"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.

Caislín had indignantly clasped his cloak around his shoulders and sighed. Her chilled fingers clutched the eagle’s wing that connected the golden braided loop on the other edge of his cloak. He may have sensed her hesitation to let him out of her sight, and enveloped her small hands in his weathered ones. He wasn't that much older than her, but his callused hands were those of a man of old age. They were gloved in soft black leather and were warm. She leaned her forehead into his chest and swallowed down her tears.

The whole kingdom was drunk on excitement.
The dawn was the most beautiful, seeming to be a good omen to the rest of the day. The horizon lightened until it was sapphire blue, which happened to be the kingdom’s virtue color. The sun blazed overhead and burned away any clouds that would ruin the ceremony.

Let me show you my garden, so you may understand why I love it as much as I do.
Here, on this ornate bench beneath the cascade of Rose vines, my heart first opened up to love. The hand that turned back the petals and revealed the heart was the hand that put this ring on my finger.
Here, under the boughs of these cherry blossoms, I learnt that this Love must die a young death.
'Twas walking between the rows of gardenias here that my broken heart was healed.

Now I ponder and wonder why
A man thinks best to take his life
Thinks to end his conscience' strife
His hopeless fingers grip the knife

There is no love to make him thrive
It hurts to breath; to be alive
He's lost his faith, he's lost his drive
It is not worth the pain to strive

It's become a matter of time
Because of this he starts the climb
From conscience to justify crime
But then he hears a quiet rhyme