I awoke to unsettling news relayed by Abelard and Haisley in the fragile silence of early morning. The chill whisper of dawn filtered through my window as I realized with mounting dread that I was to report at Neuschwanstein Castle—the stage for an Imperial Election. The crisp air carried a hint of frost and distant rain, as if nature itself mourned the unfolding tragedy.
My thoughts tumbled over one another. I had been repeatedly assured that I was not to inherit the throne, that I would never willingly bear its burden. Yet now, as a candidate, I was forced to attend.
The whispers of rebellion in the corridors of power echoed in my mind: no one truly listened to me anymore. They acted as they pleased, heedless of my intentions or my warnings. Their cold indifference stung like the bite of winter wind against exposed skin.
The seven electors—seven august figures whose names provoked both reverence and misgiving—had gathered.
