Chapter 1188: A Letter from Home
As autumn deepened, the chill of evening had fully replaced the lingering heat of summer. A cold breeze swept in from the northern plains, rustling the few trees outside the office window. Their fragile leaves trembled and whispered in the fading sunlight. Two of these leaves were caught up in the wind’s dance, twirling through the open window and landing softly on the desk—right beside the pen that was furiously scribbling.
Hedda’s concentration broke. She looked up toward the window, her signing hand pausing without her realizing it. A flock of migrating birds soared across the clear, high sky. A faint smile touched the Imperial Regent’s lips as she murmured to herself, “Autumn again… At least this year, we’ve made it safely through most of it.”
With a snap of her fingers, an invisible force sealed the window shut. The crisp click shut out the chilly wind that had crept in with the dusk. Hedda lowered her gaze, returning to the seemingly endless stack of documents before her. After a final review, she prepared to sign her name at the bottom.
Suddenly, an inexplicable shiver ran through her, causing her hand to tremble and nearly scratch a deep ink blot across the page.
She paused, brow furrowing in mild frustration. “Could it be Rebecca causing trouble again…? No, that can’t be. Her projects have been stable lately, and she just got approval for additional funding not long ago. Probably just fatigue.”
She gave a self-deprecating smile, rubbing her forehead gently. Her eyes drifted to a nearby filing cabinet—the one locked tight with the empire’s financial summaries from the first half of the year and budget plans for the second. Of course, it only contained the files she personally had to handle. Her gaze shifted back to the freshly organized dossier on her desk, its parchment cover boldly stamped: “New Trade Memorandum for the Northern Continental Route.”
Within these piled documents flowed the empire’s economic lifeblood—figures unimaginable under the old order, vast sums that the ancient Ansu land nobles could only dream of in their lifetimes. As her ancestors often said, money only truly exists when it moves; a swiftly circulating economy is like flowing gold. As the Regent who personally managed most internal affairs, Hedda felt this truth more keenly than anyone.
Yet, this immense wealth always seemed to slip through her fingers. The continental trade routes and railways brought staggering revenue, but every grand project the empire planned was a voracious money pit. Whether it was the resettlement efforts on the Holy Spirit Plains next quarter, nationwide infrastructure, communications, energy projects, next year’s educational expansion in the eastern territories, or Rebecca’s ongoing Project 115—each came with endless budget reports. “Gold flows like water,” she thought, “and once it seeps into these projects, it vanishes without a trace.”
Sometimes, Hedda felt a strange illusion—that despite the vast sums she now handled, it wasn’t much different from when her family had fallen on hard times. No matter how much came in each year, it all flowed out just as fast. The end result? Still no money left over.
Shaking off these odd thoughts with a soft laugh, she lightly tapped her face to bring herself back. She glanced out the window again. From her office, she could see the southern city’s skyline: a clock tower standing near the Imperial Academy, church spires, and the energy towers of the arcane research institute silhouetted against the dusk. A bustling city thrived here—tens of thousands lived and worked within its bounds, visitors, scholars, and travelers from distant lands gathering in this place.
The “gold coins” flowing into these projects weren’t truly lost. They left behind the empire’s most precious legacy: the order her ancestors strove to build, the nation its citizens collectively forged. These undeniable marks were far more valuable than coins left to rot in a castle vault.
…Though Project 115 was still an absolute money sink.
The thought of that recent headache made her briefly stiffen again. With a resigned sigh, Hedda turned back to the next file waiting for her attention. The bold black letters at the top read: “Fort Concord ‘Gate’ Project Initiation Plan.”
As dusk settled over the Holy Spirit Plains, the legendary Solin Great Tree revealed a more enchanting spectacle than by day. The last slanting rays of sunset filtered beneath its vast canopy, weaving a giant curved “screen” of light between branches and earth. As the glow faded, countless vines hanging from the tree began to emit a soft phosphorescence. Glowing flowers wrapped around the supporting pillars bloomed one after another—transforming the space into a fairy-tale realm. Even the iron-willed General Wolf found himself tempted to lose himself in this magical scene.
Bard stood on a suspended platform at the edge of the lower canopy, gazing absently at the glowing vines and flowers. They lit up the encroaching shadows like a scattering of stars. He sighed softly.
A clear, carefree female voice came from behind him. “Bard, thinking about your daughter again?”
Startled, Bard turned to see General Margarita standing there, dressed in her usual dashing knight’s uniform. The highest military commander in the Solin region wore a faint smile, unaccompanied by any aides.
“General,” Bard straightened immediately, saluting with perfect formality. “Good afternoon.”
“Relax, relax. I’m off duty now, and so are you,” Margarita waved a hand. “But you still haven’t answered me—are you thinking about your daughter?”
“…I was trying to hide it for appearances’ sake, but since you’ve caught me, I’ll admit it,” Bard forced a smile. “I’m a bit… unaccustomed. She used to love this platform, especially at dusk. It’s one of the few public areas she was allowed to roam. From here, you can see most of Solin Fortress and the plains beyond. She often said it reminded her of the castle surrounded by giant trees in the ‘Green Fairy’ stories her mother told her as a child… And yet, I had no idea what stories my wife told our daughter.”
Margarita looked him in the eye thoughtfully, then shook her head. “Sometimes, long separations aren’t the hardest part. The real pain is when, after a long time apart, you finally reunite—only to face another farewell soon after. I usually find bards’ tales overly sentimental, but that one line has always rung true for me.”
