[Lavinia's POV]
Time moves strangely when you're waiting for someone.
It doesn't gallop like a warhorse. It doesn't crawl like a snake. It just… stretches. Like an endless ribbon unraveling across the days, until you forget when it started—or whether it ever ends at all.
I am ten now.
I mean, almost ten. My birthday is a month away. (Thirty-two days, if we're being dramatic. And I always am.)
It's been over three years since Papa rode out through those iron gates, fire in his eyes, thunder at his heels, and a promise on his lips.
"I'll be back before your tenth birthday."
And now, here we are.
Thirty-two days to go. No letters. No messages. No sign of him.
At first, the letters came like clockwork. Every week. Neatly folded. Wax-sealed. Smelling like iron and sandalwood. His words were sharp and soft in the same breath.
Then—three months ago—they just… stopped.
No warning. No reason.
I don't know if he's too busy conquering a continent or if something worse has happened.
