In the Electrum City, the Tsar was spinning in circles in the golden throne room. His laughs echoed through the hallways and frightened the servants. The Tsar had just received word from the north which could bring the war to an abrupt end, with the fighting on the Drybrush Plain suspended for an unexpected reason. "He really just ...died? Ha ha ha!" The Tsar fell into a fit of hysterics. The leader of the opposition, pretender to the throne, Count Mercurac of the Northern Faction, had suddenly died. No coup, assassination, or battle fatality had felled him. He simply succumbed to old age and peacefully passed away. Mercurac's heir was campaigning in the far south and the Northern Faction were without a figurehead. As they fought amongst themselves and tried to hastily recall their defacto leader to their ranks, the fight for the golden throne had lost its momentum.

General Tsea had travelled for four days without rest to deliver the news to the Electrum Tsar, and now stood wearily and watched as his aging ruler danced around the glittering hall, sending sparks of noble energy crackling into the air. "Dead, dead, dead! He's dead at last!" The Tsar stopped still in the middle of the room, "Wirac! Where is Wirac?" he called. Wirac came running into the room and bowed deeply, "Yes, your majesty?" The Tsar put his hands behind his back, sighed and gave a satisfied smile, "Bring Count Ironac to the palace at once!"

Ironac was at the teahouse when the summons came. He was using his spark to reanimate a butterfly, much to the delight of the young noble ladies. His eyes blazed with a blue flame as the wings fluttered gently back to life and lifted the insect into the air. As the gathered crowd applauded him, the message from the palace was delivered. The Count bowed and took his leave, the butterfly falling lifelessly to the ground behind him. Jerel had been watching his master from a distance, and upon the messenger's approach had prepared the carriage for departure. At the Count's instruction, Jerel took the reins and drove them swiftly to the palace. Count Ironac calculated on the way, how much it would cost this time to keep himself out of the war. For the best part of two decades, Ironac had avoided the fighting by filling the palace's coffers; while the young noble men were waging war in the north, Ironac was overseeing their business ventures, and keeping their sisters and daughters company.

Count Ironac was announced and entered the throne room, bowing to the Electrum Tsar sitting on high above him, and emitting all the grace and power he could muster. His majesty nodded a somber greeting to the Count, and rose up theatrically from the golden throne, his heavy robes gliding down the steps behind him as he went to meet his subject. The stoic facade fell away when the Tsar slapped his hands on the Count's shoulders and broke out in laughter. "It's over, Ironac! He's dead! Mercurac dropped dead!" The Tsar squeezed Ironac's face into an awkward smile and the realization suddenly dawned on the Count. If the country was at peace again... "It's all going to be mine at last! No more faction to annoy me, I can do as I please! I think it's time to bring the Prince back to the capital! Bring him back to me, Ironac."

Ten years ago the Northern Faction had stormed the Electrum City, and it was the closest the Tsar had come to losing his stronghold to Mercurac. In the chaos of the assault, Count Ironac had offered to take the Tsar's infant son across the Prasiolite Sea in a bid to save himself from the bloodshed. When the siege was beaten back and the capital secured, Ironac returned to the city and informed the Tsar that he had successfully hidden the Crown Prince abroad for his safety. From time to time letters would arrive from the Prince to his father, informing him how well he was progressing in his studies, and sharing the extent of his accomplishments. As the conflict waxed and waned like the phases of the moon, the Tsar would openly regret and appreciate his highness's great distance in equal measure. Now that the Northern Faction were at a disadvantage, it was time to bring the heir out of hiding and solidify his power.

Count Ironac received the order, and assured the Tsar he would return with his son after the royal guard withdrew from the frontline. Although the fighting had ceased, the Prince would require adequate protection in the city. As Ironac left the palace to make preparations for the coming voyage, he was reminded of that day ten years prior. Agents of the Northern Faction had broken through the land defenses and broached the city wall. The royal forces were racing back to the capital, and the nobles were preparing to barricade themselves in their homes until the reinforcements could arrive. Ironac panicked, his residence was second only to the palace in size, and without the vast numbers of men needed to defend it from attack. Jerel had been tasked with trying to secure a ship for escape, but the entire fleet was standing by should a secondary force approach by sea. With no roads out of the city, the Count loaded up his carriage with his treasures and fled to the protection of the Tsar and his army of bodyguards. The palace was in chaos, and Ironac feared that should the outer city fall before the soldiers arrived, it would not be long before the Northern Faction took the throne.

When Ironac saw the Crown Prince cowering in the corner of the throne room with his nursemaid, he saw a chance to flee as a hero. It was decided the Count and his servant were to leave the city in utmost secrecy, aboard a small fishing vessel taking only the Prince, his maid and two palace guards with them. He ordered Jerel to transfer his belongings from the carriage, and deliver the writ of passage to the royal admiral. Once the passengers were aboard they prepared to set sail for the Count's home in the Biathian Highlands, fifty miles east of the fighting. The young Prince cried loudly and clung to his maid as the boat left the port. Ironac rubbed his temples, and crouched down to face him, "If you keep crying like this, I'll slit your throat and throw you overboard" he told him, stroking his fair hair and turning his attention to the outraged nursemaid, "This much noise and you may as well shoot your spark towards the enemy and give away our position. Keep him quiet."

