"Hope was a wilting dream as a light flickering frailly upon a candle held against the consuming frost of a Winter's night. However, it was not quenched; not whilst the hand of its bearer did preserve its warmth from the winds that roared as icy menaces."
~
The Royal Enthronement and Investiture in disarray,
The Crown of St. Erdengaur,
Kingdom of Tristendyre,
The Second Sunday of the Second month,
Year I of the Era of Tristendyrian Revolution
In that single flash of a pulsing moment, Michavel, in the pretence of a Royal Sentry, watched the scene of Noctyn soaring towards Imogen, who was in the disguise of the Princess. It was all too fast to be salvaged before the disarray was wasted:
