A long, jet-black limousine was driving through the city with pace. It stood out, amongst the shoddily made houses that seemed to be falling apart, raging flames coming out of barrels to warm those less fortunate. This country had always a large discrepancy between rich and poor, his parents always told him. ‘You have to understand the common man’s struggles to speak to them in a way that they understood, Elliott,’ they advised him over and over again as he continually plugged away at whatever game he was playing. Politics had never truly interested him, neither as a child, or even at his ripe age of nineteen. But there was really no avoiding this one. The Waltz, an event that takes place about once every generation, was about to take place. It was a contest, a competition- really a proper ending to the war of attrition that is the crowning of a new branch of royalty. It took those who were of high-class, lords, fiefs, even knighted captains, and allowed their children to fight for the opportunity to obtain the title of ‘Royal Knight’. Essentially, they would be royalty under the strength of their own talents. They were to be drilled with knowledge of fighting and magic from a young age, periodically tested, and then sent out to the wolves in the hopes of bringing their family glory. As the first-born son of the Durham family and its most talented magic user, he was to enter the Waltz. As he plugged away on his phone, making another move on the chess game that he was playing with the computer, he sighed. ‘This is going to be a drag…’ he thought to himself as he could feel his stomach begin to stir involuntarily.