Another crumpled piece of parchment arced over Imogen's head. It landed fulms from the wastebin with the rest.

It was a waste, and with that waste came a sunk cost. She had to get this right. Else those trees would've died for nothing.

My Redgar thinks himself a shadow I hadn't the heart to tell him, but here goes: A shadow dissolves in candle light, it leaves no traces Of him I have evidence aplenty He doesn't seep into the floorboards, he plays them like percussion for the crowd He speaks before he's seen, little shadow, those Limsan greetings chime Everyone turns with gaze a-snare Expecting his crimson head of hair — of course, fucking Red is there Red, here, there and everywhere He'll tuck you into bed and claim his hands are made for choking He'll kiss your brow at dead of night and claim his maw is made for biting His cheeks are red as apples — he claims to draw blood, never yield it And perhaps all of that is true But only in Menphina's dew, when midnight strikes and the moon is Watching the little "shadow" move Dissolve he won't, he can't, no cover For the once and forever clandestine lover My Redgar is the big bad wolf My Redgar is the boy who cried The fault is in the fools who think that either or must lie

Satisfied for now, Imogen bookended the poem with authors' notes. First, the prelude.

Red— They were having a limerick contest in the mess hall today and it pissed me off. This poem is fueled purely by spite. It is the first ever hate sonnet.

Then, the footnote.