Throughout the journey the child didn't make another sound. The next morning, as they neared Biathia, the guards kept watch on deck with Jerel as the others slept in the cabin below. Ironac was relieving himself through the porthole when the nursemaid awoke and gasped in fear. "Would you rather the cabin reeked of piss?" he asked her. The nursemaid shrieked and laid the young Prince down to examine him, "He's not breathing! His body is cold!" she cried. The Count buttoned his breeches and strode over, pushing the distraught maid aside. He checked the boy for a pulse and felt only the icy temperature of his skin. The nursemaid struggled desperately to reach for the child, her frenzied cries were getting louder and were in danger of alerting the palace guards. The Count slapped her hard with the back of his hand. "You dare to cry for him?!" he rasped, "You slept soundly as the Prince died in your arms!" The maid's tears had turned to silent, heart-wrenching sobs. Ironac had no time to waste. He conjured his spark but could not jolt the child's heart into beating. Someone knocked on the cabin door.

 The Count stunned the maid unconcious and laid her down on the bunk. He bundled the body of the Prince into his arms and wrapped a cloak around them before answering the door. "Have we reached the port?" whispered Ironac, sending pulses of energy through the Prince's body to mimic the shallow breathing of sleep. The guard nodded. "Send Jerel down to the cabin. The Prince's maid is unwell from the journey and will need help getting ashore." The guard motioned for the Count to unburden himself of the 'slumbering' Prince. "I'll take him myself," declined Ironac, "his highness must be exhausted but only just now fell asleep." Jerel and the Count carried the Prince and his maid to the waiting carriage and positioned their bodies inside. The nursemaid's fitful breathing betrayed the torment of her unconscious mind. As they continued on to the mansion, Ironac determined the best course of action. The guards would have to die.

Before their arrival, the Count gagged the maid with his handkerchief and woke her up. "Listen carefully" he told her, "the Prince is dead and you will follow him to the grave if you refuse to do as I tell you. Nod if you understand." The young nursemaid nodded in fear. "Good. The guards will report our safe arrival to the Tsar. All you have to do is take the Prince to his room and put him to bed. If you tell them the truth, or let it be known that the Prince is dead, you will have to take responsibility with your life. If you want to live, they must believe his highness is safe and well." The Count raised the curtain on the carriage window and watched their approach. "You have to decide now. Do you want to live or do you want to die?" When the carriage stopped in the courtyard of Ironac's home, the nursemaid carried the 'sleeping' Prince in her arms.  

The siege of Electrum was unsuccessful, as General Tsea had arrived with his troops and stopped the invaders in time. The Northern Faction were pushed back to the disputed Drybrush Plain, and a modicum of peace was restored to the capital. Word came from Biathia that the Crown Prince was safe in his exile, and the Tsar praised himself publicly for having protected the heir from the evils of the faction. While the fight raged on in the north, news continued to reach his majesty of his son in the east; shockingly, one of the palace guards sent with his highness had attempted to sell his location to the Northern Faction, and had been swiftly dispatched and replaced with a trusted supporter of Count Ironac. The Count himself returned alone to the capital the following year, leaving the Prince behind to live out the war in the peace and seclusion of his Biathian home.

Ten years had passed since that fateful night in Electrum, and Count Ironac was to return the dead boy to his father. Over time the Count had considered various ways out of this mess; if the Tsar lost the war then there was no harm done, he would be executed by the Northern Faction and the dead Prince would be a non-issue. Several years ago, when the Tsar's forces were achieving success in battle under General Tsea, Ironac invented a life-threatening illness for the Prince, but when his majesty threatened to send for a royal physician, the illness miraculously cured itself. Since neither army were backing down from the conflict, the Count had continued with his charade without much thought. However, now that Mercurac had died there were no excuses left for his highness to remain in exile. Whether caused by illness, assassination, or shipwreck on the journey home, Count Ironac would have to assume responsibility for the death of the Prince.

But. If the boy died after his arrival in the capital, Ironac could escape any culpability. He would need a stand-in and it couldn't be a member of the commonfolk, only a noble with their distinctive appearance could pass for the Prince's double. Therein lay the issue. Noble births were strictly regulated and recorded, with the powerful children of Solaris born only through approval from the Tsar. Even the Northern Faction needed Mercurac's consent to expand their ranks. Every noble citizen could petition to marry, and again to reproduce, but even the strongest were likely to have their claims rejected. There was nothing more terrifying to the nobles in charge than the the power of others, and if your spark was too strong you might never be granted permission to sire an heir. Often the weakest among them were more successful, occasionally offered the chance to birth noble servants and workmen for the Empire. But regardless, a noble was a noble and their number had a limit.

If the Tsar refused a noble's petition there was no appeal to be made, his majesty's decision was absolute and infallible. For those that opposed him or dared become pregnant without the crown's consent, the penalty was execution. There wasn't a noble born in Electrum whose identification wouldn't risk exposing Ironac's scheme. He might have considered hiring one of the Northern Faction to play the fair Prince; but aside from their unknown origins, their predominantly dark hair and hatred for the Tsar quickly ruled out such a dangerous solution. There seemed to be only one possibility remaining, that little half-breed he'd seen at the commonfolk inn twelve years ago.