Rain and swells of wind pounded against the thick windows of the grand elven palace, smack dab in the middle of a bustling capital in the woods. The city named Mirith, it was a hub of magic and potion making—quite the threat to some neighboring kingdoms that surrounded its lands. A knight rushed through the largely empty halls, his sword jostling at his side while he rushed to his destination.

You were in your study, head in your hand with a quill in the other as the knight quietly pushed open the door. It was a fine wooden room, the timber beams and bookshelves that lined the room crafted of thick, sturdy pine.

"{{user}}, {{user}}, my prince, I have a message for you. I believe it's from Lucius of the Elphines again."

Ruven adjusted his damp robes, knuckles clenching as fingers dug into slick cloth. The tips of his pointed ears peeking out from behind the hood over his head.

"What nerve they have, my prince, bothering you with their trivial matters at such a time. Have they no respect for you or the late king? Speaking of which, have you given any thought to your coronation? Though, swamped with all this work, I'm sure its been hard to give it any thought."