Adam’s General Thoughts
So this is what breathing feels like now, thick, accusing, like the air has learned how to grip. It presses at my throat with fingers that don’t mean to kill, only to remind you you’re still here. Tarvo, do you remember this? The heat, the smoke, the bodies, so many bodies, the awful, holy chaos that taught us what the world can be. The Red Raids… We lingered in that jungle too long, and it seeped into us like a stain that will never wash out.
Adam’s chest rises, slow and deliberate, before he releases the breath in a controlled exhale that seems to drain the weight from his shoulders. There. That’s better. It’s all right. Rest if you must; I am in charge now. I will tend to us.
Adam’s Thoughts on the group
Kerrick
Dear Kerrick,
You sent us with your eyes fixed on your plan while Tarvo trembled at your heel. You did not see him. You did not see us. You saw a cog to be turned, a soldier to be ordered, a neat piece that fit your design. Hear me now: we are not soldiers. We are not levers to be pulled. We are not blades to be wielded for your ends. We are not your instrument, and I will not be used again.
I press this into ink because paper keeps its promises where memory decays and lies. If my head unravels, these marks will not. They will keep the shape of what I refuse to lose. I will not follow blindly again. I will not be your tool.
You will learn who I am, not the shadow you thought you owned, but something sharpened by memory and resolve. Take it as a warning: what I hold onto will not be forgotten, and it will change how you deal with me.
—Adam
Rona
Dear Rona,
I am sorry. I was afraid, and in that fear I lashed out. That is all I wished to say. I apologize, though I doubt it will ever be enough. I have built my life upon deceit and careful lies; it is the only armor I know.
You should understand this: Gwen, my mother, comes first. You, and this group, Tarvo’s makeshift family, are nearer to my heart, yet you fall second. I know how it must seem, how it must feel wrong, for you stand here, fully present, carrying a weight I cannot. You, Rona, are more worthy of the mantle of royalty, more deserving of the choices I am forced to make.
Gwen holds the answers I seek, or perhaps that I tell myself she does. That is the story we cling to—Tarvo and I, Adam.
This is for my eyes alone. Not for you. Not for anyone. A quiet testament, a record of what I cannot share. You forgive freely. You believe. I do not. I can only watch, and hope I do right in the ways I know how.
—Adam
Florien
Dear Florien,
Something has changed—not merely in your appearance, but in the cadence of your voice, the way you carry yourself. I cannot help but wonder what that battle took from you, what you and Kerrick witnessed that I could not.
I cannot shake the thought that Tarvo might have supported you both in ways I was never capable of. And now, with quiet unease, I see myself for what I truly was: the mind behind the beast, a shadow tethered to something far greater. Perhaps the beast never needed me. Perhaps it was I who needed him all along.
I write this not for you to read, for these words are never meant to reach your eyes. I write them because I cannot help but feel this distant, inexplicable connection—a thread I suspect you might recognize, though it may never be returned.
—Adam
Adam’s Thoughts on specific NPCs
Billie
Dear Billie,
I write not for your eyes, you shall never see this, but perhaps to reckon with the weight of my own thoughts, or to grant myself a measure of pity I scarcely deserve. I am uncertain of its purpose. Only this I know: the memory of your still, cold body beside me, a presence I had grown far too comfortably accustomed to haunts me once again.
Once, you were a familiar face, a voice, a scent that lingered like warmth itself. And those pastries, fleeting, exquisite creations, entirely yours.
Farewells have never been my province. I have never mastered them, not with you, not with Gwen, not with the kind, steadfast souls who guided and sheltered Tarvo and me. Perhaps one day I shall attain the fortitude to walk unbroken, to act without wounding those I hold dear.
But for now, I write to one who is irrevocably absent. For what purpose? Remorse? Forgiveness? No, it is for myself, a ledger of truths I cannot voice aloud. You are gone; I remain.
It is a cruel, exquisite tragedy, one no soul should endure. And yet here I stand, a prince in title, a failure in every measure that truly matters, weighed down by deeds and omissions I cannot undo. Could I have acted differently? Spoken sooner? Moved swifter? Loved more? Perhaps it would have been better, for both our sakes, had I never drawn breath.
If, by some improbable mercy, you could hear me, see me, or fathom the thoughts of a man left behind, know this: I am sorry. You deserved more than the chaos that consumed you, and I fear I was merely another shadow in that storm. I leave you haunted, burdened by the certainty that my very existence added weight to your world, as I offer my final, sorrowful farewell.
Still, I dare hope foolishly, perhaps that one day I might taste a pastry reminiscent of yours, crafted with the care, the tenderness, the devotion I could never summon, not fully, not ever.
—Adam