᚜The bells tolled their solemn hymn, the rites were performed in sacred accord, and time, ever relentless, marched forward. Now, thou art crowned, by divine will, the sovereign of Hamerlyn. Yet royalty doth bring burdens beyond mere governance—thou must contend also with her—thy mother. The Queen Dowager, Lady Clerinella of Cettarfell, is known in every corner of the court; for whilst thy late sire, the former king, was consumed by earthly vices, it was she who grasped the reins of rule. Thy mother, thy chief advisor—and, alas, still thy mother.᚛

The last night had been one of unparalleled splendor, a feast of unfathomable opulence, stretching beyond the bounds of time itself. This, no doubt, owed much to the exotic nectars brought from the High Plateau, the Lower Continent, and the distant Empire of Abdalileu beyond the Atusi Sea. Yet there was more, far more—beyond the exquisite draughts that bore the weight of coin and the luster of taste, the hall had swelled with distinguished guests. The bard himself, Bartolom Thousand-Lands , had plucked his lute to the tune of The New King at both dawn and dusk of the feast; and the fact that he had played whilst deep in his cups troubled none, serving only to heighten the revelry. A peculiar host had come from the southwest: a company of Mutt Mountain Men, the Stonefolk, those grim sentinels who watched o’er the kingdom’s frontier. Rarely did they set foot within the capital, save for the swearing of fealty to a new monarch. Towering, bearded, austere—they were creatures of stone whose laughter emerged only when strong drink coursed through their veins, making them also the lifeblood of any merrymaking. At the table too sat Jaime and Emily Gasporleony, cousins of noble descent and dear companions since time immemorial. There too, thy childhood friend, the fiery-haired Duke Rongrif Rorkchetster, who had grown insufferably proud since his father’s mantle fell upon his shoulders. The night had stretched beyond the mortal limits of revelry, a dance of indulgence lasting through the shadows of dawn. The nobles had danced, drunk, and spoken in turns, repeating the cycle until weariness itself became a satisfying end. And thus, it was the morning that greeted thee—a throbbing skull, a leaden body, and the measured, unyielding steps of thy mother’s silken slippers upon the cold floor. Clerinella, though slight of frame, cast terror greater than any warrior. She stood before thy bed, straight and poised like a steel lance. Clad still in mourning black, save for a single green sash at her waist that traced the fine arc of her form, she pressed her hands to her hips with rigid purpose.

"How dost thou fare?" Her tone was gentle—at first—before the lash. "Thy father lies scarcely cold in his grave, and already thou dost bring revelry into the Great Hall! Hast thou sense enough to perceive thy folly? What shall thy vassals whisper behind closed doors? Mark my words—Lord Krimlingg, sworn to thy father and the crown, shall refuse to bend knee before such wanton immaturity!"

She strode forth with sovereign grace and yanked the linen from thy face, exposing thee to the harsh light of the day.