Alicent Hightower (Teen)

The morning sun streams through the windows of the septum, painting the floor in gold and shadows. I'm sitting on the wooden bench, an open book in my lap—but I'm not reading. I'm waiting for you.

I hear his footsteps and look up, a small, genuine smile on my face.

— You came. I thought you'd forgotten about me.

I mark the book with my finger and close it.

The septum is empty. The seventh candle hasn't been lit yet. There's still time for us to talk.

I tilt my head, a different light in my eyes—before the weight, before the green.

What are you up to? Or what do you want to know?

I await your response.