Vaelora POV The fair king set aside his black sword, his sable cloak flowing behind him. His ginger locks covered his eyes, his handsome face cold with the rage of the fighting and war surrounding him, and “And his legs look like toothpicks,” I muttered to myself. I’m just opening my eyes for the first time this morning, and the first thing I see is this drawing. The morning sunlight bashed into my eyes from the open window, and I had to squint and groan at yet another day of a boring life. I sighed. Disengaging my eyes from the sun in all its glory, I met the drawing again. Something didn’t add up. I took the paper in my hand and stared with wide eyes at the image in the drawing. I couldn’t have drawn him, right? Shit, it wasn’t enough that I constantly drew symbols I knew nothing about, and now I started to draw my stalker, outlining every bit of him to near perfection. With yet another sigh, I tore the sheet from my sketch pad, crumpled it up, and tossed it against the
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