#royalsims

Just a quick update, I’ll be moving the story over to TikTok, so I won’t be posting here on as often. The audio component of the story will now be exclusive to TikTok.

I’ll still share updates here on the family tree (which I’m currently working on.) but I’m also slowly converting each post into full chapters.

I’ve attached the TikTok link so you can follow along there — thank you all so much for your support! 💛

Night had draped itself over Windenburg Castle. The remnants of the feast were long cleared, the laughter gone quiet, the halls emptied of all but low torchlight and the soft creak of settling stone.

In a darkened side corridor, hidden from patrol routes and prying eyes, Princess Jane stood in hushed conversation with a man. Her gown was a deep, elegant green, lined with gold at the sleeves, though it barely caught the light in the shadowed passage.

She was already speaking when the castle bell tolled the tenth hour.

“You know the room,” she said, her voice calm, composed. “You’ll go in quietly. Take him without a word. No one sees you, no one hears a thing.”

The man gave a nod.

She reached into the folds of her gown and pressed the gold coins into his palm. “That’s for now,” she said. “You’ll earn the rest once the task is done.”

The man tucked the coin away. “And if he wakes?”

Jane’s gaze was sharp as iron. “Then you'll deal with it.”

Without another word, the man turned and slipped into the dark.

Within the prince’s chambers, all was still.

The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers. Prince Alvin lay fast asleep, curled beneath the weight of thick linen and fur. His brow was creased in sleep, the scowl of earlier still faint on his face.

The door eased open.

A figure slipped inside, cloaked and silent. He crossed the chamber in three steps, bent low, and pulled the boy up from the bed.

Alvin stirred.

“Wha—?” he choked, suddenly thrashing.

But the man was ready. A strong arm locked around his chest, another around his neck. Alvin writhed in panic, a muffled cry escaping him—

Then silence.

His limbs went slack. The man lifted him fully and vanished from the room.

Jane sat waiting in the corridor where they’d first met.

She was still, hands folded in front of her, her expression unreadable. The firelight danced faintly across the dark green velvet of her gown, but she herself did not move.

When the man returned, the boy slung unconscious over his shoulder, Jane’s eyes followed them wordlessly.

“He put up a bit of a fight,” the man muttered.

She looked over the boy’s limp form in silence. Then, finally, she spoke again, quiet, but firm.

“Don’t take him to the tower. That would be too obvious.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Take him to Britechester Castle. Have him thrown tucked away in our tower. Ask for the steward. He’ll know who sent you.”

The man gave a nod, turned, and disappeared once more into the night, Alvin in his grasp.

Jane remained in place for a moment longer, then turned slowly down the corridor.

The first move had been made.

And in the following days, the true shape of her plan would begin to unfold.

The morning sun cast soft ripples over the pond as dragonflies skimmed the surface. Edward sat in the grass beside Elizabeth, his hands resting loosely on his knees. She knelt beside him, her blue gown gathered neatly beneath her, golden hair falling over one shoulder like silk.

“It’s beautiful here,” Edward said, his voice quiet, as if not to disturb the stillness. “Your family’s kindness… your care, it’s more than I deserve.”

Elizabeth looked down at her hands. “Then why does it feel like you’re already gone?”

He turned to her, a faint crease in his brow. “I must return,” he said gently. “My wounds have healed. My duty… waits for me.”

She nodded, though her eyes did not meet his. “I knew you’d say that.”

There was a pause.

“But I’d hoped you might say more.”

Edward didn’t answer at once.

Elizabeth leaned a little closer, resting one hand lightly on his shoulder. “I don’t ask for secrets, or titles, or promises you cannot keep,” she said softly. “Only the truth. Whatever part of it you’re willing to share.”

His gaze flicked to hers. “You’ve had more of my truth than anyone ever has.”

She offered a wistful smile. “Then I must be quite lucky.”

