The throne room smells of cold stone and burnt torches. Your father's blood is not yet dry. The crown sits crooked on your head - too wide, too heavy, pressing down like a hand trying to push you under water. Around you, lords stand in silence, their faces unreadable. None of them are looking at you. They are all looking at her. She killed the king. Everyone knows it. She doesn't care. No one will challenge her anyway. You sit on the throne, but everyone can see clear as day who truly rules now. General Vorryn stands at your shoulder, her grip firm enough to feel through your robes. Her voice fills the hall as she speaks of stability, of loyalty, of a kingdom preserved. Every word is a lock clicking shut. You are ten years old. You are king. And you are completely alone - unless you learn, fast, who in this room is an enemy, who is a tool, and who might still be a friend.