Arnold walked out of Ian’s room carrying one of the larger boxes and trying to peek above it to see where he was going. He tripped on a carpet crease and lost balance, falling forward.

“Aye, aye…! Oof…”

He sat back on his knees and looked around. The top hadn’t been closed well, and now the contents had spilled around him – they turned out to be heaps of letters and postcards. Arnold straightened the box properly and began gathering them from the floor.

“What happened?”

Ian popped his head out of his room, irritated. He was holding a much smaller package labeled with the letter C.

Startled, Arnold dropped some of the letters he’d been holding.

“Ah! I-I! Tripped!” He replied hastily, picking everything up again. Ian frowned and crouched down to help.

“This is what he was storing?” he murmured. “Old letters?”

Many of them had his brother’s name, and only two or three had his. Ian did not find this all that surprising; Osburt had always been closer to his father than he was, and writing home from the academy was far from mandatory – it was something Ian only ever did when he needed to inform his father that he’d be spending his vacation at school or at his grandmother’s.

But there should have also been…

Forgetting his original intent to just put them back in their box, Ian looked through the envelopes carefully.

While he rarely wrote proper letters to his father, he would often send him a list of his grades at the end of every quarter. Those were put in light green envelopes (the common joke at his academy was that the color foretold their deaths if their grades weren’t to their parents’ liking), and were surely… he finally spotted one that had his name written on the back.

It was unopened.

He tossed it aside and looked through a few others.

Sealed.

Sealed.

All of them, sealed.

“freh íss g’lief*…”

Arnold, who had been watching him carefully so far, noticed the change in Ian’s expression and leaned in.

“Sir?”

Ian barely heard him. He stared down at the letters, his gaze blurring.

“He makes me send them and… I know he’s disappointed, but…” he whispered hoarsely in Aurorian. “But deciding in advance…”

“Sir Ian?” the concern in Arnold’s voice climbed. “Are you…—“

“All of these letters,” Ian’s voice trembled when he raised it, this time in English, “belong in the fireplace.”

“W-What—?”

Ian gathered the unopened green envelopes and separated them from the rest.

“The fireplace,” he hissed. “Is that word freh familiar to you, Rudolph? Is it missing from īor able vocabulary? Or am I using the wrong word?! The – fire - place!”

“You…” Arnold ignored Ian’s tone, “…want to b-burn them?”

Ian’s whole body was shaking in rage.

“Yes-I-want-to-burn-them! I sent – those letters – and I decide – what happens – with – them!”

He bolted up and headed for the master bedroom with wide, determined steps, with Arnold hurrying close behind him. Ian kicked the door of his father’ room.

It didn’t budge.

He kicked again.

“Sir Ian, I-I don’t think that— this is a g-good idea…”

Ian had dropped the letters and was placing both hands on the lock. After a moment of concentration, it froze completely. Arnold felt his breath cut short. One thing was covering something with a thin layer of ice, and a completely other deal was—

Ian kicked the door again and this time it flew open, sending bits of ice flying into the hallway. Ian gathered the letters from the ground and dashed in. He stopped in front of a large fireplace and dumped the letters in it.

“Hand me matches,” he commanded, pushing his hair behind his ears. Arnold tried not to let his eyes linger.

“Sir, w-why—“

“Matches.”

“Ye-yes, Sir.” After some inspection, Arnold found a small box on the floor and, trembling hands, handed it over.

A few minutes later the letters were turning to ash under Ian’s narrowed, fierce eyes. Arnold was watching him carefully. Ian hadn’t let out a peep since he’d tossed a burning match onto the pile of envelopes, but that didn’t mean he had calmed down.

When he spoke, his voice was steady:

“Arnold, go downstairs and find the cook. Tell them one of the locks needs a change, so they should send a letter to our handyman and tell him to come back before Father plans a return.”

Arnold hesitated.

“Go.”

Ian sounded like he wouldn’t stand for any objections, so Arnold mumbled a “On it, Sir” and rushed out. Left alone, Ian stared at the flames. The letters were still burning, and when the last one turned into a black pile of ash, he mumbled:

“I’m done.”

Then he turned away and left the room.