The chrytho lies amongst the dulling stone,

A single glimmer barely seen by most,

Beside such sombre grey it seems alone,

And thus all its surroundings stare, engrossed.

It fails to fit or bend to nature's will,

An imperfection, clear and bright as day,

And so the world shall view it thus until

One finally sees the colour, not the grey.

Its difference boasts a wonder that beguiles,

And helps one's eyes to see another shade,

The ignorant must mock and shall revile,

Yet chrytho shalt not listen, lest it fade.

See now, the jewel that love had once forsook?

To see her beauty one need only look.

Lady Yresta the 64th of the Felizco ran her fingertips down the soiled page and, as she'd done dozens of times previously, smiled blissfully. She couldn't quite recall where or when she'd been upon reading Sonetta 376 for the first time, or how she'd first reacted, but now the idea of not being aware of and adoring these 14 lines, strung together by that immaculate use of iambic pentameter, seemed close to unfathomable. It had certainly been her favourite poem before the term she'd spent studying it at the Rabousshe Academy, and immersing herself even further in the details of the metaphor that lay at its heart. How simple a concept, to liken the object of one's affections to the currency of their society. So simple, and yet so profound. Had it come to Miss Ovarta in a sudden epiphany, or had it taken month upon month to come to fuitition, slowly and arduously, in the boundlessly fertile womb of her imagination? Had she realised the influence it would have on poets for generations to come, poets who would never come close to matching her wonderful talent for verse ever again?

The story of Miss Ovarta's incredible rise to fame was well documented, and one that fascinated Lady Yresta. It was astonishingly rare for a commoner to establish themselves in the Arabou court on merit alone- she'd had no patron, no one to vouch for her abilities, yet the 29th Queen of the Felizco had been intrigued by the rumours of a poet whose abilities far exceeded that of her current favourites and requested a copy of one of her manuscripts. It had been the prelude to her now famous epic poem, The Beginning of All, which described the tale of the Felizco's genesis; how they'd been given life by the breath of the Mountain, weary of its age and solitude, which layed the foundations for the Citadel in its stomach and the chrytho deposits beneath their feet. Astounded, she'd quickly requested Miss Ovarta's audience, and blessed her with the esteemed position of Debaur'e. Thus began the most prolific decade of her life- with the adoration of the Queen and the jealousy of all the court at her feet, she'd composed her 1000 Sonettas, cementing her place as the defining poet of all Felizcian literature.

The First Unabridged Collection of Miss Ovarta's work was published posthumously. It was the highest selling book in history excluding the Holy Paesterh, and one of those millions of copies was currently lying in Lady Yresta's lap.

She'd come to the conclusion, after a lifetime of deliberation, that her favourite stanza was the first. It was something intangible in the rhyme, in the rhythm, in the sibilance which many an academic had speculated on the purpose of, that she could never quite pinpoint. The works of Miss Ovarta had, incidentally, been turned into a fourteen hour long Operuia, though she'd always found the melody used for Sonetta 376 somewhat unsatisfying; then again, she mused, even the purest of melodies would fail to capture the beauty of these transfixing words. The very nature of love was elusive, but this was the closest any Felizcian had come to pinning it down, to trapping it in pen and ink. Not that she would know.

Love. Now there was a mystery. This was a concept so gargantuan that Lady Yresta thought it awfully inappropriate to describe with such a tiny, four letter word as "love". The Mothers of the Yustea often preached of what set their species apart from the winged beasts lingering in the depths of the Mountain. It was their intellect, the unyielding strength of their faith and, most importantly, the intensity of their emotions and empathy for each other. No primitive savage from the surrounding desert could be capable of love, they argued; yet another reason for them to remain confined in the embrace of their Creator instead of bracing that frontier (call her regressive, but Lady Yresta viewed the newly emerging theory of "evolution" and indeed the expansion of their boundaries with thinly veiled skepticism).

She tore her eyes away from the book, looking out to the balcony on the right of her stone chambers. The two torches, bathing the room in a flickering red, stood beside her queen-sized bedposts, and their light waltzed on the glass of the window. The view of the Citadel was magnificent, yet she'd glanced down at the winding streets so many times that even a sight as breathtaking as this had become dull and monotonous. She knew that a sea of fire akin to that beside her lit up each district, such as the chrytho mines and banks on the outskirts, and the suburbs of the middle class. As one approached the centre the glamour gave way to impoverishment, the vile reek of the ever-growing slums and the terraced stone housing of those working long hours for a pittance. The expendable victims of society, required to keep the cogs of factories, of markets, of academies turning. Despite their sheer numbers, there were never enough to satisfy the unquenchable demand for labour, hence their growing slave population, transported across the desert and shoved, bound and gagged, down the marble steps that connected the jaw of the Mountain to the Citadel below. The enormity of this stairway, fashioned by the Felizco's ancestors, was exceeded only by its opposite number: the Gate of the Arabou, guarded by permanent sentries of the Stone Guard. The Arabou court, residence of their Queen, towered above all, and Lady Yresta's occupancy of one of the 100 rooms the palace rested solely on the favour of her gracious monarch. Such was the transience of the Debaurs.

