Goodluck Spell
"Faustina, how are you faring? Here I am, on the third document signage. Are you sleeping properly?"
The king crumpled yet another piece of paper and then exasperatingly—sighed. His sapphire-blue eyes darted towards another blank paper looking back at him like a haunting piece of nothingness reflecting his incapability to write a proper letter.
The study was filled with crumpled paper that spoke of multitudes.
The king was trying to write Faustina a letter.
A real one—to be exact. One made by paper enclosed by the royal seal. Not a fire message. A fire message containing only questions about her well-being would be odd. He tried to—and after thinking for hours of what he was going to say, he finally sent her with a single question.
How are you faring?
Really. What a joke. There wasn't any reply from Faustina, so the king assumed it was a translation of—
The king stopped as a mystic fire appeared right in front of him, flaring with a purple hue atop his desk.
A fire message.