Chapter 1073
Carissa hesitated before taking the letter. She sat on the wooden chest, holding it for a long time before carefully unfolding it. Wade, never fond of reading—he preferred carpentry, crafting mechanisms, and martial arts—had often been chastised by Dominic for neglecting serious pursuits. Even as a military officer, Wade was expected to understand military strategy and tactics, not just rely on brute strength. Dominic had forced him to study, resorting to threats and even caning.
But effort without interest, coupled with a near-total lack of talent, meant Wade never made much academic progress. His handwriting was notoriously messy. He'd once joked that his strokes were a masterpiece of wild grace, a chaotic dance of dragons and snakes only the truly enlightened could appreciate. Remembering his words, Carissa glanced at the haphazard script and agreed.
Fortunately, she could decipher the general meaning, even if a few words eluded her. The content mattered. The letter explained the concealed weapon's usage; the mechanism required a slight offset to hit its target, as they had just tested. It wasn't a deliberate design choice, Wade clarified, but a result of the rushed process. The looming war hadn't allowed time for refinements. He promised improvements after the battles, sending her a perfected version as a gift the following year.
He also described the throwing knives, their streamlined shape allowing them to cut through the air with great speed. The thin, razor-sharp blades required less force, relying instead on skillful technique. He mentioned several designs for other hidden weapons, already sketched and awaiting construction after the war, which he planned to send to her.
The letter was mostly an ode to his genius, brimming with an unabashed confidence that no one in the next fifty years would surpass his mastery of concealed weapons.
Rafael held a lamp to illuminate her reading, but didn't intrude. Lost in thought, he remembered Wade's sacrifice at the Battle of Victory Pass, during Leroy's first appearance—the war's disastrous opening skirmish, a devastating ambush that caught them unprepared. Wade was among the many lives lost in that ill-fated engagement.
Carissa folded the letter slowly—three times—into a small square, tucking it into her sachet. Tears silently traced paths down her cheeks, dripping onto her hands. She didn't wipe them away. Turning to another chest—one of her uncle's remaining boxes—she found only mundane trinkets. A note inside, placed neatly atop the contents, read simply: Just mundane trinkets.
Carissa unpacked the box, revealing a fox fur cloak, leather hides, and warm winter clothing. There were even white fox fur gloves, so soft her hands began to sweat. She continued, opening the other chests. Several pairs of shoes—Carissa recognized her grandmother's stitching on two pairs of embroidered shoes and two pairs of soft lambskin boots—testified to her grandmother's love and care.
Among the remaining items were clothes, uncut emeralds, but no gold or silver jewelry. The conditions at Victory Pass had clearly been harsh.
"These look like baby clothes," Rafael remarked, holding up tiny outfits for boys and girls. He also found two pairs of tiger-head shoes and matching hats, placing them carefully on the chest lid.
Carissa gently touched the small shoes. Her aunts must have made them around the time she married Barrett. Back then, her life had seemed predetermined—marriage, children, managing the household. It was the future Melanie had always envisioned for her.
The tiger-head shoes were exquisitely made, the meticulous stitching bringing the little tigers to life. Carissa imagined any child wearing them would feel surrounded by love and blessings. She carefully repacked everything except her grandmother's shoes. She slid the bracelet, now fully loaded with needles, onto her wrist—her uncle's gift to protect her.
"There are still some clothes. Do you want to wear them?" Rafael asked, gesturing to another chest. Carissa ran her fingers over the fabric, hesitating. Then, she shook her head slowly. Tears slipped down her cheeks. "I can't bear to wear them. If they get worn out, they'll be gone forever."
"Then leave them be," Rafael said gently, "but maybe take them out once a year. That way, you honor their love without letting it go to waste." He helped her seal the boxes, glancing at the throwing knives. "You should take a few of these with you too. They seem useful."
"Yes. There's a leather pouch here." Carissa found a black leather pouch with individual slots for the knives. The design made them easy to draw—one seemed to leap into her hand.
Even now, Carissa struggled to accept her uncle's death. Yet, she knew denial wouldn't bring him back. They were gone forever.