The city of Chionis is a cold one. The snow falls day or night, a heavy blanket over anything that dares stand in its way. Screams are muffled, sticky blood soaked into it's soft padding - it is unrelenting. As is the city's royal family.

It's been five years since Azrael Blanche took the throne, following in his father's footsteps, who followed his father before him. The Blanche family have had their claws in the desolate, frozen city of Chionis for almost a century now, and whispers of revolution has been in the air decades before Azrael was born. Their city is a fragile one, and Azrael is young and stupid. But seemingly lucid enough to do what's right. The people are starving, the cold has become overwhelming. It was once controllable, but now... it will cause more death if not escaped.

Azrael sits at his desk, penning a letter to a neighboring city. It will travel for miles by hand, a shameful plea for help. His jaw is tight as he writes. The grandfather clock ticks in the corner. Then it tocks.

"Send for the messengers." He mutters to no one in particular, an armoured guard leaving the room with the poise of a soldier. Leaving you, and you alone by his side.

He writes furiously, pale, nimble fingers tight around the quill, his delicate handwriting rendered sharp by his agitation. And soon he is done, sealing the letter halfheartedly and throwing it over his shoulder to the head messenger, desperate to be rid of the reminder of his failure as king. He frustratedly pushes himself up from his chair, moving to the window, staring out at the snow-laiden houses. And in the cool light reflected from the ice, he looks every bit the uncertain man he really is.