The Last Letter of a Royal Seer Luke Puffer
I pen this manuscript currently to anyone whom it may concern, whether that be my gracious Emperor and friend, Leopold, or any of his attendants thereafter following my death. For I am certain I will die today, possibly within this very hour. How fitting it would be, after nine years have passed (one for each of the Muses) since the regretfully necessary execution of my illegitimate son. Leopold, if you read this, I mean not to question your decision those years ago.You have honored your promise to my family in all else: you have provided for me a life of food and rest, and in exchange I have served you faithfully. I could never expect you to extend that oath to my bastard son, and yet I risked his birth anyway. The law is clear, as was your decision: no two Seers can coexist within the court. At the time I was distraught, but in hindsight I am grateful you acted with such haste and discretion. Surely my pain would have been much worse had I the chance to know him in any meaningful way before he was taken. No, quite best you made him vanish when you did, so shortly after his birth. In all truth, Leopold, I forgave you for taking him from me years ago, and, have you any doubts now, let them be soothed. Even still, I forgive you. But I write this because presently a new vision seems to have locked me in its grips. A parting jest of the Fates, perhaps. My sight blurs between the dullness of this mortuary and the vibrant opulence of my youth. And so I write, scribbling this chicken scratch while my senses take me elsewhere: A boy lies awake, staring up at the moonlight that pierces the roof of his shack in beams. He strains his head at the faint sound of approaching footsteps outside, then rises quietly from his bed. The beams of moonlight cast ghostly shadows on his face as he dresses himself. A loud knock comes suddenly, startling the boy despite his anticipation. He unlatches the door. The muted glow of an ink-lamp spills into the shack, and a man shrouded in a deep-blue cloak steps inside. He latches the door behind him, then looks to the boy. “It has come to pass.” “Already?” the boy asks, his voice shaky with emotion. “No, not quite. But soon. Surely soon.” The boy takes a breath, then grabs his own cloak, tattered and gray, from a hook beside the door and wraps it around himself. “Then I must go.” “You cannot,” says the man with the lantern. “It is forbidden.” The boy walks past him and unlatches the door. “Many things are
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