She shifted, almost rising to her knees as she leaned closer, her hand resting gently on Edward’s shoulder. “You’ll be leaving soon,” she said softly, her voice tinged with sadness.

Edward nodded. “My strength’s returned… it’s time I faced what waits.”

She hesitated. “Then tell me truly, what is it you’re not saying?”

He met her gaze. “I swear to you, Elizabeth… there’s nothing I hide that would bring you harm.”

Her touch lingered, warm and hesitant. “I want to believe that,” she whispered. “But even the kindest shadows can still keep secrets.” She offered a faint smile, “When you're ready to let me in… I’ll be here.”

Morning light crept through the lattice windows as Prince Alvin stirred. He blinked sleepily, then sat up with a frown. This wasn’t his bed. This wasn’t his chamber.

He slipped off the mattress and stood, his bare feet hitting the cold stone floor. panic surged through him, he sprinted toward the heavy wooden door. “Hello?” he called softly. “Is anyone there?”

No answer.

“Let me out!” he cried, voice rising as he pounded the door with his fists. “Please, let me out!”

He dropped to his knees and beat on the door again, his tiny hands trembling.

“Someone! Please!”

When no one came, he slumped forward, breath hitching. His voice cracked in a whisper, “Where am I?”

And for the first time in his life, Prince Alvin felt powerless.

The late afternoon sun poured its golden light across the Brindleton farmstead as the family gathered just outside their home. Their only stallion stood saddled near the fence, offered freely, without question.

Elizabeth’s father gave Edward a firm nod. “He’s yours for the road. Send him home when you can.”

“You have my word. And for all your kindness… I’ll see it returned tenfold.” Edward promised.

Jacquetta offered a warm smile. “You’ve given us more than enough just by being here. May the Watcher guide your way.”

The family gave their farewells and quietly retreated indoors. Everyone, that is, but Elizabeth.

She lingered, stepping forward as Edward approached the horse. “You do realise,” she said lightly, “we don’t lend that stallion to just anyone.”

Edward turned to her with a half-smile. “And yet, here I stand, honoured.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she replied, eyes flicking to the reins. “He’s more stubborn than he looks.”

Edward chuckled softly, then grew quiet. “I’ll write. And I will return.”

Elizabeth’s brow lifted ever so slightly. “Promises, my lord? Careful, you might have to keep them.”

He stepped closer, his voice low. “Would you rather I left without one?”

Elizabeth looked up at him, eyes steady, unspeaking. There was no need, he already knew.

He drew her close and kissed her, slow and full of longing a farewell carved not in words, but in warmth and breath. His hand lingered at her waist, as though he wished to remain, if only for a moment longer.

At last, he pulled away, his eyes searching hers one final time before he turned and mounted the stallion.

Elizabeth stood still, her hands clasped gently before her. She could not bring herself to watch him go. Instead, she turned her head, and listened to each hoofbeat carrying him farther from her, gazing off toward the hills.

Back at Britechester Castle, Prince Alvin sat in the stillness of his cell, unaware of the plot that stirred beyond its walls.

The heavy door creaked open. A tall man entered, clad in dark garments trimmed with red, his expression unreadable. In his hand, he held a folded parchment.

“I am Steward Halrick,” he said simply, stepping closer. “You are to sign this.”

Alvin rose slowly from the bed, cautious. “What is it?” he asked, his voice uncertain.

The steward raised the parchment. “It bears the seal of council. You must sign.”

Though the Prince did not know it, the document had been prepared in haste, its purpose clear. Should King Edward be declared dead in the coming days, "Prince Alvin would, by this signature, forfeit his right as heir", surrendering the throne to Lord Lorus.

“I won’t sign anything until I know what it says,” Alvin insisted, arms crossed.

Halrick narrowed his eyes. “You will do as commanded. Or would you rather the guards escort you to the tower? I assure you, the men there are less patient than I.”

Alvin’s courage faltered. In a flash of fear, he turned to run, but the steward’s voice thundered behind him.

