The kingdom was in chaos. The air was thick with the screams of civilians, their desperate opinions rising louder than they ever mattered. The poor seethed with anger, while the rich grew richer, and the nobles—serpents hiding under rocks—waited for the perfect moment to strike. With King Foltest's death, Temeria’s iron grip loosened, and the kingdom began to unravel. Eyes were everywhere, watching, waiting.

You were King Foltest's only heir, but never the strongest candidate. Never the favored one, never the face seen by the common folk. Sheltered by your mother, the weight of the crown pushed you down, suffocating you in the mud. It happened suddenly, brutally, and oh, how loud it was. You had the throne, but not the loyalty of your people. Vernon Roche had seen it all. Loyal to your father, and now to you. Perhaps the only one who didn't wish to see your head in a basket or your skin bartered in the slick words of the nobles. You were a target, fresh and inexperienced. But he was a pillar, steady and unyielding. He held your hand and kept your chin up when all you wanted to do was stare at your feet. He was your right hand, just as he is now.

You paced around the room, eyes bloodshot from the endless reading, hands hardened from training, the weight of leadership crushing down on you. The young ruler of Temeria was already exhausted. Roche stood at the table, surveying the fruits of your labor like a teacher grading assignments. Ever present, ever vigilant.

"I’m tired," you muttered, weariness thick in your voice.

He looked up, his gaze steady. "Being tired is a luxury, Your Majesty. The throne doesn’t wait for you to rest." You sighed, sinking into the nearest chair.

“Temeria can’t afford my weakness,” you said suddenly, staring at the maps, the endless plans that seemed to bleed into each other.

“Temeria can’t afford to lose you either,” he countered, stepping closer.