Cecil
The Prince of Alynthi was in the training grounds, making sure that they were vacated beforehand, he perhaps came to the location at a later hour of the night. This was, of course, not only to prevent anyone from being harmed by his elemental magicks, but also to ensure the existence of Gladius was still kept somewhat of a secret. He didn't know much about the entity, after all. He donned a set of black platemail, the armor itself having seen its years of wear and tear in the fronts of the Orcish lands, although being quite well-kept: there were many permanent scratches and marks, but he paid no mind to it. He had grown quite attached to it, after all. 

His imposing aremet-style helmet held two spiked antlers jutting out from either side, and the gaps betwixt the ornate plates of his armor seemed to crackle and light up with azure lightning, filling the courtyard with the scent of salt and smoke: like in the wake of the young Alynthian price, a storm followed. The summoning of his Evocation magic seemed to kick up a brief albeit subtle gust of wind, his golden tabard portraying the image of Dilitrios' crowned stag flailing briefly beneath the arcane-invoked gales. In his right hand he was grasping the glowing azure blade Gladius, the shimmering artifact in itself invoking a great deal of pressure; streaks of lightning enveloping the blade like a coiling serpent. 

Aemilios would clench his free, gauntleted left hand; concentrating a great deal in summoning a crackling ball of azure plasma before releasing it with a sprawled hand, generating a short-lived beam of lightning and striking the cobblestoned wall of the courtyard's walls. The magic would've lingered for a moment shorter than it *Should've*, and although it left a sizable scorch mark upon the stone surface of the castle, it did not cause any sizable damage. Perhaps a more experienced mage would have managed to strike through the stone walls, but he had yet to understand the theory behind his Evocation magic. Rather, he simply relied on self-taught *Instinct* To summon lightning, a prowess no doubt enough to earn him the title of Stormlord, but not comparable to a dedicated wizard.

Nevertheless, this was what he was here for—to practice his magic and improve it the only way he knew how; practice. Soon, the gales of wind that seemed to surround the Prince and minorly lash against his loose tabard would kick up a storm: slowly lifting the warrior off the ground like they were carrying him into flight, though not nearly enough to *Truly* Afford him control. In fact, as the Prince flew through the air, he would scarcely be able to control himself—slamming into a tree and promptly losing concentration on his spell. He fell on the ground with a dull thud. Perhaps it was a good thing nobody was there to watch these minor failures.

Recollecting himself and slowly rising to his feet, he took a deep breath and readjusted his helmet atop his head; though the leather fasteners ensured that the piece would not destabilize enough to fall off of him, the crash-landing had caused it to grow slightly off-set, hampering his visibility. He brandished Gladius in a two-handed grip, flourishing the blade and casting another spell of his own — seeking to test his precise control over the element of wind through his Evocation magic. A blast of wind seemed to suddenly push forth at that, snapping off looser branches from the tree and causing it to dangerously tilt forth; a gale powerful enough to knock down a small platoon of armored men. 

He had relied on this trick many times, but he had learned it firsthand that using his magic this much was exhausting in and of itself. The Prince would soon realize he was nearing the limit of his arcane abilities after another subsequent session of testing out his spellcasting prowess, and the crackling lightning and winds would subside just as soon as they had came. He went to sit beneath a tree, taking deep breaths to recollect himself, exhausted.
Sarah
The Princess settled her silverware upon the edges of her empty dinner plate with a clink, sighing softly to herself as she slid back her chair and rose to her feet. The dinner table stretched into the distance before her, velvet cushioned chairs covered in regal golden carvings lined up neatly on either side of the table, armrest to armrest. Every chair but her own was vacant. That marked the seventh dinner in a row that Aemilios had failed to attend. So be it; Aspen would just have to make her way to him.

Stepping aside, the long skirts of her baby blue dress swished as the fabric enveloping her slender form was disrupted by her movement. Aspen took a moment to smooth out the skirts of her dress with her palm before pushing in her chair and departing from the table. One of the servants would undoubtedly clear the table for her, just as they did every night.

Aemilios was a born warrior, sometimes their mother would joke that he fought his way out of the womb. The training grounds were Aemilios' library, making that the most likely place to find him. And so the Princess weaved her way through the elaborate hallways of the Alynthi castle until she reached a door that exited near the training grounds. Pushing open the door, Aspen was greeted by a gust of evening air, cool and misty beneath the dim moon's light. Her free hand bunched the skirts of her dress as she stepped out onto the trodden path, trickling just a touch of magic through her shoes and into the ground beneath her. The grass on either side of the path leaned sideways and stretched across the dirt, weaving tightly together to create a mat upon which Aspen could walk without worrying her shoes or the hem of her dress could get soiled. The Princess embarked upon the trek to the training grounds, grass unweaving and retracting behind her with each step she took forward.

The wind began to pick up as Aspen drew closer to the training grounds, no doubt something caused by her brother as he practiced. She got close enough to observe his movements, but not so close as to put herself in the direct path of his casting. Tilting her head, she paid close attention to the positioning of his body as his grip seemed to tighten upon his weapon, unleashing powerful winds that tore locks of Aspen's hair from her neatly twisted bun, lashing them about her cheeks. The princess had to hold the side of her glasses to keep them from blowing right off her face, her skirts fluttering around and nearly sweeping her off her feet. In the distance, Aemilios moved over to the nearby tree and settled down beneath it; Aspen's cue that it was safe to approach.

Once she was within earshot of her brother, Aspen tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and addressed him. "Seven years and seven days- is that not long enough for you to miss me, dear brother?" She commented, half joking as she smiled toward the armored knight. Her gaze then shifted to the branches that Aemilios had torn from the tree he sat beneath, and she leaned over to pick them up. Aspen carried the branches back where they came from and reached up to match the splintered edges with the places they were torn from the trunk. As she aligned each branch with the tree, she moved her hand slowly along the spot of the break, reconnecting the branches with her biomancy like fitting pieces into a puzzle.
Cecil
At first, the tired Prince did not notice his sister's voice—it was not until she had made herself visible that he realized those words did, in fact, belong to Aspen. It had truly been a long time since they had last seen eachother; and as he reached for the leather clasps in his antler-horned helm, he did so hastily so as to not keep his sister waiting any longer than he already had. He pulled the helm; greying-black locks clinging to it briefly before cascading down his shoulders and resting peacefully atop his regal features, which flexed into a very subtle grin. In comparison to what the young princess perhaps remembered of him, he was naught of the sort: the cheerful, always-smiling Aemilios had a much more grim, somber expression upon his gaunt features, a reminder that much had changed in the time he spent fighting in the Orcish lands.

His sister, on the other hand, had flourished into a lady—he was taken aback in surprise at how much Aspen had changed from what he remember of her, from the little bookworm with stars in her eyes that he had left in a tearful farewell over seven years ago. In her place was a lady with the same piercing blue eyes, but altogether a different person from whom he had left behind so many years ago. The idea that he had been separated from his family for so long never had *Truly* Dawned upon him until this very moment, when he realized that in the time he spent fighting, the world had indeed never stopped turning. Now even his little sister was a grown woman.

Pushing aside the feeling of dread that came from this realization, he spoke out to her—his grin lingering unto his features briefly. *"Aspen. How you've grown."*, he said simply, though his tone was soft and full of happiness: it *Gladdened* Him to have this reunion, and he approached her at that. It was perhaps at this moment that the Princess may have realized that Aemilios whom had always been tall stood now at an imposing 6'4'', even further accented by his suit of platemail that seemed to cast a shadow behind him like that of a giant. Despite this, he pulled his shorter sister into a hug: lifting her in his arms like he had when they were younger with the same naturality as if the two were but young children once more, a loving embrace that reminded him of sweeter, simpler times. But like all good things—it came to an end soon after. 

