Queen Departure's
Whispered the wind across the balcony as Leon stood by himself, his hand on the stone railing, the other toying with the wine in his glass. The silver glow of moonlight illuminated his face, and the gentle night wind caressed his skin. His dark hair, rough-knotted, had hair escaping the tie, now prancing in the wind, stroking his cheekbones.
He brought the glass to his lips, the ruby liquid reflecting the dancing torchlight, shining like melted rubies against the intricately curved silver latticework. The heat of the wine was a contrast to the coldness in the air—but it did little to melt the frigid weight in his chest.
His eyes didn't glance up to the stars in the sky or the dual moons that stood in silence above. No, they were not in the heavens. His mind was down below, in the lavish ballroom that still rang with music and laughter. The party went on without him—dancing, cheers, whispered flirtations—but all were a recollection that he couldn't grasp.
