Can you believe it’s finally happening? All the training, all the early mornings, all the bruises and blisters and strains … tomorrow it will be all over.
I wasn’t going to do this. We said we wouldn’t. But I know you’re writing your own letter. I know you better than you know yourself.
And that’s a gift, Velle. If I don’t make it, I hope you’ll remember that much. Our friendship was the greatest gift of my life. And if my life doesn’t continue, and yours does, I hope you can say the same about mine.
But I also hope you find new friends. A new family. A new life. If I’m not there to haul you into the sun, those friends will drag you into it with them.
Tell Ger and Ev I love them. They’ll help you get through this, but don’t you dare smother them. Especially Ev. That boy needs to make some mistakes and learn from them.
My father … we both know this is going to destroy him. Gods, I swore I wouldn’t cry writing this, but … look after him, Velle. If I don’t make it … he’ll be like a bear with its paw caught in a trap—the more you attempt to help, the more he’ll lash out. But he’ll need you more than ever before.
Whatever happened in that arena, you have to put it behind you. You have to let yourself be happy, Velle. Or else, what was it all for? What did we train so hard for if not for a future?
Wherever you are, I hope you’re happy. I hope it’s peaceful (but not too peaceful, because we both know you’d be bored mindless).
I suppose I better wrap this up. You’re about to arrive with Ger and Ev, and we’ll suffer through my father’s cooking. This time, though, the flavors will be a little brighter. The texture a little smoother. It’s funny how the thought of your own mortality can do that.
If there is any good that comes from my death (and let’s face it, not much will, since I am incredible), I hope it’s that. I hope you love harder. I hope everything is brighter and smoother and more.
Don’t let my death dampen everything great in your life. And tell me this much:
Can you smell the salt-tinged air? Can you feel the heat of the sun? Are you living, Arvelle? Are you loving?
—Kas
Tears roll down my cheeks like a flood. I stare around the room, deep below the ground, as far from the ocean as I can get.
No, Kassia. I’m not.
Six years it took Leon to give this letter to me, and I still can’t blame him.
A knock sounds at the door, and I wipe at my cheeks. “What is it?”
“Arvelle?” Maeva’s voice comes through the door.
“Yeah.”
She cracks the door open, eyes widening. “Are you …”
“I’m fine.” I place the letter carefully on the bed. “What is it?”
She studies my face, but after a moment she sighs. “I was thinking about the maginari. I know you said you didn’t want to help but—”
“Maeva.”
Her chin juts out, and for a moment I see Kassia glowering at me. Kassia, who would have tried whatever reckless plan Maeva is cooking up. Kassia, who shouldn’t have died but did.
My stomach churns, and I bury my head in my hands.
“Velle …”
“Stop.”
“You’re upset. Whatever it is, we can talk about it. Let me help you.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“I thought we were friends.” The hurt in her voice is like shards of glass thrown into my face.
