Jhessail sits by her window, severe in unrelieved black. Black mourning dress, black shoes, black gemstones; even the thin chains adorning her hair are black. The only contrast comes from the ring she wears on her right hand, a flash of silver brightness against the gloom of her attire.<br/><br/>How has it come to this? With a trembling hand, she slides the ring from her finger and sets it upon her palm. Such a small thing to cause such agony. She takes it up and begins to place it on her finger, hesitates and sets it down. Time and again her fingers brush the ring and then withdraw. Indecision trembles like a leaf inside her.<br/><br/>Never before had she questioned if she should wear her most cherished possession, but that was before the king’s death. The House of Tol Galen had been attacked and it is more important than ever to show that they stand united. Is it not foolish to wear a ring that symbolizes her father’s love? When he, a condemned criminal stripped of his rank and name and sentenced to exile, is whispered to be responsible for even worse crimes? What message will she send to her queen, to her people? She can imagine the rumors that will spread:<em>Like father, like daughter</em>.<br/><br/>Jhessail closes her eyes, remembering a day some decades ago when, after exchanging her apprentice’s garb for a wizard’s robes, she had been surprised by a hand upon her shoulder. Setting down the frayed robe that filled her arms, she had turned to find her parents. She remembers the look of pride upon both their faces. She remembers her father’s gentle smile as he showed her the small wooden box carved with the House of Tol Galen’s sigil. She remembers him sliding the ring onto her finger, and she remembers regarding it through a veil of joyous tears.<br/><br/>“Oh father,” she says, clasping the ring in her hand, feeling its metal bite into her skin. And then she takes a deep breath and slides the ring back onto her finger. He is still her father, and she will not forsake him. Not until it is proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is unworthy of her loyalty will she abandon him. Let them gossip, let them insinuate; she cares not.<br/><br/>Rising from the window, she spares one last glance for the looking-glass before making her way to the audience chamber. For a week the skies have wept as if in remembrance of the king; and now that the sun shines again, its light seems almost inappropriate. It is certainly too cheerful for her melancholy; but she composes herself as she walks, reminding herself that she must be strong for the sake of her people.<br/><br/>It is with uncertainty in her heart and defiance upon her finger that she joins the others in the waiting chamber. “Cousin,” she says with genuine pleasure when she sees Aysia. “It has been too long.” And then she notices Enastril. “Blademaster,” she says, in cooler tones that verge on coldness. There is no love lost between them, and she does not care to feign indifference towards him, not after their latest discussion.