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The sun had yet to rise. The moons have already fallen.

It was pitch-black, an inky, consuming darkness, one that teased at the imagination, one that questioned the nature of reality and perception. There were stories, after all. Of staring at one’s reflection in darkness, and of watching that reflection distort into the visage of an individual past or future. Of revenants and blood-drinkers, lurking in woods as silent as predators, seeking a warm pulse, a frightened heart. Of Fendel’s phantom itself, a curse upon the light that could only exist in that hour before daybreak, struggling in vain to exact vengeance before light defined shadow once more.

But for Rossweine, the pitch black was the depths of a lake. It was oblivion and unbecoming, where even a prince could melt into the aether, dissolved into nothingness. Below his feet, dew-drenched grass snaked around his toes. Between his fingers, the burdens of two wooden buckets cut past the flesh and weighed on the bones. And held in his eyes was the very substance of reality and imagination, where even when wide-open, he could see the wireframe of his visualizations, imposed upon the blackness of reality. The wind brought with it the smell of spring and pine. The water sloshed back and forth, scents and soap agitated. Now, and only now, a courtyard could become refuge.

His toe touched the trunk of a tree. He raised first bucket. Closed his eyes.

Scented water drowned him; clear water cleansed him.

The lake remained still in the night and the cold. The lake was the reflection of the self.

…

It was little matter, retracing his steps to the front of the barracks. He had wrung the water out of his silk nightclothes, and it was dry when he stepped into the commons room, the redness of his skin fading away at the small flames that lit up the area. He smoothed his damp hair back against his skull. Ever pristine, ever majestic, despite, or perhaps because of, his simple garb. Pine undertones colored the scent of snow, and he scanned the other early-risers. Signar, Julian, Dot, and another only vaguely familiar, bearing the complexion of the people of Valefor.

He let out a breath. It was too early, Rossweine decided, to necessitate any performance. Signar and Julian would be better at ease with simpler language, and Dot’s behavior during the dinner last night left enough indications that the Light-Blessed held some sort of grudge, some disdain, against himself. As for the newest amongst them…

It was too early to care. Daylight and activity would better reveal character. Nathaniel would be up soon enough as well. Perhaps Kai and Zenshin as well, going by the air of nerves and excitement that had driven the others out of bed.

[b]“Good morning, Signar, Julian, Dot, Elon. I will be breaking my fast now.”[/b] For all their efforts last night, being the last squad to be called up summarily meant being the last squad to get a table, and thus being the last squad to get food. [b]“Join me, if you care to.”[/b]

It was early, but there would be food regardless. Early as the others had risen, the staff rose earlier still. That was the case, is the case, and will always be the case.