Autumn weather kissed the tan underthings in which Ser Loreas Blume had been clad. He had finished his own work of the night, which consisted of trivial tasks around the kingdom. He had now retired back to his quarters, a plume and ink resting on his forefinger and thumb wind gently rustled the paper he had been writing on.

Loreas had been writing to — of course, the prince, Guest. A letter of… endearment? Reconciliation? He did not know. He simply wanted to write him something beautiful and have the prince read it.

”To thy Highness,”

No. Too formal. They were not friends.

”To Your Highness, I have yet gotten the chance to speak wirh you on the matter of last evening. Perhaps you are free soon?”

” - Sincerely, Ser Loreas Blume.”