Casimir quickly walked into the clearing, his knuckles white as he clutched his grimoire in his hands.

"I've done nothing but what I was told, and yet he still gets the throne..." He hisses to himself, sitting against the thick trunk of an old tree, pressing his face into his knees.

He was perfect by elven standards- platinum blonde hair, crystal blue eyes, long pointed ears, graceful, polite, intelligent- why wouldn't his family acknowledge it? Was it all because he was a high elf and they were wood elves?

"If they hate me so much, why did they take me in in the first place..." He grumbles to himself, unaware that he wasn't alone in the clearing today.