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Time trickles by like grains of sand through an hourglass.
Three weeks until the festival.
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A quill dotted with ink met the surface of a blank page. The quill didn't move, however, and so the ink pooled into an ugly splotch.
You scowl at the now ruined parchment, your fingers tapping along your desk in annoyance.
Writing down your thoughts could be a good idea Ei had told you. Writing always allows the time to flow by quicker for me.
With a defeated sigh, you rise from your desk and definitely don't slam your quill into it's ink pot. You had been sitting there for a good half hour—trying to follow the advice your friend had given you—but it was no use.
You walk over to your stupidly huge bed and flop down onto it unceremoniously, but even resting on the cool expensive sheets does nothing to rest your addled mind. You had been wondering about Thoma all week. Had he gotten the letter? Did he believe in it's contents?
You wish you could have put more information in it—but in all honesty... you thought it was best to keep some things under wraps, for now. You knew the position you were in, and it was not a good one.
Being stuck between two warring sides was never a situation you imagined yourself being in, and yet here you lay—a decorated rebellion soldier in one of the highest room's of the enemies' palace.
You're ripped from your thoughts when a tapping sound emanates from beyond your door; and you sigh before grunting out a come in.
It isn't Aimi or Ei which is a particularly shocking surprise. Instead of literally anyone else, a disgruntled Kujou Sara stands in your doorway, and you really do have to stop yourself from sneering.
"...y/n." Kujou calls coldly, yet her voice radiates with the same professionalism you remember from when she yanked you out of your old cell. "Her Majesty requests for your audience."
