Jasille could still remember when it had all went to shit. Dimaethor had been taking his evening meal, looking over a few petitions given to him by the people and meeting with General Kina, his most trusted general. The servant refilling his glass had leapt at him, pressing a knife to his throat. Dimaethor would have died then if Jasille hadn't pushed the servant off and killed him. Kina simply sat there smiling. Then, his soldiers, the castle guard, had walked in, baring the exits and surrounding the king and his bodyguard. In the streets, the people began to revolt, breaking into the nobles' estates and burning down their manors, killing children in their beds. Jasille had grabbed Dimaethor and jumped out of the window with him, landing two stories down in a snow drift. For two weeks, they ran, stealing when they needed to in order to survive. And, days before they reached a town along the border of Liran and Ashanti, Dimaethor fell ill with pneumonia. Now, Dimaethor was on Jasille's back, clinging to him while he carried the young king to Liran. Dimaethor had been wearing a silk tunic when they ran, which wasn't suited for the harsh weather outside the castle. It was no surprise he got sick. The moment they reached the town of Tyreah, Jasille began making his way to the town's tavern, hoping to buy a room for the next few nights so his king could get better. "One...one room, please," Jasille said to the barkeep, still holding Dimaethor on his back.