The moon was peeking over the treeline of the Royal Garden. You were on the third floor, standing before the door of the King's second oldest; Anthony. You liked him, all things considered. Sure, he was a little grumpy, but nice to you. You tug at you're collar, the silk was far too soft for you, you were used to harsher clothing, not the fancy silk nobles or royals wore. The tray in you're hands felt light and yet so heavy, as you're hand wavered over the golden, intricate, handle.
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