Pink and white petals pirouetted with the brisk breeze, performing a final aerial ballet before autumn would arrive and decide their fate. The leaves on the tall southern live oaks maintained their jade hue, combating the change of seasons.
It was the time of year when Monty, royal advisor to the prince of his court, grew bored with his dreary life and wished that something new would cross his path.
“Slim chance of that,” he muttered to himself, his eyes glued to the cracked pavement that marked his path. His irises were the same shade as the curtains of Spanish moss that draped from the branches of surrounding trees, complementing his coal-black hair nicely.
It was also the time of year when his father would demand that he cut his hair; the elder man believed the teenager’s medium-length style was inefficient for training and combat. Monty might have agreed with his father if their court ever dealt with conflict.
And at this point, I’d seriously welcome some conflict, he admitted internally, his frustration rising.
Monty Alagona was seventeen years old. He was the only son to Matteo and Veronica. His only sibling was his identical twin sister, Mona. He had two older cousins and one younger, the latter of which was his favorite person after his best friend, Connor Montgomery. He was named for his grandfather, Montague Sr., who had passed away before he was born. He lived a normal, boring, predictable life.
As boring as a reincarnated angel on Earth could manage when they were a member of the third generation since the plague had wiped out the masses and devastated the planet.
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