In the great hall of Northem, the newly crowned prince sat upon the throne, his expression carved from stone. The golden light from the high windows fell across his face, glinting off the crown that still felt far too heavy for his head. Below him, his mother stood, regal and graceful, her hands clasped before her as she met his troubled gaze.
"Mother," Alderan began, his voice tight with resentment, "did Father not want me to be king? Why did he agree to let Northem become a vassal of Azurverda? That kingdom is nothing more than ten poor towns in the border. How could it compare to Northem?."
Queen Mariam stirred, her silken robes whispering as she ascended the three marble steps leading to the dais. She took her seat on the smaller chair beside her son, the place reserved for the queen mother.
"Your father is a wise man," she said softly. "It is not that he did not wish for you to be king. He knows exactly what he is doing."
