While Aloysius talked with Wynne in the stables, Sioned busied herself collecting hazelnuts at the cuff of the Tywyll. Bryngaer was well north of her, and it would take about two hours to get back home. She knew it was a ‘busy’ job to keep her from doing anything stupid, and she didn’t know what to think of that. Either way, hazelnuts were her favorite.
A feeling of someone near made her shiver. She scanned the dusk scene of the deep and dark forest, her heart pounding against her chest.

Chance looked down at his hands. They were weathered and well-used before he woke up in the care of the Al-Izzes - who, at the time, also had to cross the border to Destrea to escape the cruelty in Úda - so there wasn’t a way he could be an aristocrat. No, Caislín was dead wrong about him.
“Nevertheless,” he mumbled to himself, now locked in a jail cell until the morning. “Sleep is what I need.”

She only had her mind set on transporting the milk.
“This is the last time I ask for your help, Tesni,” Wynne growled as she hobbled from the dairy stables to the kitchen door under the weight of the two large pails, both filled to the brim with fresh, warm milk. They wouldn’t stay filled unless she got help- quick. She had accidentally splashed out more than usual.

She couldn’t remember if she screamed.
“Quit pacin’, Your Highness, you’ll burn a hole in the ground with your heels,” Aloysius remarked, leaning against a gnarled tree, arms crossed over his chest.
Her stomach hadn’t settled. Her body was sent in another tempest; this time it was a tempest of confusion, not of sorrow.

"Hello."

"Oh. Hi. You look familiar...have we met before?"

"I don't think so. I've seen you around at this conference before. At least I'm pretty sure I have."

She tilted her head to one side.

"Ohhh that must be it. I've been here every year since they started this conference back in 2012."

"Cool! So have I. My name is Mark. Mark Barton."

He shook her hand.

"Melissa Grey. Nice to meet you!"

Smiles.

"Do you live near here? I live about three hours from here in a little community called Lake Victor."

“Chance? Chance, wake up!”
He was roused by Nóe’s panicked whisper. “Wh- Nóe, what’s up?” Chance launched himself off of his travel matt and scanned the clearing. No one was there, and the fire was doused in a hurry. Breixo must have taken Arlo away while Nóe waited up for Chance.
The night was dark and only the dim crimson embers gave off light. The canopy was just dense enough to choke out the stars and the moon.

Chance let the rest of the warm sun tan his face.
The summer-like streak that stretched on through months about Destrea halted with a torrent of rain a couple nights ago. The Tywyll Forest was cold now, but the sun peeked through the damp leaves. It was just enough to create a warm patch where he laid.
His eyes were closed. His mind was screaming, meditating, but singing. One song replayed in his mind, making his tongue dance to it.
“Rain won't wash away the memories
And the wind won't hide her perfume
But it blows

Caislín fingered her father’s crown.
The funeral was held yesterday. She was officially the queen of Destrea. Instead of sapphire coronation banners, black and purple streamers danced in the whistling wind to mourn the loss of a monarch. She was given word that Sa’di had been implicated with the band of terrorists and had since disappeared, thus proving their points.

They found Chance in the stables.
But before they did, he just waited. He could hear the crowds and personnel drop into desperate clamor, and he knew that his team was successful. He found himself useless at this point in missions, given he discouraged himself from fighting. He knew he could, but experiences were burned in the back of his mind. They held him back. Even sparring in between missions proved difficult to do. He wished he could harden up, but memories kept him soft - broken. There was no time to let his heart cool before another memory burned it in despair.

The next day was like a remake of the rehearsal, with ten times the pomp of before. Thousands of the people of the kingdom crammed themselves in the squares and streets. Carriages and parades whizzed by, not that the four men were paying attention. The two Údaens had to hide themselves under leather jerkins and hoods to shadow their dark faces; an ongoing war tore the two nations apart, and to see the face of a strange Údaen on a special occasion would rouse the crowds with suspicion and contempt.
This time, their suspicion would have been understandable.