Other 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒗𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒏𝒂

[B E A R]

viviana. castanova

the crowned princess

i

t was the night before the wedding.

viviana evangeline esme castanova—the crowned princess of elyria, the girl carved from gold and duty—had finally stepped away from the chapel's gentle chaos. even the marble seemed to hum with anticipation, but she no longer listened. the corridors of the palace stretched quiet before her, bathed in hush and moonlight. this day had always belonged to her, etched into her future before her first breath, sewn into the hem of her name.

and still, if she could be honest with herself, even for a moment—just one breath not meant for the crown—she might have whispered that she was lucky. that her betrothed loved her as she loved him. or so she believed. or so she hoped.

her heels barely kissed the floor as she walked the east wing, the silence wrapping around her like soft silk. she had dismissed euphemia with a quiet nod and a gentle word of thanks, her voice low and laced with fatigue. aelius followed soon after, leaving with a brief exchange of glances that needed no words. tonight, she didn’t want company. she wanted the quiet. to savor the hush before the storm.

the moon hung low and lovely in the sky, casting silver-blue light through the tall windows, spilling across the marble like melted stars. it clung to her hair, her skin, the pale fabric of her gown—like the night itself couldn’t stop looking at her.

when she stepped into her chambers, the door gave a soft click behind her, sealing her inside the stillness. no candles burned. only the moonlight lived here. it filled the room gently, like a secret whispered into cupped hands.

and then—on her desk. paper. folded, stacked, waiting.

her gaze lingered. she remembered clearing the surface earlier with meticulous care. she always did. her mind rarely forgot, especially not the small things. especially not details.

“how peculiar,”

she breathed, barely above a whisper, as if the walls might be listening. her seafoam eyes—glinting with rose in the light—narrowed just slightly, like petals folding in the night.

perhaps it was from her father. or from the council. or something misplaced by a servant in passing.

“i’ll check it tomorrow,”

she murmured to the room, to the moon, to no one. her shawl slipped from her shoulders in a fluid motion, catching briefly on her elbow before falling across the bed bench like a discarded sigh.

a hand rose to her temple, delicate and automatic. stress bloomed there like a familiar flower. she sat gently on the edge of her bed, her golden hair spilling like honeyed waves over the pale linens. her eyes wandered back to the desk. the moonlight still lingered. still watching. still drawing her in.

it was only paper. and yet it felt like a promise.

or a warning.

after a pause, she rose. her fingers brushed against the folded corners—gentle, reverent, as if touching something sacred or fragile. she carried the papers back to her bed and settled in, candlelight catching in her eyes as she struck a flame, casting golden glow across the silks and shadows.

she brought her knees to her chest, spine against the headboard, breath soft and steady. the first letter opened like a hush. the paper crackled faintly, the sound swallowed quickly by the stillness.

at first, it didn’t make sense.

it wasn’t official correspondence. nothing about the council. nothing about the crown. it was too raw. too human. a page from someone’s journal, perhaps. grief spilled across the ink in long, aching sentences. yearning. sorrow. a longing that felt like it had teeth.

no name. no seal. no context.

but something about it tugged at her. something soft and sharp and familiar.

she placed the first letter down and reached for the next.

and the next.

each one sang the same sorrow in different keys. frustration folded in with regret. loneliness twisted through lines of love unspoken, love withheld, love never meant to be seen. the words cut like silk—quiet and cruel.

viviana couldn’t stop reading.

she didn’t even know why.

and then, with a sudden stillness that turned her veins cold, she recognized the handwriting.

her breath caught.

she held the letter closer, squinting just slightly to be sure, as if her heart might be playing tricks on her.

but it wasn’t.

she knew this script. had watched it form across parchment in the glow of firelight. had seen it scrawled in the margins of books, in half-written verses, in wind-shaken ink.

caspian.

the words blurred.

caspian archibald walbernn. her betrothed. the boy born on a stormy night. her childhood friend. her partner in letters and laughter. her beloved.

