Laughing Boy, Guild craftsman and scion of royalty, strode into the castle yard. The sun sparkled over the bay, sending sparks of glare back to the sky. Sunbeams washed over his silvery skin with a lustrous glow. He looked to the sun, letting it bathe his ever-mirthful visage.

He wished he could see it himself – stand in the daylight and let it fill his heart with nature’s warmth. The wish twisted inwards – his mind spun alongside the light flitting from water to air.

Did he still have a heart?

He cast his eyes down, unable to face the question. He looked in his pack, which held sketches of the latest trifle some lord had asked for. Dara enjoyed these belittlements – asking him to craft some wind-up box.

What would she ask if she knew him for true?

The laughs came harsh and forced to cover the wail of pain that might have emerged in its stead. Laughter had become his language – laughs of hope, laughs of hatred, laughs of despair.

And one day, he prayed, a laugh of revenge and a laugh of redemption.