The Unwritten Page

(Paige’s POV)

Time does not move like a river. It piles up, piece by piece. Moments sit beside each other - some gleam like wet pebbles, while stress and routine dull the rest. Only when you pause to notice do the shapes come clear. What seemed scattered now fits somehow.

Ahead of everything, Lysander fills my arms - warm, squirming, blinking up with round eyes and tiny hands clutching at air. Without warning, years fold into each other; now he stands seven winters old, curls tangled like mine, but those quiet, hazel eyes belong to someone else entirely. Midway through silence, he perches on a chair inside the stone hall where secrets live, legs swinging beneath ancient wood, voice whispering syllables from an open book spread before him.

“Gran… ary. Granary.” He looks up at me. “That’s the place for grain. Like Uncle Gareth’s storehouse.”

“Exactly,” I say, my heart doing that funny, proud squeeze. “And what does the number next to it mean?”

He studies it, his small finger tracing the column. “How much is in it. So we know if there’s enough for the winter.”

Numbers speak to him like tales. Not symbols on paper - sheep grazing, loaves baked, meals shared around a table. My habit of questioning how things work meets his grounded way of thinking. Together it shapes a kind of logic that feels quiet yet firm. Power here grows not from status, but direction.

From the door he observes now and then. Never does he step in mid-sentence. Propped there, arms folded, face still - like a statue someone forgot to finish. Yet I notice how his eyes crinkle faintly, how tension slips from his mouth. That quiet shift? His way of glowing without sound.

Life does not unfold like a storybook. Instead, it takes shape through steady choices made on purpose.

Still, the Purists do not disappear. Instead, they shift shape slowly. Fewer leaflets appear now. Their points twist into finer details. Yet beneath it all lingers that old refusal to accept the Charter's spread of power. Handling them falls to Noah, who mixes quiet calculation with unyielding pressure. Some nobles listen when he speaks of family history. Others react only when secrets loom near light. A few cannot be won - just bypassed. This battle wears no armor. It moves through phrases written late at night, columns of numbers, hushed talks behind closed doors.

Built of more than rock, our strength lives in who we are.

Ahead of us, the city lights flicker like scattered embers. That night followed hours of sharp debate when one lord from the south pushed hard against local oversight rules. Up on the rooftop garden - bare soil, stubborn weeds - I’d planted things that barely held on. He stands near the edge, silent. The air smells of damp stone. His back is stiff, eyes fixed downward. Below, streets twist without pattern, glowing faintly under cloud-thin moonlight.

Still quiet on the council thing. Close by his side is where I stay, sleeves touching. Out of nowhere, words come from him, thick with irritation.

“They think it’s a game. A new way to score points. They don’t see it’s the only thing holding the realm together.”

“Some do,” I say softly. “Duke Argon does. The western guilds do. The bridge gets built one stone at a time, Noah. Even if some of the stones complain.”

A tired laugh slips out. His gaze meets mine, streaks of neon glimmering through his stare. "Since when," he says, "have you known things like this?"

“I had a good teacher,” I say, nudging him. “A very stubborn, frostbitten one.”

That smile shows up, honest and warm, his body finally relaxing. Into his side I go, tucked under his arm like it’s where I belong. Quiet settles around us while the world beneath slows down. What holds everything together isn’t grand gestures - it’s this.

---

A gray sky hangs when the message arrives - slipped onto Noah’s table inside a dull envelope. It sits there until he breaks the seal, eyes moving across the lines. Not one word escapes him while he takes it in. Only after sixty seconds does his gaze lift. Straight toward me.

“She’s gone. In her sleep. The asylum confirmed it.”

Now my fingers pause around the spoon. Honey drips slow off its edge. There’s no victory here. Not even peace. Only an empty sort of stop. Like reaching the end of something heavy, word after word long gone. What used to bind us tight - rules, vows, fears - is scattered now. Nothing but dust where it once stood.

My voice comes out quiet, almost surprised. She might have spoken, but what? That thought slips through.

Noah shakes his head. “The report says she was largely silent for the last year. Just stared at the wall. As if the story in her head had finally ended.” He walks over, takes the spoon from my numb fingers, and finishes stirring the tea. His hand rests on mine. “It’s over, Paige. The last ghost.”

Later that evening, once Lysander’s breathing slows into sleep, we step quietly toward the roof. Rain ended hours ago, washing the sky clear. Cold freshness lingers above us.

“Do you ever miss it?” I ask suddenly, looking north, toward the mountains we cannot see. “The simplicity of Blackstone? The clear enemies, the clean cold?”

He considers it. “I miss the quiet,” he admits. “I miss knowing every face, every stone. I don’t miss the fear. The constant edge of survival.” He turns to me. “But I would go back in a heartbeat if you asked. If it meant keeping you and him safe.”

I understand, I say softly. Really, truly - inside that has stayed the same all along. Guarding others - that’s what shapes him.

“But this is our work now,” he says, gesturing to the city, to the unseen web of the Charter spreading across the land. “This is the bridge we’re building. It’s bigger. Messier. But it’s ours.”

That’s correct. Now it isn’t called The Duke’s Forbidden Prophecy anymore. Not about making it through some scheme. Instead, it's about a duchy turning into a place where people belong. A promise that slowly grew into something like marriage. A vision from someone wise turned leader. Power held by a noble once sworn to guard.

This belongs to us. Without question, without return.

Stone holds some of it, yes. Each hard decision carved deeper than the last. Quiet wins slipped in between, small but sharp. Glances passed above his hair added weight without sound. Law shaped part too, slow and firm. Then there is the root work - tough, unseen - a northern rose pushing color where it was never meant to grow.

A quiet nod from Noah points across the rooftop, his gaze settling on the shadowed edge where my winter rose grows. It clings tight to the cold stones, reaching higher than I’d hoped. Moon glow catches each blossom, turning them into faint lights among the dark.

“You notice?” His words drift like smoke through shadow. The quiet hums beneath them. A pause settles. Then - “All it ever wanted was someplace tall to reach.”

Resting my head on his shoulder, city lights flicker beneath like scattered thoughts. The capital hums - crowded, restless, alive under a hazy sky. Time moves forward there, waiting: tasks, quiet amazements, a child slowly getting taller.

Page by page, the past closed its book. The ending arrived without warning. Now silence fills the space where words once lived.

A space waits ahead, untouched. Nothing fills it yet.

We write with the same hand, side by side.