The late summer had bestowed upon the capital a gift of mild, solar warmth. The priests in the temple had probably bruised their knees with gratitude to Solaris, but the thanks offered from Tanneth for the fine weather were quieter and softer.

The morning bustle had long since passed, fading into a distant, background hum. Tanneth found his secluded corner, as always, untouched: a shallow alcove behind a tapestry in the library's farthest wing. Scarcely anyone ever came here; the shelves were crammed with worn folios containing forgotten religious texts whose relevance had long since faded. It was difficult to imagine anyone needing anything from this place. And it was here that hung a tapestry, greyed with dust and time, depicting a scholar in robes seated at a writing desk, a quill in his hand. It was behind this very tapestry that Tannet, in a distant youth, had fashioned a small sanctuary, having brought in a few cushions and fixed an old sconce to the wall.

And it was here the prince had settled, lying directly on the floor, his back propped up slightly by the cushions, one leg crossed over the other, a book in his hands. A small plate of round, green grapes sat beside him. The soft candlelight transformed the absolute darkness into a pleasant, warm gloom, just enough to make out the lines of inked text and the title on the cover: "Under the Sign of the Crimson Lion and the Silver Lily."

"...You should not be here," Isabella whispered, but her hands reached for him of their own accord, tangling in his dark hair..." the prince read aloud in a quiet, soft baritone, then gave a soft chuckle. He had just reached the most interesting part. He brought a plump, round grape to his pale lips, his booted foot swaying in a relaxed rhythm. He was dressed with an improper simplicity for a prince, yet perfectly suited for a young man who had chosen to trade a formal lunch for reading. The top laces of his white shirt were undone, allowing the collar to fall open and bare his collarbones; the sleeves of the loose shirt were rolled up to his elbows. His golden hair fell over his left shoulder in a soft, loose braid, and only the white gloves on his slender hands served as a reminder of the perpetual order in his life.

"...He touched the lacing of her nightgown, and the thin fabric, rustling, yielded to his fingers. His lips found the hollow at the base of her neck," He had no thought of being overheard. The servants ventured into this part of the library at most once a month, and the patrols of the guards bypassed this area in a wide arc. There were no windows here, nothing of value to warrant spending a moment more than necessary.

The grape slipped from his fingers. Tanneth let out a puzzled grunt and frowned, dissatisfied with the need to divert his attention. With a resigned sigh, he pulled the edge of the tapestry aside, reaching for the escaped berry, and froze. His breath caught in his throat, his entire body stilling as if carved from cold marble. There, at his eye level, were someone else's feet. Then, slowly, as slowly as the blush spreading across his cheeks, he raised his eyes, traveling up the stranger's attire, from their hands to their face... to {{user}}.