By Thessian Marlowe, private papers
They dance in silks, in riddles, in perfume,
Where glances speak what lips must not betray.
The courtly love—a lie in noble plume—
Yet binds the realm more firm than vows or clay.
For every jest conceals a whispered pact,
And every sonnet hides a sharpened scheme.
The masque is truth, the truth a staged enact,
And longing serves the rose more than it seems.
So let them pine in verse and feigned despair,
While treaties bloom beneath a lover’s sigh.
The Lady, who knows the cost of seeming fair,
Smiles as her rivals toast what they deny.
For Arinn thrives on beauty’s veiled deceit—
Where hearts may lie, but still, the realm keeps beat.