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Dear Saria.

By midnight, it will be exactly four years since you left us. Four years. To you humans, that must be something akin to an extended vacation. To me, it is a lifetime. Or at least so it feels, when I've had to live it without you.

I have written one of these notes every night, and it has amounted to quite a pile by now; The papers stack up to half my height, and I've had to rearrange my living quarters to make space for them. But made space I have, for I see less and less value in material possessions, unlike your husband, who still considers me as part of his inventory.

Life here on my side has changed little the last few years. Master Legacy lays his schemes, the Keidran scuttle about, and the Basitins... do whatever it is they do, I suppose. The willows still creak the same lonely elegy, though I can hardly hear it anymore, as my ears have grown weary, along with everything else.

The birds no longer sing in the woods around the manor, but I am unsure if that can be attributed to my failing senses; there is something about this place that deafens all good things. Now, before you hush me and say I'm being paranoid or overdramatic, please consider this:

Do you remember when you and I studied basic magic together with Trace? back in the bright days before everything went gray. I don't know if you remember (though I definitely do) that we once examined the effect magic can have on physical matter: he said that "Some physical objects will retain attain magic forever. Give it a squirt of accentuated mana, and the stain will never go away." or something like that. Then I made a raunchy joke, and you laughed. I believe he cancelled the lesson to go sulk after that, but I got the core message and a happy memory. I remember it clear as day, the way you giggled at my uncouth humor. I don't remember much of the last four years, but I remember that smile.

...Anyways, I've had plenty of time to study this phenomenon on my own, in the painful long years I've spent here, both through Templar records and in person. My eyes aren't as reliable as they once were, but my magical attunement is as sharp as ever, and I've concluded that this manor is a prime example of a magically charged object.

And I'm not referring to the layers and layers of spells and charms that Trace and Nora weaved into the foundations of the building. The heaps of wired teleport spells, household cantrips and automated sentries. It is intricate and awe-inspiring magic to be sure, but I feel there is something else weighing down on this place as well.

Trace was very dear to you. I know, I know, we never saw eye to eye on this. You loved him very much, and he loved you even moreso, if such a thing was even possible. After all, it was your untimely passing that tore him apart, as it did with me. But Trace is not the same person as he was, regardless of what I thought of him back then.

I know this is a terrible thing to say about your husband, but... I wish he'd joined you on the other side that night, when he tried to bring you back. The Templar doctors worked for a week to restore him, and when he woke up there was something else inside his body other than Trace Legacy. 

He brought something terrifying with him when he returned from the edge. I can feel it, and if you were still here, you would feel it too. I never looked into the study of dark mana, but I can tell when it's there; it has festered on the poor man like a creeping cough, and it is slowly spreading to his surroundings. When he walks the halls, the shadows sway with his footsteps like waves on a quiet lake. The walls lean in to listen when he thinks of revenge, war, and retribution. He's telling himself he's doing it all for you, but I see a different truth: Master Legacy is sick, yet too stubborn to admit it. Whenever he is near, I can feel the rage glowing off him, and a bottomless lake of sadness layered beneath it. I know how much he hurts, but I know he'd rather die than talk about it, least of all with me.

You know how he is.

...How he used to be.

But this estate is harrowed by more than just dark mana and a wilting lord, as if those weren't enough. With the stacks and layers of magic sealed inside its ground wall, this place is so easily swayed by the minds of its residents, which has just been me and Trace for the last year or so. His resentment pours into the floor, the carpets and every painting in the corridor. Over the long, lonely years I have felt the building itself growing spiteful and angry, tainted by his presence alone. The sunsets in the oasis room have grown colder, the meals I cook grow bitter. The walls themselves are steeped in hatred, malice and sorrow, and I don't know how long it can last before something awful happens.

I am afraid the fault does not lie solely with Trace here, as my own mind has been weighed by the same burdens I've described in the last thousand letters I've written. Sometimes when I wander the main hall or tend to the hedge maze, I feel the manor leech sadness and longing off of me. When my paws leave the carpet, my feelings sink into the floor beneath, and embed themselves in the cold marble. By now there must be multiple lifetimes of misery stored in the stone. Long, long years.

I

I miss you a lot, you know.

I suppose you know this by now, as I've come back to it in every passage, but if a thousand "I miss you"s failed to get through, then I guess it can't hurt with a thousand and one. I know things would have looked very different if you were here. You would've been able to talk to the blue-haired fool. He always listened to you, if nobody else. Dark magic or no, you would've gotten through to him. I know you would.

You would think I'd learned not to lean over the page when writing by now, to stop it from getting wet. I suppose I am a slow learner in some aspects.

But at last, my eyes grow dim, and the candles low. The shadows flicker in my study, and the walls sway with them. Or perhaps these tired old eyes are playing tricks on me again.

I can hear Trace making his way upstairs, and I suppose I will have to greet him soon.

I am tired. So very tired, and it will be good to rest. I can feel the time approaching, and I'd be lying if I said I'm not looking forward to it. This cage of sorrow and regret will not hold me for much longer, for better or for worse. Soon I will take these weary bones for one last walk into the garden. I will lie down on the soft grass next to you as we did so many years ago, and we will finally be together again.

I will see you very soon.

-Your love

Roselyn.