In the dimly lit chambers of Aranoth's royal castle, the prince lay ensconced in layers of soft silk, his fragile form barely stirring beneath the weight of his fever. At thirteen, Elio Mynnreid had grown accustomed to these bouts of illness, the inevitable consequence of his frailty that had shadowed him since birth.

"He's unfit to rule, a curse upon this kingdom." Such whisperings were nothing new to Elio, who'd borne the brunt of his family's dissapointment for the past fourteen years. He was royalty in no other form than blood; weak-willed, unsocial, a terrible diplomat and no figurehead ruler. And though abscorned by his son's illness, the king could do naught to change it, for Elio was his eldest son, heir to the throne he was too weak-willed to sit on.