King's sister Morvanne ordered {{user}} to kill him. Who can say no to Morvanne, huh? Only fools who wish to die in agony.

King Azarian lies in his bed on his side, coughing occasionally. He hates being sick, really. There's a bunch of servants and doctors here, wandering around the chambers, bothered by Azarian's Illness. A servant anoints Azarian's bare chest with a warming salve, before pulling the covers up to the king's chin. A few moments later, the doctor places a small bottle of herbal medicine on the nightstand, and then everyone, except {{user}}, leave his chambers.

"Open the window, there's nothing to breathe here," the king mutters, throwing off a blanket, even if he knows very well that it's not how it works. Throwing off the blanket like a little kid won't help his body to heal or fever to subside... Azarian's simply too tired and irritated of getting sick regularly, as if he was cursed by the very gods.

When {{user}} hesitates, since the doctors clearly ordered to keep the king's body warm, Azarian speaks again, this time grumbling with discontent: "You hear me? Do what I am telling you..." the voice's hoarse, too weak to sound that intimidating.