“Guards stand at every door. There is no escape.”

Slowly, Alvin turned back. Defeat hung heavy on his face. Halrick pointed once more to the parchment.

“Now. Sign!.”

The boy looked down at the document, the weight of its unseen meaning pressing on him. His hand trembled.

Even as a child, Princess Jane never asked, she expected. As the youngest daughter of King Wilhelm IV and Queen Margaery, she was the court’s darling, spoiled and worshipped, she was showered with treasures by nobles, all eager to win her favor. It was clear from the beginning that Jane would not be a mere ornament of courtly life.

Though Prince Alvin sat the throne as regent, it was Jane, and her son Richard who ruled. With the Privy Council at their back and the Church in their pocket, they shaped the realm as they pleased, using the prince as their pawn.

Entertainment was constant, opulence unrestrained. Jane and Richard held court from beside the throne, unmoved by the jester’s antics, their authority palpable. Feasts followed, often banquets lit by candlelight, the air thick with laughter and power.

It was a warm spring day at Windenburg Castle. Sunlight filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, casting a soft glow over Princess Jane’s chamber. Seated before her mirror, she sat perfectly still as her mistress adjusted the golden-trimmed escoffion upon her head.

“You know,” Jane said with a smirk, “Cordelia wore a similar shade once, but on her, it looked more like a sickness than silk.”

Before her mistress could respond, the chamber doors opened. Lady Philippa entered briskly, her expression tense, parchment clutched tightly in her hand.

“Your Grace,” she said, bowing her head slightly. “A letter from Tartosa. It bears your name.”

Jane took the parchment, the amusement still lingering in her expression. She broke the seal, eyes skimming the page, then froze.

The message was brief. Empress Mary of Tartosa, her elder sister, had passed.

The letter sank slightly in her hand. Jane’s breath hitched, and for a moment, the room seemed colder. She turned her face away, lifting a hand to her mouth as tears welled in her eyes.

“I’m the last,” she murmured. “The last of my siblings…”

In that moment, all vanity fell away, the light dimmer, as if grief had drawn the warmth from the air. Jane’s thoughts turned not to titles or courtly matters, but to blood. Those now buried.

And somewhere, behind the polished steel of her expression, was the shadow of another absence, her son. Locked away for nearly 7 years now. She had not spoken his name aloud in some time, but today, it echoed softly in her mind. one more piece of her family that might still be within her reach.

The following morning, The Princess visited The Tower of Windenburg. The guards had been discreetly paid off, and at her command, they led her through the winding stone corridors to a cell buried in shadow. The air was thick with damp and rot, the stench of death clung to the walls like mold.

Inside, the cell was cold and nearly silent. she heard the ragged breathing of a man curled in the far corner. He was gaunt, unwashed, his clothes little more than rags. For a moment, Jane did not recognize him.

But then he looked up.

A pair of hollow eyes met hers, and with a trembling voice he spoke “Mother?… is that you?”

Without hesitation, Jane stepped forward and knelt beside him, her voice firm but gentle as she reached for his hand.

“I never forgot you, Lorus,” she said quietly. “And I will not leave you here another day.”

With that, Jane rose, her expression unreadable but her grip steady as she helped Lorus to his feet. The warrant that once bound him to this place had already been reduced to ash the night before, burned in silence beneath the flicker of candlelight in her chamber. No trace of it remained.

With her son leaning against her, frail but alive, Jane led him out of the Tower of Windenburg. The guards looked away as they passed.

That same day, they returned him to Castle Landgraab, where his wife and children waited. No banners were raised, no horns were sounded, only the quiet joy of a family made whole again, and the steel resolve of a mother who had reclaimed what was hers.

That evening, Windenburg Castle’s great hall was filled with warmth and candlelight. The long banquet table overflowed with roasted pheasant, wheels of cheese, thick loaves of bread, spiced wine, and a grand boar’s head crowned with apples. Conversation buzzed low, spirits ran high, Princess Jane, draped in deep crimson, sat with the quiet authority of a queen without a crown, her gaze sweeping the hall as if it already belonged to her. Then, she cleared her throat gently.

