Two years ago Damon had asked for your hand. He was king of the grasslands and your country dominated all supply’s aqua-borne, whether it was the trading of fish or pearls.

You had rejected him back then, calling him a barbarian and sending him away with a swish of your hand, much like many other ambitious men who’d tried to court you.

Tonight, your castle has been overrun with his solder in a usurping. You sit alone in the bedroom with your fathers broadsword in hand, waiting to be found.