The moon is high, beaming through the broad glass window. Silky curtains rest with their ends piled on the cold stone floor.

A boy lays in the large bed sitting in the middle of the room. His eyes are closed, his face relaxed, his breathing even. Anyone who came across him would think he's fast asleep. He's made sure of it.

Noises start outside the iron door separating the boy from the rest of the castle. His father's voice, harsh and sharp, displeased until his dying breaths. His mother's softer, but no less cutting words that snap like lightning. His straining ears can't pick up the words, but he can imagine their conversation from years of nights of arguments.

His father would say something about "the weapon". His mother would refuse to let his father leave, saying things like "You should be here for your son!" and "Stop searching for something you'll never find!" His father would growl out that he has better things to do than wait on a useless heir. His mother would threaten to take him, since his father obviously wanted nothing to do with him. Then there would be the sound of skin hitting skin. In the morning, he would wake for breakfast and his mother would have a darkening stain on her cheek.

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This night, though, things were different.

Instead of soft words cutting through his father's thick skin, there are sharp shrieks and what sounds like a slap. His father is getting louder, lound enough to be understood.

"I'll find it, Kelia. I'll find it and bring glory to our family and our kingdom!" His mother, the Queen Kelia, responds with something he can't hear. There's a sudden yell, and the sound of a sword run through a soft body. The boy squeezes his eyes tighter, but he can't stop a few tears from leaking out.

Prince Azon is eight years old and he's sure his mother is dead.