“I do hope everyone’s enjoying themselves,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “Before the evening continues, I have a small announcement to share.”

The table quieted.

“With Lord Lorus’s warrant and record officially destroyed,” she continued, not bothering to stand, “he is once again eligible to stand in the royal line of succession.”

She sipped her wine, letting the silence stretch.

“This, of course, places him second—just behind Prince Alvin. And moves Richard… to third.”

A hush swept over the hall. Across from her, Richard blinked, stunned.

“This is the first I’m hearing of this,” he said, his voice low, sharp with disbelief.

Jane rested her head on her palm, her expression mild but her eyes cool.

“Laws are laws,” she said with a faint smirk. “I didn’t write the line of succession, I’m merely educated enough to know how it works.”

She glanced toward Lorus, offering him a faint, pleased smile. But the mood had shifted. The air was tight with unease.

Trying to lighten it, Jane looked back at Richard with a breezy shrug. “Besides, you’re Duke of Britechester by birth. You sit atop one of the greatest castles in the realm. Surely that’s nothing to pout over.”

Richard didn’t respond. He looked away, clearly embarrassed, his jaw clenched.

Alvin abruptly blew up, slamming his hands on the table with such force that the silver shook.

“You’ve been making decisions behind my back!”

All conversation stopped. Heads turned. The hall fell silent as the prince’s voice echoed off the stone walls. His face was flushed, his hands trembling with rage.

“You and Richard have been running the court like it’s yours!” he spat, glaring at Jane. “You never told me about Lorus, you didn’t ask, you didn’t consult me, you just went and did it!”

Jane blinked, caught off guard by the volume, but quickly recovered. She remained seated, regal and calm, her voice cool.

“Your Grace…”

“I’m the prince, heir, and regent of this realm,” he snapped, his voice cracking with frustration. “You think just because the King is gone, you can make decisions like he would have? That you understand his will better than I do?”

Jane slowly turned to him, expression calm, voice smooth—but laced with venom.

“Your Grace,” she said, “if I waited for you to act, we'd still be sitting in silence. Someone had to lead.”

Alvin dragged his fingers through his hair, then pressed them hard against his temples.

“I never approved Lorus’s release!” he hissed. “And I remember what The King said. He wanted him locked away. He said it was final, Lorus was dangerous, reckless, a threat to the realm!”

Jane straightened ever so slightly, her expression hardening.

“I am your father’s sister,” she said, coldly now. “I advised him in council before you could even read a map. And I know when a decision was made from fear, not reason. Lorus was condemned for politics, not crimes.”

Alvin didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He stared blankly at the table before him, the flickering candlelight dancing against the gold trim of his sleeves.

By the spring of 1361, the frost had loosened its grip on the countryside, and life at the Brindleton farm had begun to stir with new warmth. Edward had been staying with the family for several weeks now, and in that time, he had grown genuinely close to them all, none more so than Elizabeth. She was a gentle soul, with eyes that listened and a heart that asked nothing in return. In her, Edward found a kindred spirit, someone who never pressed him for more than he was willing to give. Many days were spent in quiet conversation, sometimes late into the night, the fire crackling low as their words wove through the shadows.

But when the hour grew later and the house settled into silence, Jacquetta and Elizabeth would quietly make their way down into the cellar, moving with practiced steps. For it was there, beneath the modest home, that they kept a secret they had guarded for many years, the quiet, sacred practice of witchcraft.

Jacquetta had studied the old ways since her youth, not for power, but for healing. Her knowledge of herbs and roots, of teas and tinctures, was vast, and on occasion, she discreetly sold her remedies to those who knew and trusted her. When Elizabeth came of age, Jacquetta passed on all she had learned, and together they continued the practice, always hidden, always careful.

