Celebrating Glasrun was another feasting for Chustern. When the last day of winter melted into solemn prayers in the Thravadin temples and chanting wishes of prosperity in the streets, the folks of Cheron had already ruled out what comes after the reveries. While Glasrun was giving birth to fauna, the Pillar-State Schools had finally planted seeds and were now growing fresh agendas. One of these particular saplings of course was the pulsing power inside the kingdom’s own princess. Princess Alvedaima had become Zazun’s beloved blossom. If he were to keep her from the sun, she could only wither and die. But if he were to let her rise amongst the thorny weeds and broad canopies of the court, then she will need his constant gardening. And as a gardener, he will need a plot of land.

So, it came to Alve’s own shock and relief to find the one she was introduced as Malrow, sitting with her on their assigned table, the both of them working on their projects on lore. ‘As the youngest apprentice of the study group,’ the principal had explained to her, Alve was early on taught how to write sentences. Later in the following weeks, Mistress Clanadrin will be pushing her to write essays. Big brother Malrow’s occasional groans were one of the many sounds that broke their hushed hours together.

He was right-handed, Alve observed. His penmanship however was very swirly. Neck stretching to the right to get a better look, Alve noticed then the odd stems his Thravbon punctuated. When she came back to look at the sentence she studied on her share of the desk, she’d compare then how harder it was to identify semantics when you barely could read them. Her prying was sadly cut short when the boy brought his entire arm to lay flat on the table, covering the odd view. A small grin was the last thing pasted on his face before Master Monterpelagious’ frosty voice said, “stay to your paper apprentice, we would not want the goddess considering you as a cheater.”

The lore master had passion for traipsing back and forth the hall. He read while he walked, at the same time growing eyes on the sides of his head, picking up Arlou’s and his companion’s giggles. Facing them with their own table, Prince Arlou was paired with the Lady Mihca, and there was always whispered laughter echoing from them both. Arlou had sang civics was a fun subject. Other than the civic master’s sharp stares jolting them to settle, Alve found no joy in enduring such menace as the Mistress.

Without commenting on the lore master’s jab, Alve managed to write her own interpretation of what a fairy looks like, colorful wings, sharp ears, and flowers growing on their hair. It wasn’t long before Alve escaped the lore master’s scrutiny when the principal’s voice beckoned him to his foyer. A whiff of a chuckle steered the princess away from her scrawling.

She could have imagined it perhaps. Brother Malrow had laughed. It had been a mimic of a stack of scrolls falling. Brisk but mischievous. Curious, Alve had meant to stare on his gray contexture. Seeming to catch a smile or any sign of amusement from the left half of his stoic face. She had to make sure of the bubbling warmth of her stomach was not a tummy ache.

Alve froze when the boy spoke, “what do you want?” He said, not even breaking from his stupor.

It took Alve a moment to breath. Her mind screaming for a response. She was grateful when he still held an ear when she stuttered, “you—your letters. Your letters are awful.”

The princess knew who to blame the change of the room’s temperature. Sweat was already running down on her neck as time passed. Her, waiting for his horrible reaction. She must have insulted him, Alve thought.

When a boyish confused faced her, a brow raised high and a flat lip, Alve wondered then what was going inside the boy’s head. “No one had told me they were bad. In fact, they always said they were wonderful.”

Encouraged, Alve never blurred when she replied, “I can’t read them.”

“You want to read them?” he asked, Alve’s uniform a waterfall of damp blue.

She could only nod, the resonating itch on her neck and armpits propelled her to stand ground and avoid scratching their surfaces. Her meager bony hands were clenched beneath the desk, wrinkling the twills of her stuffed clothing.

“How old are you again?”

“Five winters.”

His emotions were a mess. The immediate cold biting tingling skin could give Alve ailments. Malrow went back to his work. The glint of glass on his very black eyes was enough to silence the princess from any more of her curiosities. “Ah…no wonder you can’t read them,” he said while inking his quill. “There is just too much you don’t know.”

Zazun crumpled the blasted letter, foiled a spell and burned the parchment with eth-hagama.

“You called?” Bapi smoothed his way in to the office. He was glad the royal guards were not tailing the nobles, they had just to keep their sharp swords on him and the Skiethalon brats. The glimmer of their blades as he had passed them was a quarrel to be avoided.

“The High Adjunct sends his threats. Says his niece was a special case, if she falls in my hands, there will be consequences.” Sitting on his desk with stacks of papers to sign, the principal had invited the lore master to seat. Bapi had to decline. He kept looking back at the hall he came from.

“You do not like it, do you, lore master?” the principal eased. He made no sign of being ignored of the first concern.

“I made greater conditions of those in power Master, here I am still alive. Leave the High Adjunct to the King. I am worrier of Skiethalon’s plans.”

But the principal sighed, Bapi’s reassurance of power play was not calming the old man’s nerves. “He cares only of the prince, mage. He might not even care of our girl.”

“Then it shall be the princess we watch over.” Like dragon’s breathe, Bapi seethed with checked ire. “I fear nothing from the King. He had failed once, and he shall again of his desires.”

The principal’s wrinkles were objections. Bapi knew he had hidden too much from the Lord Visor. The principal was reminding him of the last place he had in the Pillar-States. Time was a secondary concern. Settling back to his disposition of reading papers and preparing for homeroom meetings, the principal exhibited the last of his frustrations. “Goddess side you, mage. She is the last one to see your good in the realm.”