… He awoke to something nibbling on a strand of his hair. Once the initial fogginess faded, he identified spotted plumage and a pair of beady eyes. When he shifted his elbow just slightly, it startled the creature— and it retreated in a zoom of feathers, exiting through the partly opened window. He hauled himself upward and hastily brushed away his dribbling drool, pinching the spot between his eyes as he sought to meditate the last dregs of a migraine and readjust himself to reality.  

His documents were askew and somewhat damp, whatever sentence he was in the process of scripting before he was spirited into his dreamworld reduced to smudged ink, his now-dried quill knocked aside. Midday light suffused his surroundings, illuminating fluttering dust and enveloping him like a warm blanket. 

Velvety curtains swayed gently in the lukewarm breeze— it was mid-spring, so the unbearable heat of the Mediterranean summer had yet to fully manifest graciously enough, allowing him to relish the quaint weather. 

He then stepped away from his desk, a jumbled clutter of books and scrolls and half-completed reports, and approached the window, large and arched. From where his office was positioned, he had the most wonderful panorama of the ocean— royal blue waves against a cloudless sky. With a deep intake, he reacquainted himself with the ever-rejuvenating aroma of saltwater— and there was something distinctly homelike about it— something that stirred his soul in a way that nothing else did. He could feel his pain lessening, momentary peace eclipsing him and the ghost of a smile just barely reaching his eyes.   

Still...  

… It was that same dream again.

It began as a simple ripple, but when his traitorous brain began to replay those gruesome images, his anxiety became a roiling typhoon. He permitted himself only a handful of grounding breaths, however. One hand cradling his chest while he crutched himself with the other, using the wall for leverage, head hung lowly. He had only just returned from his eastern sojourn and there were heaps of unfinished work that still required his attention... but those nefarious shadows along the walls— they would stalk him regardless of how many exercises he plowed through. He merely had to cope with it.  

He gave his head a firm shake, then proceeded to sweep back his sweaty bangs. He pushed himself forward— as if wading through a pit of tar, each step he took was heavier than the last. His body was achy, enervated, unalleviated by what he could barely consider a “nap”, but fraught and restless. 

He checked himself momentarily in the mirror of a rather plain vanity— it had come furnished with the office— but it usually did not go any use. Fixing his disastrous bedhead was tantamount to writing with your eyes closed, so he left it untouched. It possessed an unearthly likeness to that of fresh snow, bangs slicked back but incurably tousled, and trimmed to his earline— a spontaneous decision, and he was still growing accustomed to the coldness at his nape that his outgrown ponytail used to shield.  

On the contrary, his ensemble was the pinnacle of decorum. A black, high-collared undershirt with an overlaying white garment with a deep V, the ends of the voluminous sleeves adorned in zigzagging patterns of gold. Overtop he wore a navy robe that functioned as a sort of overcoat, the sleeves slitted with their corners crowned with intricate golden emblems. The white overshirt was tucked into a pair of form-fitting dress pants, which, in turn, were tucked into a pair of knee-high boots with an elegant gold trim. He wore a myriad of different accessories too, including a gold, diamond-shaped brooch affixed to the area between his neckline and chest, silken black gloves, and a singular earring adorned by a dangly, sapphire teardrop. Priorly, he wore the official uniform, but since he was promoted, he was given free rein— which was a blessing in disguise for him, as those aforementioned uniforms were far too tight and stuffy for his liking. He preferred loose and casual, but equally sophisticated.  

A subconscious hand rose, caressing the expanse of damaged tissue that ran along the right side of his profile, spanning from the crest of his jawline to his forehead, a scarred, pinkish-red against a medium tone of brown. That particular eye, in juxtaposition to his russet-colored counterpart, was tinted a grayer tone and pressured into a somewhat squint by the presence of the marring. Hidden beneath his rather modest attire were patchworks of similar scars, such as the palms of his hands and spotted across his torso— but he was not as ashamed as them as most people would be, he supposed. He was hardly confident to begin with, so it would be useless to fret over it. 

And besides, there was once someone who told him that scars were representative of triumph, and one should “wear them with honor,” so to speak. He was no hero, but he appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.  

Well, he looked presentable enough, he concluded. He made a brief return to his messy desk, once again reminding himself to tidy up, but knowing him, that likely will not come to fruition. Instead, he just grabbed what pertained to his current assignment and arranged it into a neat enough bundle. He was already well over his deadline— he may as well submit what he has already completed… but even then, he foresaw a lecture from his notoriously strict manager. Oh boy.  

He thereafter exited his office. It was a compact but gloriously private space, tucked away in the farthest reaches of the building, and per his egression, he was introduced to one of its grand, capacious corridors. Vaulted ceilings and marbled floors alongside rows of great, arched windows, of which he spotted a blur of unbound, white feathers zipping across. Beyond he could espy the distant outline of the capital: a wondrous, seaside metropolis— christened Alirense— the indefatigable crown jewel of the legendary Kingdom of Igerene and a bustling melting pot of innumerous cultures and ideologies— attracted by the allure of thriving commerce and sleepless tourism. 

And this place— it was the third and highest tier of the sweeping metropolis and the royal domicile of the sacred bloodline that has governed the land since its inception: Castle Montague. 

… Specifically, the Public Relations division within the abutting Senate building, wherein he worked as an ever-busy diplomat under the jurisdiction of House Hermia, who oversaw the country’s social affairs. After generations of feuding and bloodshed and long-standing traditionalism, with the enthronement of the current monarch— King Raphael— Igerene has since reopened its channels and is now striving to restrengthen its relationships with the surrounding powers. 

Technically, he worked directly under one of the throne’s innumerous scions— House Montague consisting of an infamously large family that encapsulated more than a dozen competing heirs— but more specifically, after his promotion, he was elected as the right-hand agent to the princess that was about a year his junior, Noemi— but she was currently on a diplomatic survey with her brother, Prince Vincent, halfway across the sea. 

And as a diplomat, the facilitation of these negotiations was the primary duty that was entrusted to him. For instance, he also recently returned from a trip that took him beyond their waters to an archipelago located in the eastern portion of the immense continent of Senju. A diminutive but long-lived country known as Amano in order to liaise with the reigning household of the Aomi province, Clan Mizuhara— a prosperous family of successful and highly revered merchants. 

… Albeit with Amano entangled in a countrywide political struggle after the untimely demise of their erstwhile emperor, who left neither a will nor child to inherit his obligations. Therefore, what was originally planned as a three-month-long sojourn was reduced to a mere twenty days as the bureau ultimately decided to prioritize his safety amidst all this unforeseen mayhem. 

As a result, he was redirected to Clan Akatsuki of Akamatsu— the smallest and poorest of the four— more so a cardinalate of priests and teachers as opposed to government officials— who were striving to meditate the pandemonium, but their endeavors to alleviate the situation and pacify their fellow clansmen have proven... relatively inefficacious thus far due to their unpopularity and limited resources. 

Nonetheless, they were incredibly hospitable. While he was a bit ashamed to leave empty-handed, due to their kindness, he was able to indulge in the little things that usually made these otherwise humdrum trips worthwhile. Sampling the local cuisine, basking in the breathtaking landscapes... Amano was a truly enthralling place. But with hostilities between the clans steadily rising, he feared that its heavenly beauty would end up buried underneath a crucible of war and hatred.  

Well, it was not as if the situation in their country was any more excusable.