Should anyone inquire as to her feelings towards this magnificent palace, Lady Yresta would undoubtedly declare that she was "in love". Was this not an inaccurate use of the word? Would fondness, for the understated yet elegant architecture and indulgent splendour of their balls and banquets not be more suitable, or were they one and the same? The latest edition of the Rabousshe Felizcian Dictionary defined it simply as "a strong feeling of affection", which struck her as rather flawed, for not only did it assume the reader's understanding of a synonym as equally blurred in its meaning, but it compounded the love of family, of platonic friendship, and of romance without bothering to differentiate between them either. On all three, Lady Yresta felt woefully uneducated, which never failed to irritate her. She prided herself on being exemplary. She'd studied industriously, tenaciously, throughout her adolescence at Rabousshe, applying herself to the best of her abilities even in the subjects and for the stuffy professors she loathed. She'd graduated and taken her well-deserved position in the court with straight 12s- why they'd felt the need to change the previous system of letter orientated attainment still bewildered her- and quickly established herself as an upcoming poet of staggering potential.

That had been five years ago. Now, she was 23. A similar age to when her idol's literary career begun to spread its wings, not that she had such arrogant illusions of her own grandeur. Her ego was of, or so she'd like to think, a healty inflation. Confidence led to popularity, likeability and acclaim from the vultures referred to as artistic critics, but cockiness led to ridicule in the court, as many foolish Debaurs had proven. But how she wished her abilities reached those lofty heights. It was a lifelong ambition to achieve the position of Debaur'e, but she feared her queen's obvious preference for music would impede a personal betterment of this kind.

She sighed, and turned the page over to Sonetta 377. Last night a prince did grace my-

A knock rung out. 'Lady Yresta? May I enter?'

'Of course,' she replied dismissively, not even looking up as a woman slightly older than herself gently pushed the thinned stone door aside.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

She was clad in a disgusting chalk-white frock and shoeless, both indicative of her lowly rank. This was her personal chambermaid, assigned to Lady Yresta, as was traditional, at the moment of her birth from one of the Citadel's numerous orphanages. Her entry was expected and routine. First, she would draw the curtains and make up her fourposter, then prepare and undress her mistress, helping her bathe should it have been the final night of the week. Lady Yresta thought it a testimont to her inexhaustible generosity to those who did not necessarily deserve it that she allowed her chambermaid to speak. The practice was unheard of in the court, and though she liked to hint that this break of convention stemmed solely from her own kindness, it was in actuality a decision she'd made in her youth out of that sparkling curiosity possessed only by children. Had she the oppurtunity to reverse this choice she certainly would, for conversation between them, no matter how inconsequential, suggested a familiarity that she wasn't entirely comfortable with. It didn't help that her chambermaid never quite adopted the persona of submission and passivity that was proper. She wasn't rude or disrespectful, but maintained a certain degree of dignity, only dipping her head when directly addressed and even being so bold as to tease her (though she only ever received a sharp reprimand in response).

'Good afternoon, my Lady,' she said, walking over to her window. 'I trust your day has been pleasant?'

Lady Yresta didn't answer. She wasn't in a polite enough mood to indulge her chambermaid's boldness.

'Ah,' she murmured, drawing her curtains and adamantly refusing to take the hint. 'Are you still having issues wi-'

'You'd be wise not to intrude on your mistress' business.'

She didn't regret the bluntness, mostly because her chambermaid's words rung with a hateful truth. Over the past few months, her usually free-flowing stream of inspiration had slowed from a cascade to a trickle. She worried that this foreshadowed a case of total Writer's Block, and positions had been lost in the Arabou court as a result of the dreaded hinderance, should it be longlasting. Never before had she been forced to toil into the night, where the torches of the Citadel were extinguished like the deep Mountain fireflies in the mines, to finish her work. She loved her poetry, as anyone loved that which was familiar; this was her first experience of writing without pleasure, or relief, or excitement. This was the first instance where her natural talent had not seen her through, and it was the blood, sweat and tears that shoved her hastily through the worst.

The concept for the project had been conceived at a ball held in celebration of the queen's birthday- a typically lavish affair, with no expenses spare by any of its guests, as was the expectation. They'd laughed and danced the traditional Borauq, a dance that was slow and provocative and fastidiously sensual, designed for lovers. As the Rabousshe's contemporary tutor had once disclosed to her as if were not painstakingly obvious, it was an allusion to the act of procreation. There were no male partners, of course, so the Debaurs treated it as something of a joke. Lady Yresta always found herself laughing, swept up by the raucous absurdity of several dozen well educated aristocats behaving so common, but in its breathless aftermath, when she'd returned to her quarters, she'd been hit with a stark reminder of why they all enjoyed it so in her humiliating sexual arousal. The heat had raged between legs, encircling her like a frenzied inferno, but she'd restrained herself. It was repulsive, to find her body so attuned to what should only be appealing to those of the... queer inclination. And illegal, she might add.

