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It was a beautiful day in Grayle. The sun was shining and the sky was clear, with a cool breeze blowing a thin mist up from the resplendent aquamarine surface of the Viridian River, drawing rainbows of refracted light out into the spring air. Blessed by the grace of ancestors whose deeds became mythological, verdant beauty arose from every corner of the alabaster city. It was the season of beginnings, the season of one’s excitement, and the chicks had flown from their roost, familiar flocks guiding fledglings in the art of the flight. Upon King’s Bridge, a youth, cherubic in beauty, lingered upon the cobblestone, his eyes downcast.

A sparrow, a cheeky little thing, pranced upon the palm of his hand, beak darting down to snatch up a crumb or two. Every once in a while, the dapple-feathered chick would look back up at him, rotate its head, then go back to eating. He watched it enjoy itself and wondered of it. What would it be like, to be a bird? Flying freely, unfettered by all but the most base necessities. Castles and towers, the apex of human craft, boasted views that paled in comparison to what a common [i]pest[/i] could experienced. What a charmed creature.

He closed his hand before it sensed his intent, fingers lacing over its wings and pinning them against the sparrow’s body. Warmth seeped into his hand, the warmth of a fuzzy little thing struggling to free itself from a heartless giant. Against his palm, he could feel the pinpricks of its talons vibrating with every steadily accelerating heartbeat. And then it was hot. The hot of a drop of blood.

Rossweine smiled, opened his hand, and watched the bird fly off. Shakily, sporadically at first, then with increasing speed and confidence. What remained then, in his hand? Nothing but a drop of blood, staining the crescent-shaped crease that mirrored his thumb. He turned towards the castle, the courtyard, the mass of hopefuls and hopeless that trampled upon it.

Nobles were relaxed. Swordsmen were confident. Commoners, anxious.

Royalty, ambivalent.

At this distance, it was easy enough to tell that the stage was yet empty. Manegold talked about tradition before, of how it was customary to let the children [i]stew[/i] a bit. A power play, his older brother had said, back when they still had time to speak regularly. Rossweine didn’t get it then, and didn’t care for it now. Wasting away in the mire of humanity was meaningless, even if those crowds would part ways out of reverence regardless.

The Moonkissed Princeling let out a sigh, wiping the blood off on the marbled railings of the bridge, his steps taken to the tempo of an orchestration he fancied.

It was a beautiful day in Grayle. The sun was shining and the sky was clear. Too precious an experience to expend rushing to and fro. The wind brushed a kiss up to his cheeks from the depths of the waterfall, and a faint smile played upon his lips, his mind painting over the world that his eyes told him of.

He will take his time.

No one was waiting, after all.