It was on a gray afternoon, ominous dark clouds rolling by the gloomy sky, that the funeral for the seventeenth generation Emperor was held.
Mournful souls in black clothing, muffled sobs of those grieving, a sombre atmosphere wafted of devastation and misery, and a graveyard drowned in weeping - it was a day like no other for the empire of Aristia. The life of a benevolent ruler cut short by an unascertained assailant had been commemorated in a wreath-laying ceremony. Beneath the dreadful facade layering over the burial ground, however, there was a different stir of emotions, an incongruous contrast from the grim ambience. Made obscure by the lamenting outcries was the imperial family's apathetic guise.
"Have you seen the wife?"
"The prince never left her side, how could we not?"
"The lady of the prophecy is so young."
"What a beauteous woman, indeed."
"Will the empire's future be assured at such small, frail hands, though?"