Bard opened his mouth, then could only nod with a wry smile. “Tell me about it…”
After a pause, Margarita’s expression turned serious. She raised her voice. “Researcher Bard Wendell!”
Bard stiffened, unsure what was coming, but instinctively snapped to attention. “Yes, General!”
Without warning, Margarita produced a thick envelope from behind her back and held it out. “Reach out—here’s a letter from home.”
“A letter from home?” Bard blinked, confused. He took the envelope, only realizing after a moment that it was indeed a letter. His eyes scanned the numerous cross-border stamps and inspection marks, finally settling on the familiar emblem of a sword blade and wolf’s head. His expression changed, voice trembling with disbelief. “This… this can’t be…”
“You can open it now or wait until you get back. Either way, you should know it’s been opened and inspected by more than one security officer before reaching you,” Margarita nodded. “It’s from your daughter.”
Bard finally accepted that this wasn’t a hallucination, nor a forgery. Yet he still found it hard to believe. He wasn’t some ignorant country bumpkin—he knew his complicated past and sensitive status well. He understood how special his family’s position was in Typhon: once a wolf general and dark cultist, now a technical expert with classified clearance; on the other side, a high-ranking foreign officer and noble. Such circumstances would keep any official awake at night. And yet… here he was, holding a “family letter” from Typhon.
“I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Bard Wendell,” Margarita said, watching his face closely as a smile crept onto hers. “It’s not easy. Too many sensitive issues, too much history. Both Cecil and Typhon sides have their worries. But you should be grateful—there are still people willing to help you. And… we have a merciful sovereign.”
She paused, then added casually, “Well, if the letter made it through, that means Rosetta Augustus isn’t too bad after all…”
“I owe thanks to everyone who helped, to our Majesty, and to you,” Bard said, clutching the letter, struggling to hold back the urge to open it immediately. “I never expected…”
“We’ll talk about that later. You can buy me a drink sometime,” Margarita waved him off. “What you should really be thankful for is the peace between us and Typhon—and hope it lasts longer. Now… do you want to open it?”
Bard hesitated, then finally gave in. Carefully, he broke the seal and unfolded the letter. As he pulled out the paper, a few small, wax-sealed objects slipped into his hand.
They were golden flowers—not rare, common in central and western Typhon—but to the Wendell family, these golden blooms held a special meaning.
His gaze lingered on the preserved flowers encased in wax. The craftsmanship was crude—any skillful noblewoman would have thought the petals wasted. But Bard knew the maker was no delicate noble girl.
He unfolded the letter and read the opening lines:
“Father, the golden dawei flowers at Long Branch Manor bloomed this summer. I picked the prettiest ones and made them into specimens…”
The letter was long. Bard wondered how much Andesha had agonized over these words… probably chewed through several pen nibs in the process.
A faint smile appeared on Bard’s face as his eyes moved carefully over the letter, word by word. The dry, awkward phrasing, the accidental smudges of ink, the tiny tears in the paper where the pen had pressed too hard—all of it seemed to glow with meaning in his eyes.
Marguerite stood patiently by his side, a gentle smile on her lips. She knew that expression well; she had seen it many times before—on the faces of soldiers who had left their homes behind to join the Construction Corps, marching off to reclaim barren lands. When they received letters from home, this was how they looked.
“There’s another one inside—this one’s from your father,” she reminded him softly.
After that, silence fell again, broken only by the rustling of paper and the sound of their breathing.
Perhaps mindful of the passing time, Bard finally quickened his pace. When he finished reading the last line, he carefully folded the letter, slipped it back into its envelope, and then held the rough, handmade keepsakes in his hands, turning them over several times before tucking them close to his chest alongside the letter. Only then did he look up at Marguerite. “Sorry, I took longer than I meant to.”
“Compared to more than a decade apart, that’s nothing,” she said, shaking her head gently, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “Those golden flowers sealed in wax—did your daughter send those?”
“Ah… yes. It’s a craft unique to Tiphont. It uses a special kind of translucent wax. Back home, girls from wealthy families make these to show off their skill. Depending on the flowers inside, they can be gifts for elders to express blessings, for friends to show friendship, or even for someone special to convey affection… But Andersa never liked this sort of thing. She’s always been clumsy with crafts, and I can’t even remember what those flowers mean,” Bard chuckled, muttering under his breath, “Sigh… looks like her skills haven’t improved at all. I’m afraid she won’t find a sweetheart anytime soon…”
Marguerite coughed twice, then teased, “Well, if you think she’s not good at it, how about passing it on to me?”
“That’s not happening—Andersa gave it to me!” Bard said firmly.
Marguerite looked at the once fierce wolf general, now softened and a little rounder around the edges. After a few seconds, they both laughed together.
“All right, we’ve already wasted enough time,” Marguerite exhaled softly, glancing up at the darkening sky. Then she nodded at Bard. “There’s one more thing—I just ran into an avatar of Lady Beltira. She asked me to tell you to stop by her lab after dinner.”
“Beltira, huh? Okay,” Bard nodded, then frowned slightly. “But why didn’t she tell me herself? This is all within the Great Tree of Solin. If she wants to talk to someone, she can just lower a vine directly.”
Marguerite shrugged. “I asked her. She said life needs a little ceremony.”
Bard was speechless.
(The End of This Chapter)