King Arleous sat at the center table between all the other guests in that assorted meal. To his right, the formidable High Adjunct, Lord Alcvin with his wife the Lady Dasia, and children, young lord Savon and little lady Savana. To the left of his majesty was the also young prince Arlou, too stoic for his years but a shiny highborn nevertheless. Profound golden hair laid upon their heads, except of course the lady Dasia and the Acolyte, which was of fiery red and the bold white respectively. These were the Chonerin of Chustern, the Chrav Lords of Cheron, and the primary owners of the charon mineral, whom many of the trade masters of that night’s banquet were aiming to make arrangements.

“Is it the music?” Mihca asked the boy in dark drapery, quivering with his utensils in front of a plate of goat stew.

“All of it,” he replied bitterly.

Mihca can only sigh at the swank of the Fedolarian Hall. Although bluish plaster ornate the walls of that very bright room, it was hot and damp with the other guests’ sweat. If the charon walls weren’t enough, their long drapes in thick cobalt had to cover the spring time weather outside. Yes, their plates and other utensils were encrusted gold for the goddess above to see but the sour smell of the stew was derogatory. That juicy roasted pig at the Chonerin’s table was a test of both rank and envy.

But the obvious show of power was not deterring the group of trade masters in their behest for favors. By the corner with their glass wines of retoro, her master, Marlin, was speaking with the Lord Christiya of Chrasya, her future guardian. The other trade masters as well, of silk and of many other crafts were conversing with the guest nobles in the hall.

A hushed whisper alerted Mihca to her very friend, “your nose is bleeding Malrow,” said her other master, the very elegant Lahartha wiping away the blood with a handkerchief.

Leaving the reddened cloth to Malrow’s nose, Lahartha continued, “If you stay here anymore longer, you will embarrass us with your fainting.” Her soft hissing was never an apparent threat because her master had the most patience to rival any priest of Enthah. “Our intentions are likely astray anyway, so maybe go outside for a while.”

“I will come with you,” Mihca promtly said. She was gathering up the length of her dress to leave with Malrow when Marlin noticed and beckoned her over to the waiting lord of Chrasya. Lahartha who noticed her husband’s gesture instantly arranged Mihca to go with her, offering Malrow the usual impassive leave outside. As she was led to the smiling noble, she glanced back at her friend fleeing with not but a returning glimpse to her. She was worried.

The clinking of metal shoes and the small pattering of her sandals were the tones of the hallway that kept the entire excitement stagnant. Alve was beaming with midnight glee as she, Urda and two of her personal guards walk her towards the new dinner room. Flashes of Oria’s full circle upon the windows they passed made glints of light on her pupils. They were late, “due to preparation,” her maid explained, but admitting the true convention of her first entrance to the Fedolarian Hall was easing.

She had already taken her private meal that evening, her regular dish of her diet, simple porridge and milk. Though it has always been small for all her little young life, she could not help but hold on to the clawing of her stomach, forcefully digesting the grub out of the moment’s frustration. Urda could not even hold her down, watching her brace each bite of her dinner minutes before her preparations for the evening.

The guards were harder to convince. Before even being led out of her room, the princess was listening to the maid’s astonishing sibilance with the guards as she tried explaining the relevance of the letter from the High Adjunct’s wife. Along with falling to the floor when her Urda opened the door and found her glued to the entire exchange.

Dressed in an ornate silvery gown, it’s high neckline was the main flourish of the dress. A long sleeve that did not hinder Alve’s scanty limbs was drizzled with white pearls, formally exquisite enough to cover her slender frame. The hem was even more for comfort that though it often was tugged by her footing, was remarkably light weight and ague for her skin. The bodice was surprisingly flat and tighter of thick cover. Still white, it was tethered with more buttons than the usual laces she wore. The short lesson of the the White Owl were whispers in her ear however when her Urda finally tied her hair to a colossal braid atop of her head. The hauling of her very curly locks brought small tears to her eyes as the twinge of pain mesmerized the roots of each of her strands. It was heavy and was slinking her steps down the stairs.

Banked with the smell of fresh spring artila and roseta, Alve drank such a huge sniff of the prickly Thorn’s Garden. The cold stench of the night lounged their honeyed smell as the demand to ever enter that part of the palace called to her. They were now beneath her long spired tower. The Thorn Garden was the parallel beauty from the majestic landmass Tron. Blocked from sight and entrance, she never had the chance to walk around the garden, nor any of Skahstrah’s gardens in fact when a single graze of a leaf gave her rashes. Nonetheless, the path was the closest route from hers and the dinner hall, and the dinner hall had ran away from her musing.

Alve glanced at the garden, aglow with Oria’s effulgence. The artila, so yellow in the prim of the elemental’s light, bloomed high above her moss pole. Her sister plant, pinkish-red, the roseta swirled in liquid vines around each other’s thorny stems. And as their soft cadence through the passage was coming to an end at the next corridor’s arc, Alve’s knees begged to dive into the sprite garden.

She fervently gazed and swallowed the last moments of the vignette. Her glimpses reaching farther inside the garden to a small alcove of pristinely cut bushes. Alve finally saw a small white washed house, a garden bower with the artila and roseta in bloom. She burned with desire to go there.

And to her finale of that behold, lounging amongst the bower’s small leafy parlour, lolling and eyes closed upon the night sky was a boy whose guise went kindling with the moon elemental’s grace. Alve’s emerald eyes stripped wide in the ultimate allure of the youth’s face.

So at ease

So carefree

So placid towards all the chastity of his surroundings, Alve’s heart coveted the livid glow.

She yearned for that estrange and the mystic of what made the boy so happy.

She wanted to find that true elation…

And to the stop of the slow jaunting of that story’s conclusion, Alve shot towards the depths of the greatest dark bereft when the boy returned to solidity, but disappeared to the void when his eyes, such purged and vacated eyes turned to her in postulation.

Somehow she knew he needed her and his call was answered.