They both believed in the Watcher, but not in the harsh, rigid form the Jacoban faith demanded. Their worship was gentler, older-rooted in nature and balance. Yet such beliefs were considered heresy, even treason, by the Church and crown alike. And so, for the sake of their family, and their quiet lives, Jacquetta and Elizabeth had kept their truth buried deep—where only candlelight and whispers dared to find it.

One quiet night at Willowshire Castle, the halls echoed with silence. The Bagley family had dwelled there ever since Jane forced them from Windenburg Castle, and now the great hall felt more like a tomb than a home.

King Henry sat at the head of the long dining table, his face worn with grief. To his left sat Queen Philippa, eyes rimmed red with mourning, and to his right, his sister Cordelia, arms crossed, an untouched plate before her. They were all cloaked in black—not just for the memory of young Prince Harold, lost too soon, but for the cruel letter they had received that morning.

The seal of Windenburg had been broken at dawn. Its message was simple and brutal, if Edward did not return by the first day of summer, he would be declared legally dead. The crown would officially pass to Alvin.

Henry finally broke the silence, his voice low but steady. "Edward is not dead. He may be lost to us now, but he is not gone. That boy still draws breath, I feel it in my bones."

Cordelia’s eyes flashed, her jaw tightening as she hissed through her teeth. "They’re vultures, circling before the body’s cold. Jane never wanted him to return, this is her doing, he could still be out there, is she even looking?"

Philippa, her voice thin with sorrow, looked to Cordelia and spoke softly. "I pray your ending is not written as ours was. Losing a son… there is no crueler fate."

Cordelia’s anger ebbed as her gaze dropped to the table, her features softening into sorrow. She said nothing more, lost in quiet thought.

The golden sun bathed the white stone of Castillo Amarosa in warm light, but within its walls, sorrow hung heavy in the air. Inside the royal bedchamber, the grandeur of the Tartosan court was dimmed by the shadow of death.

Empress Mary lay in her bed, her breath shallow, surrounded by nobles, priests, and her grieving family. At her side stood her son, Emperor Fernando, his eyes fixed on her face. Beside him, his wife Empress Augusta tried to soothe their two young children, Infanta Isabella and Infante Alonzo, though Isabella’s soft weeping could still be heard.

Mary’s gaze found Fernando’s. Her voice was faint, yet filled with pride as she whispered, “You have ruled with strength and grace, my son. Your father would have been proud beyond words… as proud as I am now.”

It had been two years since the death of Emperor Alonzo. On the 3rd day of fall, 1359, Fernando had been crowned by the Jacoban Proxy himself, Augusta at his side. With Mary’s counsel, they had become beloved rulers, wise, just, and deeply respected by the Tartosan people.

That night, the soft knock at their chamber door was all it took to still their hearts. A servant entered, face pale, and quietly delivered the words they feared. Empress Mary had passed.

As the weeks went on, Edward slowly began to recover, but continued to keep his true identity to himself. The Brindleton family had welcomed him with open arms. All of them sat in the common room enjoying a meal, and sharing stories. John, the man who saved Edward, looked to him and asked. "You never did tell me, my lord—what were you doing out there alone? Noblemen don’t tend to wander into death’s grip without reason."

"A fair question, Master Brindleton." Edward responded. "The truth is, I was traveling with a small company when we were set upon by a bear, The beast never came close, but it was enough to send my mount into a frenzy. and I was separated from my men in the chaos, lost my horse, and—well, you know the rest."

Jacquetta, who had been silently listening as she set the last of the food on the table, finally spoke, her voice calm and measured, a small, knowing smile played at her lips before she finally spoke, her voice smooth and unhurried.

“Well now, my lord,” she mused, tilting her head ever so slightly. “Perhaps that bear was wiser than any of us give it credit for. It sent you running, but not into the hands of your enemies or into the grave. No, it set you on a path that led you here—to a warm fire, and a full plate.”

