Scrawled Fears.
She gripped the letter in her hands now, wondering if she should have regretted writing it in the first place. Astrid was better at politics, and that was why Sophia so rarely intervened. But the few times she did, it was because she was better at knowing people, and she expected to be listened to.
I spoke to Her Majesty of the Southern Isles at the feast, as was expected of me, her letter began, and each word had been carefully chosen long before she even opened the inkwell. I have been told in the past that my opinions are formed too quickly or through bias, but I confide in you now my magic is irrepressible of late. My opinion is of not her person, but of her very heart, and I ask you to read these words with consideration.
It was formal. Too formal for her liking, but the preamble served its purpose nonetheless. With fear settling like lead in her fingertips, Sophia forced open the great doors to the throne room. The long hall had, as a child, been her favorite place to race herself or her guard, as it allowed just enough uninterrupted running room for her to run out of breath by the end. Now, though, it seemed too, too, too long as she took each step with deliberation. Now was not the time to turn back and keep her fears to herself. Still, something told her to halfway down the hall and wait to be told she could go further. So she did.
