Emilia awoke to a familiar silence, covered in chilly silken sheets. She rose, turning groggily towards the large window on her right, observing the angle of light. It seemed to be just past dawn, her training should have begun at the very least an hour prior; why had she not be woken by a servant? Suspiciously, she slipped out of her bed, toeing the cold marble floor. Her room was one not designed for royalty, since the only furniture included her lush bed and an area to get dressed. Since something had clearly been off in the first place she didn’t bother with calling a servant to assist her, instead choosing to slide into a deep velvet green dress and tying her long black hair into a bun. Fashion is the peak of status, she had once been told, but she hardly considered this too luxurious, especially in a castle of this size.

Ah yes, the castle in which she resides in Proben, the capital, as Princess Emilia, the only heir to the throne; This was due in part to the low fertility of the Queen, whom if not for giving birth to Emilia, would have been thought baron. Emilia held the brand of the Princess but not the status; Like most princesses she was an accessory to the crown, a daughter to marry off, a child that had no true worth to the throne.

Emilia tossed her thoughts from her mind, fretting upon her status and worth was rarely accompanied with feelings of joy. After adorning a pair of shoes, she began to head to her door. Sheathing a small dagger on her side, she exited her room.

Even the large corridor outside her room had an eerie silence, which was only exemplified by the size and the lack of light. She lived in the west wing of the castle, making her mainly isolated in the first place due to most of the surrounding rooms being only used for political discussions. The cause of this is that since little to none venture here daily except the occasional servant, there is never any candles lit, the hall relies on that eerily natural light. Again only exemplifying the hollowness. Also, said hollowness, makes it significantly harder to get anywhere she needed to be quickly.

She began to walk faster approaching the grand hall, watching the tiles slowly fade from a dull marble to that of what seems like gold. The architecture designs complexify and the candles are freshly lit, despite it being day time. Emilia begins to hear voices, slight murmurs of conversation and tries to pick up her pace even more. This is becoming tedious, she couldn't help but think. Her temper is not a thing to be encountered and sometimes little things could light that flare.

When she finally reached the main hall her mother, Her Royal Majesty, she corrects herself, rushes toward her side, face riddled in anguish. Adorning various silks and jewels, always dressed to the finest, even when one wouldn’t even have the time to get ready to this extent.

“Oh dear, you must hear what news our messengers have brought,” She begins, tripping over her own words, “we have been attacked by heathens.”

She snarls the last word, linking arms with Emilia and pacing around the hall. Feigning motherly gossip and the closeness one would normally have with their daughter. The act was so embedded that both of them always naturally play along. Perhaps entertaining one another, with this play at family.

“I would prefer a more vivid explanation.” Emilia says not harshly, but pragmatically. Her Royal Majesty feigned a look of sadness, one of her favorite moves as an attempt to invoke Emilia’s emotions.

“The vikings of the western continent have breached a monastery in the York Islands,” She turns, pacing again across the hall, “they’ve raided it, burning and killing everyone inside.” A look of genuine concern crosses her face.

“What is His Royal Majesty planning in response?” She replied calmly.

“Well dear you must know he must first call upon the council, which surely they have not yet woken…” Her Royal Majesty trailed off, slowly coming to a stop in front of the throne room where His Royal Majesty sat, addressing the various messengers while simultaneously sending servants for his war council. He was dressed very simply, but never forgetting that heavy crown constantly topping his head and a woolen cloak, dyed a deep purple and trailing onto the throne. It all complimented his dark ruffled hair that grew to the nape of his neck and his deep black eyes, which reflected that regal purple.

Emilia bites back the urge to scowl at his pompous mannerisms. While his actions seemed concerned, he lounged on the throne as if this was a simple feudal debate over lordship. She begrudgingly enters the throne room, walking the length of the long red carpet. The kings eyes did not flick upon her until she stopped to bow at the steps of the golden throne.

“You have my attention,” He gazed at her in boredom, “Princess.”

Now Emilia was not indulged so heavily in intellect and lessons to not know what this meant, he would not have time or use for her on this day. She wasn’t hurt, just irritable. Fueling her wanting to be on that council would only light the gas tank that is her greed, so there was no time for anger or moping.

“Your Majesty,” She raised from her bow, “I have heard of the news and come to ask if you require any services from me.” She asked regardless, out of respect and code of duty.

“Hmm,” He pondered this for a minute, very dramatically with his eyes searching the room and his head swiveling, before continuing his thought, “I will meet with my war council shortly, for now you will resume morning training with Landervik. Dismissed.” Immediately he looked as if she had never entered the room, turning back to the messengers and councilmen that prodded for his attention.

Emilia bowed again before walking out, Her Royal Majesty hovering by the door. As she paces down the southern wing to access the undergrounds, Her Royal Majesty glides aside her, easily matching her pace. She flowed with an elegance, most likely due to her Sangol decent. Raised on the southern tip as the daughter of the Lord Of Southwest Wexen, their customs are very traditional and rely on feminine grace. She has long, silky black hair that’s only intensified by her large mono-lid eyes, a common feature for the Wexen. Emilia inherited most of her traits,specifically her mono-lids sharpened by the Kings poignant eyes. She often reminded herself of a serpent, with a beautiful exterior hiding the truth inside those sharp eyes.

With feline grace, Her Royal Majesty walked in front of Emilia, turning to face her with a sinister smile. Emilia’s pulled from her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed that they’d arrived at the door to the undergrounds. She sends her a perplexed look.

“I have not overseen your training in quite some time,” Her Royal Majesty responds to the look, her eyes narrowed as she smirks, “I wish to make sure Landervik upholds the more… traditional policies I requested.” Emilia shrugged in indifference. It mattered not what she oversaw or didn’t, Landervik believed Emilia as his greatest investment and trained her in regards to that. And only through pain are the strong forged. Emilia wasn’t sure she believed that so much as she had just simply heard it so much.

Finally she turns, heading in the dank undergrounds with Her Royal Majesty in pursuit.