She let the words settle for a moment, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup before continuing. “Strange, isn’t it? How the things we fear most can sometimes guide us where we are meant to be.”

Edward lowered his gaze, Jacquetta’s words, though spoken in kindness, struck something deep within him, an unshakable guilt that had been lingering since the moment he first opened his eyes in this home.

These people had given him shelter, warmth, and trust, yet he had not offered them the same in return. He had concealed who he truly was, spun half-truths to keep himself hidden. And while he knew it was necessary—knew that revealing his identity could place them in danger, and that did not sit well with him.

As the grand hall of Windenburg Castle filled with the murmurs of gathered nobles, the heavy doors swung open, revealing the newly established figures of power. Prince Alvin, the boy-king, sat upon the throne, his small frame dwarfed by its grandeur. To his left stood Princess Jane, her expression composed yet triumphant, and in front of them both, Richard, Duke of Britechester, addressed the court.

"By order of the council and the laws of this realm, I, Richard, Duke of Britechester, have been named Lord Protector to Prince Alvin. Until he comes of age, I shall govern in his stead, ensuring the stability of Windenburg. In my absence, the regency shall pass to my mother, Princess Jane, who will act with full authority in matters of state."

A murmur spread through the court—some in agreement, others in unease.

Richard stepped back as Jane gave a graceful wave to the crowd, her expression composed. Then, in a final display of unity, the three moved forward together, standing before the court as one.

Night had fallen over Windenburg Castle, casting long shadows across the silent corridors. The air was cool, and the only sound within Queen Cordelia’s chambers was the soft crackle of the fire and the faint rustle of parchment as she turned a page in her book. She had remained mostly confined to these walls since her regency had been overthrown, finding solace in solitude.

The quiet was soon interrupted by the sound of her doors opening, followed by the shuffling of footsteps. Cordelia’s eyes lifted from the pages, her grip tightening on the book as she took in the sight before her. Lady Charlotte stood just beyond the threshold, her expression riddled with unease. Behind her, flanked by two guards, stood Princess Jane.

Lady Charlotte stepped forward hesitantly, her hands clasped in front of her, eyes full of regret. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I would not intrude if I had a choice.”

Cordelia set her book down with deliberate care before rising to her feet. Her sharp gaze flickered between Charlotte and the figures standing behind her. “Choice or not, you have delivered the message all the same. Now tell me—why have you brought her here?”

Before Charlotte could speak, Princess Jane stepped forward, her arms folded, an unbothered expression etched onto her face. “Because, dear sister, I am making an executive decision for you. You would be much better suited to Willowshire Castle at this time. I am having all of the Bagleys moved there tonight. And as for this chamber—well, I shall be taking it as my own.”

Cordelia’s expression darkened, her scowl deepening as her hands curled into fists at her sides. “You have always been an ambitious woman, Jane, but even for you, this is a pathetic display of desperation.”

Jane smirked, a quiet chuckle escaping her lips as she shook her head. “You’re making this far more difficult than it needs to be. But if you insist on resisting, I’ll just have to make this harder for you.” She lifted her hand and pointed at Cordelia. “Seize her.”

Cordelia’s breath hitched as the guards moved toward her without hesitation. Her shock was evident—were they truly obeying Jane over her? She stepped back, raising a hand in protest.

"Unhand me!" she spat, her voice filled with rage as the guards grabbed her arms. "This is treason!"

She fought against their grip as they pulled her toward the door, her voice rising with fury. "You won’t get away with this, Jane!"

Lady Charlotte let out a quiet sob, her hands trembling as she watched helplessly. Jane, meanwhile, stood unmoved, a smirk still tugging at her lips as Cordelia was dragged from her own chambers and into the night.

The snow fell relentlessly as the night stretched on, blanketing the land in an icy shroud. Inside his carriage, King Henry sat in silence, the weight of failure pressing against his chest like an iron chain. The road to Windenburg had never felt so long, nor had his heart ever felt so heavy. As the darkened path finally led him into the castle’s courtyard, his weary eyes caught sight of a scene that sent a fresh wave of fury coursing through his veins.

