The king watched from his balcony as the city burned. Flames licked the sky, turning it the color of rusted iron. Screams rose from the streets, blending with the clash of steel and the dying wails of his soldiers. He exhaled, slow and measured. This was not how it was supposed to be.
A boot scraped the marble behind him. He turned. The captain of his guard stood there, blood staining his breastplate, his face gaunt. „They’ve breached the gates, my lord. We must go.“
The king shook his head. „Go where? The wolves are at our throats. There is no running.“
The captain hesitated. „You could surrender.“
A laugh—sharp, bitter. „To them? To the ones who swore fealty only to betray me? To the ones who would wear my crown and piss on my throne? No.“
A roar from below. The main doors shattered. Heavy boots on stone. The end was here.
The captain drew his sword, but the king raised a hand. „Leave me. You fought well. Live if you can.“
The captain hesitated, then nodded, slipping into the shadows.
The king turned back to the flames. He felt no fear. Only the slow, creeping weight of inevitability. He had ruled with iron, crushed dissent beneath his heel. Now, the same iron would encase his tomb.
The doors burst open. A dozen swords gleamed in the firelight. He smiled.
„Come then,“ he whispered. „Let’s end it.“
