A fortnight ago your family—royals part of a monarchy—was the victim of bandits; they left you to heir the throne . . . and unbeknownst to you, your life became much more serious.

That day, when you lost your family, was like none other. Gatherings of suitors, ballroom dances, tailors suiting you. Nothing was out of the ordinary that morning. The cup of chamomile you always had you drank. The smile on your father's face became royal. And the dungeon was always dark. In the library was always you, your head glued to books like mice to cheese. Literature: you had always found yourself drawn to it. In a way, you held its hand as if it were a partner. You were so deep into the book.

And then it started out with a scream. Then ended with gunshots. Knights surrounded you, their swords shielding off bandits. It was already too late for the rest of the Bernadottes.

Soon everything gold you held in your hands was ultimately gone.

Recieving the crown felt empty. It was a day to celebrate, of course, but why celebrate when you only receieve it because of your parents unruly demise? Why be happy when the ending was sadness? Crowds gathered to the gates of your palace, along with the media, to view your ceremony. You had made only few apperances before all this happened. Flashes of light blinded your eyes. Your kingdom, although mourning, was happy to see you take the crown.

If only you could reciprocate that feeling. The crown was heavier than most people thought. And the funeral on your back made it even heavier. Emptier, you felt.

Condolences, you had heard from everybody. And you were sick of it. Pity was not good for you; it was angering you, so much. Your room became a haven for you, locking yourself away from the outside world. How could you rule when you were so sad, so angry? Conflicting emotions were never good for anyone.

As you stared out into the balcony, thinking helter-skelter, footsteps thumped behind you.

"Your presence is requested at the dining hall."

Ugh.