II

“There’s a new boy around the place– called Rane–  I think. Mama and Papa seem to simply adore him, though I can’t at all see why. He’s dull, provincial, and he has a terrible laugh: a sort of high cackle. He’s not unbearable or anything like that, but I certainly do not see what they see in him. I suppose I’ll warm up to him in time.
I had my magic lesson today. I hate magic! It seems to come oh so easily to everyone but me! And it doesn’t do anything, not really. What is the use in making things glitter or float, or appearing places one could just as easily walk to?  Though the lecture was uplifting. They had a guest Dwarf, he was saying that in all the world Xanara is the most active in terms of magic. In fact, he said that the practice has utterly died out in certain places. I would so love to visit such a place!” 
Noted for it’s poignance, the diary of Princess Valora chillingly augurs the Dark Age, and even, some scholars argue, The Fall.
--Excerpt from Histories, by R.H Mucler


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Queen Allendre sits in her chamber room. Very slowly she twists a ring around her finger–  the little silver band that Lyron gave her. An attendant elf woman sits crocheting on the floor. Allendre sighs.
“Would you send a rose over to Rane?” Allendre says quietly.
“Immediately, your Majesty.” says the elf, leaving.
Allendre bites her lip, and slowly moves her fingers through her hair. She cannot account for these feelings. These compulsions. Just yesterday she was perfectly happy: Walking the grounds, chatting with her maids, dining with Lyron. But today she is all agitation, all nerves...all guilt. She thinks of Rane’s face, and a little tension flickers through her chest, and she hates that it does, and she thinks of Lyron, and she twists a ring around her finger.


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King Lyron sits in his chamber room. Very slowly he twists a ring around his finger–the little golden band that Allendre gave him. An attendant elf man stands silent by the door. Lyron sighs.
“Would you send a rose over to Rane?” Lyron says quietly.
“Immediately, your Highness.” says the elf, leaving.
Lyron bites his lip, and slowly moves his fingers through his beard. He cannot account for these feelings. These compulsions. Just yesterday he was perfectly happy: Walking the grounds, chatting with his guards, dining with Allendre. But today he is all agitation, all nerves...all guilt. He thinks of Rane’s face, and a little tension flickers through his chest, and he hates that it does, and he thinks of Allendre, and twists a little band around his finger.


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Rane sits in his chamber room, twisting two roses in either hand.