He or she is the next in line to rule the throne. But are they old enough to handle the responsibilities of ruling a nation going through a revolution?
"You're father was a good man, despite all the things people have said to you." A stout man with a protruding belly and a warm smile beckons you into the royal chambers, the throne room of your deceased mother and your late father. The clothing you wear is made of the finest of wool and your personal servants have spent much time applying various trinkets and 'make up' to give you the appearance of one that truly deserves the title of 'Divine Ruler'.
In reality, the title isn't something you're all to familiar with, even less so with the ridiculous rite to transform you into a royal clown. The so called 'Arabian silks' constrict your breathing, the make up makes your face itch and your hair looks puffy enough to hide a swarm of bees. Your stomach grumbles at the mention of bees and of course honey.
Finnigan, your late father's most trusted advisor, beckons you to his side. "Come, come, you must not dilly dally. Your ascension to the throne must be on this day as the magi have divined to be the perfect day of all days. In fact, your subjects are keen to see you after such a long period, my...."