Hawthorn branches in the villa gardens bowed low beneath heavy snow.
Rynell reached out and brushed the white burden gently away, petal by petal. His fingers brushed cold bloom, and within him rose a flood of remorse.
"Zairine… forgive me…"
Snow fell thick upon him, soaking his coat. His attendant stepped forward with an umbrella, but he waved her back. He stood alone in the storm, silent in penance.
At last he returned inside, changed into deep blue robes, and descended to the private prayer chamber. There he lit the ritual candles. According to celestial custom, one candle is burned each day, for her safety, her peace.
He knelt and began to copy sacred verses. Yet as he wrote, his hand shaped but one name again and again. Zairine Veridian. Sheet upon sheet filled with it.
He was a
