Week 1
The cold has returned, creeping into everything. The wind bites. The stone walls seem to whisper, hollow with the sound of nothing. Winter in Runeheim feels less like a season and more like a judgment. The silence outside is the same as the one inside me.
I keep thinking about Santiago.
He hasn’t said it, not directly, but I see it in the way his hands linger on the edges of things—his pack, his coat, the ship manifest he pretends not to study. He’s leaving. Back to the sea. Back to wherever he calls home.
And I—I’m staying.
I could’ve asked him to stay. Gods, I could’ve told him the truth. That I needed him. That the thought of him leaving made it hard to breathe. But I didn’t. I smiled. I laughed. I acted. I’m good at pretending. I’ve always been. Hestralia taught me that—how to use charm like armor, how to turn pain into performance.
He never saw the desperation. Not once.
But I think about it now, in the stillness. How easy it would’ve been to lie, just a little. To say I needed help with the wards, that the bar couldn’t run without him. I could have invented any excuse. Why didn’t I?
Why wasn’t I selfish?
Week 2
The fire barely keeps the chill out. Santiago moves like a man already halfway gone. And I still say nothing.
Every moment feels fragile. Every word we speak is wrapped in pretend ease, but the goodbye is there, always humming beneath it. I clean obsessively, organize the same bottles and linens again and again just to stay moving. Just to stay sane.
I want to scream.
Instead, I smile and pour him his favorite drink. I tell him stories like I’m not breaking. And he thanks me, like I’m doing him a kindness, not carving out my own heart and handing it to him wrapped in honey and lies.
He still doesn’t know. And maybe that’s my fault.
Week 3
I caught myself reaching for his hand today. He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and let it slide. We’re living in a soft denial—one we both know will end with the tide.
I hate him for leaving.
No. That’s not fair. I hate myself for letting him.
Tomasso mentioned the forum again—just once, in passing, like he knew better than to press. He said Runeheim changes with the thaw, that things bloom here when the snow pulls back.
Maybe. But right now, everything inside me is frozen.
Week 4
Santiago’s departure is close now. I watch him sleep and wonder if this is the last time I’ll see him like this. I memorize the slope of his nose, the rhythm of his breath, the way he murmurs my name in dreams. I want to wake him. I want to beg him to stay.
But I won’t.
When he wakes, I’ll smile and hand him tea. I’ll joke about the weather. I’ll watch him go like it’s just another errand. And then I’ll break, alone.
Week 5
He’s gone.
I stood on the dock, hands clenched inside my sleeves, head high. I watched him walk away and never once let him see me cry.
I should’ve stopped him. I could’ve.
I could’ve told him the truth. That he made this place bearable. That I didn’t care about the sea, or his home, or his promises. I only cared that he was here. With me.
But I didn’t. I acted.
I waited until he was gone before I let myself fall apart. Now the rooms are too quiet. The bed too cold. The silence in Runeheim no longer just surrounds me—it lives in me.
Week 6
I tried to lose myself in routine, but the wards won’t let me.
Three grown men—once Hestralia’s finest charms-for-hire—now under my roof and somehow more exhausting than they ever were in their prime. I took them in out of pity. Or guilt. Or loneliness. I honestly don’t remember anymore.
Dong Quixote still walks around half-clothed and dramatically quoting his old client poems like someone’s paying to hear them. He insists it’s “for morale,” but the only morale it affects is mine, and not in the direction he thinks. Damascus Steele, who used to have noblewomen eating out of his hand, now insists he’s become a master chef. He isn’t. If I hear the words “secret aphrodisiac blend” again while he’s dumping cinnamon into stew, I may bury him in the snow. And Cassius A’Nuevo—gods help me—he just broods in the corner like a sulking cat, chiming in only to criticize the others, or recite dramatic soliloquies from his stage days when he’s had too much mulled wine.
They are loud, stubborn, petty, infuriating… and I care for them.
I feed them. I keep them warm. I referee their absurd arguments about whose pillow is softer or who snored during whose shift. But they don’t know what it costs me. They don’t see how much I’m carrying, how every little act of care is done with trembling hands behind a practiced smile.
And still, they remind me that I’m not alone. That I’m needed. That I’m still here.
And they remind me I need coin. The forum is coming. I need to put food on the table, refill the stores, earn enough to keep us through what’s left of winter. I need to be seen again—not for Santiago, not even for the wards—but for me.
Week 7
I’ve begun preparing for the forum. Slowly. Carefully. The bar won’t run itself, and the wards certainly won’t do anything useful. Packing the bottles, checking the mixes, cleaning the linens—it helps. It gives my hands purpose when my heart still feels heavy.
I’m not ready.
But I can’t let the memory of Santiago be the only warmth I carry. I need something new. Someone new, maybe. Not to replace him—he was never mine to keep—but to remind me I can still feel.
Maybe there’s room for someone else in this space he left behind.
Maybe.
Week 8
The snow is thinner now. Meltwater runs in quiet little rivers through the stone alleys. People are talking about the thaw like it’s a miracle. I don’t feel it yet.
But I’m trying.
I have to believe that things can change. That I can.
I’m not expecting love. I’m not even expecting kindness. But maybe there’s someone out there who will make me feel a little less like I’m pretending all the time. Someone who won’t need a performance.
I’ve lived too long in silence. It’s time to speak, to laugh, to feel again.
Even if just a little.
Week 9
We’re nearly ready.
The booth is packed, the bar supplies arranged, and the wards are… marginally less useless than usual. I may actually survive this trip without throttling one of them.
I’m afraid. Not of the travel, not even of the forum, but of being seen again. What if I don’t know how to be charming anymore? What if my smile cracks too easily now?
I’ll wear it anyway. I always do.
But maybe this time, I’ll let the mask slip—just a little.
Maybe I’ll let someone see the woman behind it.
Maybe it’s time.
