20th, Month of Wind, 1816
I cried again this morning, and can't bring myself to eat.
It's not that I'm not proud of my Corvo. I've always been proud of him. Always known he was special. So much quicker and stronger than the other boys. So serious. His eyes, keen, even when he was barely able to walk. I nearly burst with pride sometimes.
I knew when he went after the Blade Verbena he'd win it, even so young. I pretended to worry, to wring my hands and look away, and catch my breath, but it was an act. I knew he'd win.
I just never thought he'd be sent away, taken to Dunwall. I should be happy about his new position, bragging, not crying. Oh, my chest feels heavy just thinking of it. He didn't have a choice, did he? They've taken him from me. Set him on a new road. My poor boy.
First Beatrici, years ago. My wanderer daughter, setting off for who knows where, guided only by the stars. And now my Corvo, racing away into unknown weather.