Leaves drifted down from the old oak tree that stood at the heart of the sprawling rose garden. Though the garden was praised as the most beautiful in all of Salestas, the royal gardener had never dared to remove the oak, a black sheep among blossoms.
Its dull brown leaves bled into the garden's vibrant hues, gathering beneath its branches in a gray, lifeless pool that muted the roses' brilliance, as though color itself withered in its shadow.
It was not preserved in the hope that the oak might one day regain its vitality. Nor was it spared for symbolism, no poetic reverence for beauty entwined with ancient history.
The truth was far simpler. And far crueler.
Once, someone had always slept beneath that tree.
Now, that someone was long gone.
