House Moonwell's Heir, Adicus Moonwell.

The end had been a long time coming.

For years Kent Moonwell had been wasting away upon the throne, sickly since birth but never quite succumbing to the clutches of disease. He was a good man, and strove to lead as best he could, but was ultimately inhibited by cruel forces beyond his control. He fared poorly in that time, plagued by doubt and inadequacy, but in truth, his kingdom fared worse.

With his virility adversely affected by his ailing constitution he and his sister-wife had trouble producing a legitimate heir for years, leading many to fear that the divine bloodline might finally come to an end, and with his inability to foster the rituals of the old ways House Moonwell's ancient alliances from the time before fell to dust, neglected and unused. With even those archaic beliefs failing them—beliefs rooted in a past so long ago that the other four realms consider them to be naught but folly and myth, beliefs that are the only true advantage Criston had in an age of expansion and progress—the people had nothing. Nothing but hope and ceaseless loyalty, and in the harder times even that faultered, until the first good sign blessed them in an age. The conception and birth of Adicus Moonwell, and later the birth of his sister, Alain.

The bloodline would continue. And, hopefully, it would return a prosperity that had been absent for hundreds of years.

But what would it take?

Adicus thought on that question as he stood between his mother, Breann, and his sister, Alain, their ancestral hair soaked by the rain and silver like moonlight. Though somber in their time of mourning, they made a welcome family to the people of Criston.

Adicus was unlike his father in many regards. At twenty one he was tall, strong, and handsome in an understated way, yet gifted with the same keen mind his father had failed to use to its fullest extent, and was just as devoted to his people. On his right, Breann came up to his shoulder, an elegant and voluptuous woman with lips made to smile and eyes barely wrinkled at the edges, the only visible indication of her fifty six summers. And Alain stood on his left, a curious and slender girl of eighteen who came up just short of the middle of his upper arm. Their hands were clasped as the funeral procession entered the family crypt, trailing water down their knuckles. The door closed, and they squeezed tighter.

In the end the service was like many of their old rituals, respectful, liberating, and just as long as it needed to be.

Their family returned to the castle, readying for the tribulations that herald the crowning of a new heir. In the ruckus Adicus slipped away, and in time Alain found him in their father's study, considering the snapping flames of the hearth.

"Have you decided?" she said, approaching him to entwine her arm in his own. "Will you go to the temple?"

She spoke of the tradition every Criston king undertook before he claimed the throne, a supplication to their divine ancestors to bless and guide them on the right path. By her question, she also spoke of his hesitation and doubt, doubt that the old ways were still enough. Their neighbors had vastly outpaced them, and what the histories once touted as their greatest advantage had allowed them to fall into squalor. Are they even real, he had dared to let himself think, or have we been following a lie this whole time?

For days he grappled with their bleak situation, and arrived at two divergent solutions: break away from the old ways and pursue alliances with the other four realms, or embrace their heritage and rebuild all that had fallen into disrepair.

Adicus had made his decision the moment before Alain walked through the door.