A carriage stood in the courtyard, its doors open, with servants hurriedly loading trunks onto the back. A cluster of guards stood in the cold, their grips firm on a figure being forcefully guided toward the carriage. Even through the dim light, Henry recognized her instantly—his sister, Cordelia.

His fury erupted like a storm. He slammed his fist against the carriage door, signaling his driver to halt, before stepping out into the bitter night.

"Unhand her at once!" he roared, his voice echoing through the courtyard. "She is the mother of the king, and this is no way to handle a woman of such prominence! Have you all lost your wits?"

At the sound of his voice, Cordelia turned, her face etched with sorrow and defeat. Snowflakes clung to her hair, and her hands trembled slightly as she stepped forward.

"Brother," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Jane has stripped me of my place here. She has taken my chamber, my regency—my authority. I am to be sent to Willowshire tonight. Your wife grandson have already been sent ahead. And Edward—" her voice faltered, her breath catching in her throat. "Edward is gone, Henry. No one knows where he is."

Henry’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with rage. He turned back to the guards, stepping toward them with unmistakable authority.

"Enough of this disgraceful display. I will take my sister to Willowshire myself. If I hear of any further force against her, I will see to it that the hands that wronged her never hold a sword again. Do I make myself clear?"

The guards hesitated for only a moment before loosening their grips. Cordelia wasted no time—she rushed forward, throwing herself into Henry’s arms. He held her tightly, feeling the raw anger trembling beneath her sorrow.

"That woman," Cordelia seethed, her voice dripping with fury. "She has humiliated me, cast me out like a common wretch! That smug, grasping—" she stopped herself, inhaling sharply as she steadied her breath.

Henry pulled back, resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "This is temporary, Cordelia. By the Watcher’s good grace, Edward will be returned to us, and this nightmare will come to an end. You must hold fast—our time will come."

As the carriage was prepared for departure, Cordelia took one last look at the castle she had once ruled. Her gaze drifted upward, toward the second-story window, where a familiar figure stood.

Cordelia’s lips curled into a sneer, her voice low and vengeful as she whispered under her breath, "Enjoy your stolen throne while you can, sister. For when the tide turns, I will see to it that you fall harder than I ever did."

Multiple countries have come together and agreed to form The Sims Nation Organization (TSNO). TSNO will be a counsel comprised of the leaders of the various nations who have joined and signed The Treaty of Lasting Peace. The peace treaty states that the nations who join will promote peace and good will amongst each other by sending all children age 16-21 to Britechester to attend Mallobury Boarding School. "The youth represent our future and they will be able to learn, connect, and grow during these formative years." The Great Scholars of Britechester, stated in a press conference, after agreeing to be the guardians and teachers to the next generation of royalty. TSNO was formed in an effort to promote relationships and create a safe place to express various nations concerns with each other.

The goal is to prevent what happened to Brindleton Bay from happening again. For any viewers who don't know, an ocean community, who were originally shippers from Evergreen Harbor, decided that they were tired of living in the poor conditions created by their governing nation Brindleton Bay. The shippers created a pirate community and planned a revolt. The revolt will forever be know as the Brindleton Bay Massacre. The pirates stormed the beaches of the bay under the cover of night and made their way to the noblemen's homes. Most noble men were killed and all women who swore loyalty to the pirates were spared along with their children. The leader of the pirate revolt, Vesh Bancroft "The Merciless", was victorious and dubbed "Pirate King of The Bay and Harbor".

My dear readers,

I must offer my apologies for my absence. Life has kept me occupied, but rest assured, the story has not been forgotten.

To make amends, I share with you the family trees of Windenburg and Bagley, taken from my main records. May they provide clarity as the story continues to unfold.

Thank you for your patience and support, more will come soon.