Warning: Slightly romantic content, only time I'll ever write that sort of thing. Please review!
Zephiel pored over the pages of his book on the Scouring. Since his father had tried to assassinate him, he felt he had to study hard to earn the king's love and respect. Those two things he had gained from everyone else, but had never cared about their comments due to his father's indifference, construed by some to even reach the point where it could be called hatred. He recalled what Nino, his "kindred spirit" of sorts, had told him seven years before.
"Your father the king hired Jaffar and I to assassinate you, Prince Zephiel. But, I just can't. Not being accepted by a parent is a hard thing. Just remember that they can't really hate you, there's no way they could actually do that." Is what she had said at that time. Zephiel wished that she were here so that they could talk. She really understood what had happened more than even Murdock, and more than anyone Nino was the reason he was still alive. Her mother, Sonia of the Black Fang, had told her to kill him to earn her love and acceptance, but Nino had instead chosen to save the young prince's life upon hearing a prayer of his to be accepted by King Desmond. She even went so far as to offer that the assassin working with her should take her life instead of Zephiel's. Who else could Zephiel talk to who could understand? Not Murdock, for out of duty to Bern even he would report every word to Desmond. Not fifteen-year-old Guinevere, he couldn't bear to put that kind of burden on her. And Queen Hellene was dead, of a mysterious assassination. Yes, only Nino could he share his problem with. But Zephiel didn't even know if Nino was alive, let alone where she was at the time. Yes, the one person who Zephiel could talk to, the person who related perfectly to him, could very well have been dead. With that thought, Zephiel soon needed a new history book about the Scouring.
It was now Zephiel's 30th birthday, 17 years after that fateful night. He had never forgotten Nino Reed, and never intended to. His troubles, from what he could tell, were over. King Desmond had invited him to a feast in Zephiel's honour. He felt a rush of happiness to sit at a table beside his father as he had never done before. A servant brought a glass of wine for him, and he thought he saw a glint of a grin on his father's features. Pushing any doubt aside, Zephiel took a drink from the cup.
The feast was great fun. Guinevere loved hearing all about Zephiel's studies and training, even though she at that point was twenty-two years old and had her hands full with her own. Barons and the like all approached him and showered praise on his swordsmanship prowess. Even his aunt Louise of Reglay had come to visit, which she hadn't done since Queen Hellene's funeral nine years before. Aunt Louise had been there too when the assassins had come seventeen years ago. She had at one point during the party taken Zephiel aside and asked whether there had been any more attempts to take his life. Zephiel had said no, of course, but that changed all too soon.
After a most enjoyable evening, Zephiel went to his chambers and an attack of coughing came on. On his bed where he had coughed there were stains of blood and something else. Poison? Zephiel thought to himself as he hacked up another round of the noxious stuff. He quickly called for Murdock to bring a healer. When the healer came, most of the colour had drained from Zephiel's face and he was half dead from loss of blood. Though the healer's magic cured the poison, Zephiel convinced him not to fix the blood loss. He had other plans.
"Murdock, come here," Zephiel coughed after the healer had left. He then proceeded to whisper his plan into his loyal guard's ear. The prince allowed himself to collapse from the loss of half his body's blood, and Murdock called the king to say that the prince was dead.
The next day, Desmond was examining Zephiel's peaceful body. He looked asleep, not dead. His hand looked too comfortable clasped around the hilt of the sword with which all Bern royals were buried. Zephiel sat bolt upright and, without hesitation, drove his sword through the king's heart. He then got out of the coffin and took the king's crown and placed it on his own head. Thus did the "Dark Star" of Athos' prophecy rise in Bern.