Malorie's missive is in its usual place, but unlike before, the paper is tattered and torn around the edges.

Dear Electors,

I would say I hope you are doing well but it feels foolish to say at this point. I hope you’re all safe and that we will leave here unharmed. Over the past few days I have met with the winners of the last indicative ballot: Agnes (& Simeon), Lars, and Sir Pompilius. The experience, I imagine, was enlightening and I hope the winners are eager to share what they have learnt.

I am, as I have been the past week, unfortunately the bearer of bad news. I can no longer send letters using the Palace postal system. The Palace perhaps believes at this point in the election that there is nothing to be gained from outside communication. I am deeply sorry about this. I hope you all return to your family and friends as soon as possible.

There was also an incident during the performance of Owain’s play. I struggle to understand it myself as the event was not normal nor expected. During the play, the floor of the Palace cracked open and the stage collapsed. Those on the stage were slightly injured but seem to be making a full recovery. I don’t know what caused this to happen but I implore you all to be careful and to ensure, accidentally or not, that you don’t break things in the Palace.

In times such as this we all need to take care of each other.

Yours in service,

Malorie

A piece of paper, shredded around the edges. There are many pin-marks in the noticeboard, as though it keeps being torn down and replaced. Fragments of its predecessors lie on the floor beneath.

We are gripped in a stranglehold. It binds us, restrains us. It weaves its way through every aspect of our lives, a weed that wants nothing but to choke us out. Its name is fate.

It is an undeniable facet of our reality, yet it is the worst of all evils. Even the bitter chill of winter is tempered by the knowledge that summer shall return. The encroaching darkness of the night is fleeting at the coming of the dawn. And yet fate has no end to the misery it brings down upon us. A fate that is read is a torment, a weight restraining one from living a life that is truly free.

There are some who would read fate, distribute it to the ears of the common people. They are profiteers off a great injustice. They know nothing but exploitation, content to tear apart the minds and lives of others over petty coin, and sometimes even less. These people do not care for you. They do not wish you well. Even now they walk amidst you, an affliction to our society.

Consider in your heart what Fate has ever offered you. What has your subservience to it given you? Have you become a tool of the oppressor, or do you use it to tie the noose of the oppressed? Are you content with your slice of the pie, aware in the knowledge that there are those who may have to fight over scraps? Are you one to whom it has given nothing and taken everything, assured in the knowledge that you will not act against it? The only way to be free is to break that cycle. We have that power. Those of us assembled in this palace have a choice. Are we content to be a brick in the mortar work, or do we value ourselves as individuals? Are we merely puppets in a play, or are we agents of our own destiny?