Oberon's throne was now at stake, he did not have a heir to save his throne. Everyday was now becoming a very bad day for him, he almost never concentrated on his work and this was affecting his reputation.
The elders couldn't help him because he wasn't listening to any of their advices and this was now taking a toll on the pack.
He always stayed in his room, locked, wishing he had a heir to take over his throne. He was always moody and this was affecting him physically and mentally.
That evening was particularly cold. He wanted to take shelter in his room, the cold outside was biting and he couldn't stand it any longer.
He got to his room, opened the door and went in. For some reason he felt odd, he arched his brow and looked around.
"Strange," he muttered.
He got to his bed, sat down and took off his robes. He lay on his bed, feeling tired and also despairing.
"My son," he whispered.
