Black Morass White leaves of an oleander

the reverend mother had risen with the earliest touch of light, her breath curling softly into the cool morning air.

she had expected envy. the girl was diligent—eager. ione had seen the flicker of anticipation in her eyes before, and now, as their paths crossed, she saw it again.

early as always, she greeted, voice low and smooth, laced with approval. her gaze, sharp and discerning, softened for a brief moment. come. we will begin.

there was work to be done. souls to shape. a kingdom to uphold.

and envy, ione knew, would be molded into something worthy.