Roran sat at his desk, the candlelight flickering across the parchment in front of him. His quill moved slowly, each word deliberate, each sentence carrying the weight of years he had not spoken aloud.
Dear Marta,
It has been too long since I last wrote, and I am sorry for that.
The years have been busy, and I have not had a moment to sit still until now. I hope you are well. I hope the orphanage is still standing, and I hope the children still have food in their bellies and a roof over their heads.
I have sent what coins I could over the years. I hope it reached you.
I have taken a disciple. His name is Kael. He is stubborn and sharp-tongued, and he grows stronger every day—faster than I expected. He reminds me of myself at his age, though I would never tell him that.
Aldric is still at my side. The old bastard refuses to die, and I am grateful for it. He keeps me grounded when my head gets too high.