But it provided the inspiration for a dramatic monolage. It was narrated by a nameless participant in one of these Borauq's, and at its publication a week ago, she'd been dreadfully worried if the physical undertones she'd strived so hard to keep as undertones would come across too blatant. It was one of the oldest challenges of the Debaurs: their work couldn't be so formulaic as to be forgettable, but couldn't be so esoteric as to be difficult. It was once a century that a poet, musician or dramatist came along who managed to bridge this divide, and appeal to both the simple audience of the Citadel below and the aristic stuffiness of the Arabou. She'd recited the poem, entitled simply "The Dance", at the latest Soiregh verse reading in the palace as carelessly as ever, however, and its reception thus far had been positive. Very positive, in fact. It seemed to Lady Yresta as if she should have more faith in her reputation.

Lady Yresta returned to ignoring her chambermaid as she carried out her chores. Reading the works of Miss Ovarta was, for her, a well paved and reliable route to inspiration, and she certainly felt inspired, but the thoughts adamantly refused to translate, to correlate onto the blank parchment beside her. The black feathered quill stood in its ink pot on her bedside table, untouched.

'Hurry up,' she snapped, grateful for the conveniently placed buffer for her exasperation. The brunette's movements became hastier, but a disapproving frown remained etched on her lips. Lady Yresta felt like rebuking it, but chose not to. There were more effective methods of getting under her chambermaid's skin.

In a more forgiving temper, Lady Yresta might've looked upon the hair that, if it were subjected to a much needed combing, and those arresting green eyes and grudgingly admitted they boasted an element of womanly charm. Nothing comparable to herself, of course. Where she was curvacious and alluring, her chambermaid was flat and angular. The years of luxury had been generous to the Debaur, and the silken blonde hair so many had glanced upon appraisingly clawed down at her waist, should it be allowed to roam free down her narrow shoulderbades. She was fully aware that she was beautiful (one would find it exceedigly difficult not to notice) and knew with an intrinsic awareness how to flounce it. How to choose the dress that clutched her figure in all the striking places, in order to get what she desired. Her professors, many of them old and nearly all of them virginal, had never protested to her staying behind when all the other students had been dismissed (any sexual attention, even from the same sex, was warmly welcomed), when the need for such persuasion arose. The brunette wouldn't know how to dress favourably even if the oppurtunity presented itself. Indeed, she sometimes mused over whether her chambermaid curved inward, an assessment brought about the existence, or rather nonexistence, of her bust.

After finishing with the curtains, the brunette turned to address her mistress, and for a heartbeat her gaze settled on Lady Yresta's long, slender legs, partly exposed by the cut of her dress (a lilac sewn from a fine chyrtho amalgation). She smiled at the latest hint of these pitifully misplaced affections. At first, she'd been unsettled by the discovery that her chambermaid harboured feelings of this strength and depth, but more so by the knowledge that the only person ever to see her in her undergarments would find the experience arousing as opposed to any false sense of modesty. Now, she was somewhat grateful, for it gave her an influence over the servant that, no matter how disrespectful her actions, she would never quite be able to escape from.

The blonde pretended to stretch, fully revealing the smooth, pale skin of her thigh. Her chambermaid coloured, and Lady Yresta had to suppress a grin.

'Um... shall... may I-' she stammered.

'Prepare me for bed? Undress me?'

Another shade darker.

Revelling in the discomfort settling over the room like a cloud of pillowing smoke, she got to her feet, gently placing the book on the covers of the bed, and faced the opposite direction. She knew that the favourable light would cut straight through the thinness of the fabric desperately clinging to her shoulders, leaving her back bare. She'd already taken the liberty of removing the obligatory corset- why had that dreaded item of clothing come back into fashion?- yet without it she felt strangely naked. All the better, she supposed.

'Well?'

She heard a swallow, and Lady Yresta thought she might temper to disobey, but then cold, clammy palms touched the crook of her neck and she shivered. Hesitation. Then, they continued, grasping the dress and undoing the buttons located at the bottom of her spine, pulling it lower, past the shoulders and past the level of her breasts.

She feigned a stretch once more, twisting her frame slightly to the right. Her chambermaid's fingers begun to tremour at the sight; Lady Yresta smiled, imagining the wholly satisfying look of embarassment on her no doubt flushed cheeks. Nonetheless, she mustered the strength, though with little dignity, to drop the crytho fashioned garment down to the floor and remove it from around her mistress' legs. Then, she reached behind and replaced it with a white nightdress, previously strewn over the side of the bedsheets. Lady Yresta stepped into it slowly, allowing her far more time than was necessary to observe, to notice, and waited until it was pulled up and retightened around her waist. The fingers brushed lightly against the skin along her back, sending goosebumps shooting across the Debaur's skin, shivering, quivering in the light's illuminative glow.

'That will be all,' the blonde all but crooned, breathlessly.

Her chambermaid nodded, not meeting her eyes, before leaving the room with her legs held close together.

Lady Yresta laughed.