## CHAPTER 36: _"Letters to the Fire"_
Arien had always feared silence.
But now he welcomed it.
The kind of silence that sat beside him as he wrote, candlelight flickering against parchment, ink trailing across page after page like memory turned tangible.
His book had no title yet.
Not because he couldn't name it—but because some stories earned their names at the *end*, not the beginning.
He called it simply: *For Her.*
---
Every morning, he returned to the second Flame Tree. And every morning, children gathered at his feet, waiting for the next chapter.
> "Did Lysia ever laugh?" a boy asked one day.
> "Louder than anyone," Arien smiled. "She laughed like thunder. And when she stopped laughing, the sky learned how to cry."
They wrote that down, carefully.
---
Mira visited less often now.
She wandered.
The old warrior who had once whispered assassinations now taught stories to tavern crowds. She spoke of the time the Glyph almost killed Lysia—but how she kissed Arien and rewrote fate instead.
> "They say she died," Mira told them. "But I don't think stories like hers *ever* die."
---
Far north, in the Forest of Names, a new sanctuary had formed—built from stone, moss, and truth. There, people came not to worship, but to *remember.*
They read the names of the fallen.
They lit candles for the forgotten.
They whispered the lines of Lysia's last speech:
> "Don't remember me as queen. Remember me as proof that curses end when you confront them."
---
And still, the Flame Tree grew.
One morning, Arien found a single blossom had bloomed at its base.
Not violet.
Not crimson.
But gold.
> "She's here," he whispered.
Not as ghost. Not as goddess.
But as *hope.*
---
That evening, he wrote a letter:
> *Lysia,*
>
> *Today the children asked if your love ever scared you.*
>
> *I said yes. Because it meant something. Because it hurt. Because it healed.*
>
> *I told them love is not a curse. It's the key that breaks the lock.*
>
> *You broke every chain with it.*
>
> *Thank you.*
He folded the letter and pressed it against the trunk of the Flame Tree.
It burst into golden flame—and vanished.
The children clapped.
> "She reads them," a girl said. "I know she does."
---
In a quiet meadow where the stars fell low enough to touch, Lysia stood—watching.
No longer bound.
No longer burning.
Just *becoming.*
She smiled.
> "Keep writing," she whispered. "Tell them we made it."
And the wind carried her words home.
---
Later that night, Arien couldn't sleep. He sat at his window watching the stars blink like old memories.
His hand moved over the parchment again, this time not writing for children—but for himself.
> *Lysia,*
>
> *Some nights, I still reach out beside me.*
>
> *And then I remember the warmth is in the memory, not the moment.*
>
> *I've built peace. I've tried. But peace doesn't stop the ache.*
>
> *You said pain teaches us. I think you were right.*
>
> *Even now, you're still teaching me how to live.*
He paused, tears blurring the ink.
> *I miss you.*
He folded the letter, kissed it, and lit it.
The wind caught the ashes.
Somewhere, perhaps, she smiled.
And behind him, the golden blossom bloomed into two.