The sun was a hazy, quivering crescent on the nearby hills when Alesandra finally emerged from the inner gardens, carrying a book she could no longer read in the falling dark. The candle she had gone in with had been badly crafted, and the wax had pooled and smothered the wick a half hour or more before she had really planned to go in for the night. It was one thing to study in the even lighting of her chambers, interrupted every half-moment by a servant or a seamstress or God-fearing, her own impossible father. The flickering, sensual dance of light across the inner breadth of the green shrubberies surrounding her reading place provided just enough light to illuminate the pages without spoiling her hiding place.

She nestled her book into the crook of her arm, placing it against her chest that had risen with tiny goose bumps in the late, chilly air. The water in the garden’s decorative pool had risen dramatically after the prior day’s rain, and without abandoning her quick pace or her direct path, she caught her reflection as it glided by… now a grown woman wrapped in the silvery satin and lace she had envied as a child. She didn’t waste time watching her reflection, for she knew what she was, and what little would be left of her if she were to dawdle outdoors under the impending dusk.

As she disappeared from sight, Broman took a deep, windy breath that he had been saving, lest she hear him so close to the place she thought she had kept secret. It was a game they had never played as children- this game of hide and seek- for their childhoods had been spent far separated, with the only bond being their common father. If they had played this way, he thought with a half-smile, he would have known all of her instinctive hollows. He had, in fact, been watching her every move for as long as he could remember.

Alesandra had a way about her that drew forth all kinds of people, from the lowest stable boy, clad in little more than brown rags and wide eyes, to the Lords of the township that exchanged appreciative glances with one another whenever she happened to walk by, lost in her own ambition. In the past two years, Broman had felt her charisma transforming her from the infectious, smiling princess that she had been raised to be. What became of her was something he could not describe without feeling somehow guilty of its implications to their family relation. He wished he could talk to someone who would understand.

As he moved out of the garden, still wary of the slanted light and being discovered away from his work, he thought that perhaps his own Master of Studies would be the one to talk to. After all, the man had had close relations with the family for decades, and would certainly understand the magic of the transformation young Alesandra had made…and if nothing else, he would surely have a spell or two that could help him get over his stirring, blinding obsession with the essence of the Princess.

Broman pushed open the heavy door to his work area, conscious of the loud squealing of the hinges. Master Aris would probably step in after a few moments with an indulgent smile and ask what folly had finally convinced him to take a break from the toils of the stone magic.

Instead, it was full dark before he made his presence known, tossing a thin book upon the table in front of Broman. He had not used the door, nor had he conjured a spell to grant him magically entry into the room Broman used as a study. He had come up from the cellar that’s entrance sat uncovered in a corner, inviting countless mishaps in a dark room where one was likely to stumble. The wizard himself, still an energetic man approaching his forties, seated himself across from his apprentice with a smile so wide Broman thought he must have come across the secret to eternal life.

“The day is approaching, my fine worker bee,” he spoke with good cheer, immune to Broman’s troubled frown. “You will soon have a workshop so complete that even Militorne will come scraping at your door for spells.”

Militorne the Unrivaled would do no such thing, he knew.