no—he would have told her. he told her everything. didn’t he?

and yet the letters unraveled like a thread, and every moment she had believed in began to feel... wrong. crooked at the edges. familiar memories reframed in shadows.

the storm inside her grew.

the stack of letters thinned beneath trembling hands, and still she read. still she sought. each page made her smaller, made the room colder, made the moonlight feel too bright and too far away.

he wanted freedom.

he wanted escape.

and not once—not once—did he mention her name.

her heart cracked open like porcelain. she pressed a hand to her chest as if she could hold herself together, as if pressure might keep her from shattering. tears slid down her cheeks before she realized she’d begun to cry. gentle at first. then steady. then sharp.

“how could you...”

her voice broke, barely formed.

the letters blurred beneath her gaze, stained with salt. she read anyway. even as the pain carved deeper. even as the night crept closer to morning. even when her fingers ached and her breath came ragged.

only three pages remained.

she couldn’t bring herself to reach for them yet.

instead, she wept.

not in sobs that shook the walls, but in the soft, steady kind that left her hollow. time passed strangely, as if the moon had stopped moving. hours may have slipped by unnoticed, held in the quiet cradle of her grief. her thoughts drifted to the garden where he once tucked a wildflower behind her ear. to the way he laughed—really laughed—when she made him try different pastries and he hated them but finished the whole plate anyway. to every letter they wrote, every glance exchanged when no one else was looking, every dream they once whispered like children stealing stars.

had it all been real?

had she been the only one believing in a future they never truly shared?

she searched her memories, desperate for proof. for a sign. but even the brightest ones felt distant now, like constellations—beautiful, unreachable, possibly imagined.

her tears dried and returned again, a tide that refused to leave her untouched. the silence grew heavier, the weight of unspoken truths curling around her like ivy.

her head tipped back against the carved headboard. her left hand trembled, still clutching the letter she had just read. her right reached up and threaded through gold-drenched hair, fingers tangling in soft waves. her eyes—those seafoam jewels—dulled under the weight of betrayal.

she had been perfect. had played the part so flawlessly.

and the world punished her for it.

she didn’t scream. didn’t wail. didn’t shatter out loud. but oh, how the silence inside her fractured. it echoed through her ribs, spilled into her bones.

you liar. you beautiful, selfish liar.

a soft thump as her hand dropped the letter against the mattress.

sunlight bled gently into the room, slipping through the curtains like the breath of a new day. it warmed the walls, the bedding, her skin—but not her heart.

she didn’t feel it.

viviana sat still, eyes hollow, face damp, soul frayed.

soon, euphemia would knock.

soon, the bells would ring.

soon, she would marry a man who had kept his love buried where she could never reach it.

she gathered the letters—slowly, numbly—and slid them into the bedside drawer with far less care than she would usually give any piece of parchment. her eyes flicked toward the final three she hadn’t finished. her hand lingered.

a knock.

her spine straightened. the mask came on like clockwork.

“come in, effie.”

her voice was steady. that frightened her most of all.

euphemia entered with a brightness that didn’t yet know what had been lost at sea. tea. a small breakfast. soft chatter. careful hands threading flowers into viviana’s hair. the mirror reflected someone stunning. regal. composed.

it didn’t reflect the ruins behind her eyes.

she read the last three letters in stolen moments, when euphemia’s back was turned.

then it was time.

her dress shimmered. her veil floated like mist. the embroidery glistened like morning dew. but none of it reached her. none of it mattered.

the bells rang.

and her mind was silent.

she walked like a ghost through water.

her eyes found his across the room—caspian, with his ruby-bright gaze and soft, familiar smile. the smile that once meant everything. the eyes that now felt like locked doors.

she wanted to ask if he meant every word. if any of it had ever been real.

but she only stood, and smiled, and walked toward him like she was meant to.

as if her heart hadn’t been rewritten the night before.

as if love was still hers to hold.

it was the day of the big wedding day.

outfit:

location:

her own room

tags:

n/a