Prologue: the silent childMature

When an influx of foreign refugees takes the Kingdom by surprise, the population is divided on how to deal with ever increasing pressure: politically, socially, economically.

She wasn't any older than he was, he thought. Her small fingers were half buried in the sand, and her soft blonde hair was knotted by the salt and water and wind. She was face down, cheek pillowed on the beach, still, cold, and unmoving. She had ears about as long as his hand and delicate eyebrows that extended ever so slightly off the side of her face. A thin scar ran from her left cheekbone down to her jaw, but other than that, she was no different to the young girls of his village.

He was young, but he knew what all this meant: she was dead, and she was a foreigner. He could hear his mother behind him saying something, but he couldn't make out her words over the resounding silence of the girl. She was still pretty, he thought. He wondered who she was, why she was on the beach. He would have liked to have met her properly.

The End

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