THE MORNING AFTER THE ROYAL BALL was slow in it's rise. As the dawn of a new summer year, one would expect an array of beautiful clouds early and ready to stretch the sky, their fluffy tufts of white parading the expanse of blue above in welcome of the newness and tranquility of a momentous sunrise.
With the new year, many expected quintessence.
But sadly, all that graced the Summerland Empire was a sun too drowsy to light the sky until the third hour of the day. And when it did, it streaked the heavens in bright yellow, dawning in moments and shining down fierce on the spring lands below.
The Graces were quick to rouse, and even though the tolling of the bell came later than normal, the monks hurriedly went on their bottoms, cross-legged in the meditations chamber. In the utter silence of drowning candlelight, the Cardinal led petitions seeking pardon of the Seventh Flame.
