questions behind.

***

That night, the unease didn't fade. It followed me through dinner, through the quiet hour of evening prayers, and up the stairs to the sleeping quarters.

As I passed Levi's door on my way to my room, something glinted beneath the edge of the doorway.
I stopped. Bent down. My fingers brushed against cool metal.

A button.

Golden. Ornate. And engraved with a single, unmistakable letter: A.

It shimmered faintly in the low candlelight—almost too perfect, too out of place in a place like this. I turned it over in my palm, my heart hammering in my chest.

Could it stand for Avaloria?

Or... could it be worse?

Andrew.

The lost prince. The one the crown was still searching for. The one whose name hadn't been spoken in years. The one Levi had never mentioned, not once—not even when we talked late at night about dreams, about escape, about who we might've been if we hadn't ended up here.

I stared at the button, and I realized something terrifying:

Finn had been right all along.
Levi had been hiding who he truly is.