“Where are they…?” came a voice out of the inky blackness.

“You know as well as I where they are, my love.”

In a darkened room, in the most secluded of the palace towers Ateret, the Sultan of Nahreen, lay upon his deathbed. It was customary for an Elf to shield themselves from the light when one approached their end. This was done to better hide the shame and indignity of weakness, and for their ruler this was even more important. Showing vulnerability even now would tarnish his legacy – for the Sultan was not chosen by blood as with the human Kingdoms; instead, succession was a matter of power and influence.

Ateret had, in his prime, been a sorcerer beyond compare. He had earned his throne by might, though in an unusually valorous display. In that time, hearsay of the previous ruler’s death had reached the ears of a particularly ambitious bandit prince. This upstart amassed a mercenary army with frightening speed and, knowing that Nahreen would be vulnerable during its time of mourning, rode upon the City. While others panicked and pontificated, Ateret had already gone out to meet them. A hundred trained swordsmen on camel-back crossed with him, and none did live to tell the tale.

Back then, he had been young and unafraid of dying. The illness that had consumed him in his old age had come just as suddenly and viciously as those bandits in the days of yore, yet Ateret was unprepared to face the enemy this time. He had since grown comfortable with living, and taken for granted the feeling of being alive.

“I issue the call but they will not answer… my own children.” The Sultan glanced over at his wife with sunken, bloodshot eyes. He wheezed, as if to express his displeasure.

Ateret clung to a thing strand of hope. An ancient ritual, a bargain struck with the gods in the earliest days of Elfdom.

“My love, no ruler’s child has accepted the call for Last Rites for many thousands of years… They would rather try to succeed you, than succeed in saving you.” The royal consort sank her teeth into her bottom lip, anxiously. Her husband had seven heirs to his name. Seven heirs with barely a fraction of the love they had for themselves spared for their father.

For an uninterrupted string of minutes, his only retort was to return to his sickly stupor and gaze into the ceiling in silence. Resignation finally began to sink and seep into his frail old bones – until the deep-etched frown on his face suddenly lifted for a moment. It was only fleeting, but the wrinkles of age and indeed, even the signs of malady were briefly washed clean away by a surge of inspiration. His wife knew the look well.

“My jewel… I might just have a solution.”