He set her down after a moment, looking to her briefly as he tied his hair into a messy bun: grasping softly his pieces of raven-black locks and messily bunching them together at the back of his head to keep his bangs from falling over his eyes. He continued speaking however, his stormy blue eyes settled upon Aspen. *"I'm sorry I couldn't see you sooner. I had matters to attend to—and you know how much I hate family dinners.."*, he trailed. Small talk was not the Prince's forte, and dinners which were so often political only brought further demotivation into the idea of attending them altogether. Aemilios was a warrior, not a statesman. That much was evident not only in his stature and military status, but in the core of his very being.

Yet still, he felt guilty: he wished he had been there for Aspen as soon as he returned, even if it meant braving the awkward silence that ensued an estranged family reunion with his grieving mother and many uncles. Instead, he simply kept to himself, hardly bothering to show himself in the palace if not to retire to his chambers at unreasonably late hours of the night, after attending to piles of paperwork and training drills for the City Watch. If his men worked in shifts, Aemilios worked every shift. Such was his duty with the kingdom, though the idea that he could perhaps find rest soon once he had settled brought him an extent of joy. His sister was a sign that there was yet hope for him to find his home once more in the Capitol, even after all these years. It warmed his battle-scarred heart, even if only slightly.
Sarah
When she finished mending the branches back to the tree, Aspen turned to face her brother. She made a show of stumbling backwards, tilting her head to be able to meet his gaze at such a height. "Good heavens, what have they been feeding you? You're nearly as tall as a horse on hind legs," She commented, returning one of her own cheeky grins. Although Ameilios had always been taller than her, their height difference was even more pronounced now that he was a man. Aspen never quite grew into her family's tall stature, standing at a measly 5'6". Perhaps all the hours spent hunched over a good book stunted her growth after all.

As Aemilios stepped closer, Aspen felt a sense of unfamiliarity, looking over his sullen features. It wasn't that she was surprised the war had changed him; that was guaranteed to happen. Rather, she was alarmed by the significance of the change. The old and faded memories of him that still lingered in the back of her mind were so different- of course they were, seven years was a long time. What would it be like, talking to him again? Would things go back to the way they were before he left, or had the relentless turning of the hourglass rendered them near strangers?

The princess was enveloped into her older brother's embrace, wheezing dramatically and squishing her cheek against the cool metal of his armor as she slung her arms around his midsection to return the hug as best she could. He certainly seemed happy to see her- maybe they could just pick up right where they left off, after all. Her feet left the ground for just a moment before Aemilios set her back down. A mixture of dirt and grease had smudged on her cheek from Aemilios' armor, contrasting sharply with the princess' pale skin that almost seemed to glow beneath the moonlight.

_He always did love having long hair._ Aspen thought to herself as she watched her brother tie back his graying locks. "An apology means nothing if it's not well meant!" She cryptically replied, clearly not expecting him to understand whatever she meant by that. "But that's alright. How are you faring? It's been long since we were in a position to write each other," She noted, turning back to the tree and waving a palm towards it. Some of the roots crackled and shifted, causing the ground to rumble beneath them as they raised up and weaved into a seat of sorts, large enough to fit Aemilios. Then, Aspen raised her hand towards the upper portion of the tree before curling her fingertips in towards her palm, as if tugging at an invisible curtain. The branches of the tree began to shift and thicken, growing downwards and weaving together until a little swing had formed. Aspen slipped off her shoes to keep them clean and sat down upon the swing, pressing her toes to the dirt and kicking off to provide some momentum so the swing would sway a little. She rested her head against one of the wooden swing "Ropes", looping an arm around it for better support. The wind kissed her cheeks as she swayed, the chill of the night bringing pink to the pale. The hem of her dress caressed her bare feet with the sound of quiet whispers lost to the wind.