The throne room was a skeleton of its former glory.
Rain slashed through the broken stained glass windows, painting fractured colors across the marble floor, now cracked and soaked in blood. Pillars that had once stood tall—etched with the stories of kings—were scorched and split, sagging beneath the weight of the war they'd witnessed. The royal banners, once symbols of hope and unity, hung in torn remnants, flapping limply in the wind like forgotten prayers.
At the base of the throne, King Allen knelt.
His armor was fractured at the ribs, blackened from fire, and slick with blood—his own. One gauntlet was missing. The other clung to his hand, fingers curled against the cold stone as if holding on to the last thread of purpose. The crimson cloak wrapped around him was more rag than robe, soaked and heavy. The crown still rested on his head—tilted, cracked—but it no longer carried weight. Not the kind that mattered.
In front of him, sword in hand, stood Simon.
Not a rebel commander. Not a foreign assassin. Not an enemy at all.
Simon—the boy Allen had raised as his own. His ward. His heir in all but blood. The one he'd once sworn to protect above all else.
Simon's boots echoed in the hall as he stepped forward, rain dripping from his blade. His face was unreadable, soaked through, but his eyes—sharp, steady—held something new.
Resolve.
Allen looked up at him through swollen eyes and forced breath. "What the hell are you doing, Simon?" His voice cracked between disbelief and agony. "It hurts… gods, it hurts. I gave you everything. I made you my son."
Simon didn't flinch. His jaw tensed, rain clinging to his lashes.
"You did," he said. "And I never forgot. That's exactly why this hurts so much."
Allen reached weakly for the throne behind him. Not for support—he was past that—but as if the cold stone might remind him of who he used to be.
"Why?" he asked, barely above a whisper. "Why are you doing this to me?"
Simon let out a slow breath, like he'd rehearsed the words a hundred times and hated every one.
"Because I love you," he said. "And I can't keep watching you destroy everything we once stood for."
Allen's eyes darkened. "Destroy?" he rasped. "I held this kingdom together when the world turned its back. You think I chose war? I chose survival."
"You chose fear," Simon replied, his tone quiet but unwavering. "You met every question with fire. Every doubt with a blade. You stopped listening to your people. You stopped listening to me."
Allen coughed, his body folding inward. Blood painted the floor. "Every time I listened, someone died. Do you think I don't carry that? You think I sleep at night?"
Simon said nothing.
Allen forced himself upright—barely. His voice came softer now, more human than king. "I did what I had to. You can hate me for it. You can kill me for it. But don't lie to yourself and say it wasn't necessary."
"I'm not trying to rewrite the past," Simon said. "I'm trying to stop the future you're dragging us toward."
Allen's gaze dropped to his hands. Bloodied. Shaking. The hands that once held this kingdom together—now stained with everything he'd sacrificed to do it.
"You were my hero," Simon said. His voice cracked, despite himself. "You taught me how to believe. How to lead. You showed me what it meant to protect something bigger than yourself."
Allen looked up. Their eyes met.
"And now?" the king asked.
"Now," Simon said, "I see a shadow."
The silence that followed was heavier than the storm outside. Allen's breath caught—not from the wound, but from the ache that settled in his chest. The ache of recognition.
"I shut you out," he whispered. "Because I couldn't lose you, too. You were the last piece of family I had left."
Simon's grip on the hilt faltered. Just for a moment. The rain masked the tears, but not the tremble.
"Then why become the very thing you swore you'd never be?" he asked.
Allen didn't answer immediately. He stared at the crimson pool spreading beneath him. At the crown—once polished gold, now darkened with soot. At the throne behind him. Empty. Cold.
"Peace built on promises crumbles," Allen said at last. "Peace built on strength endures. Or so I believed."
"And what endures now?" Simon asked. "Fear? Hatred? A kingdom too afraid to speak?"
Allen didn't respond. He didn't need to.
Simon stepped closer, boots splashing through blood and rainwater. His sword hovered slightly between them—not quite lowered, but not yet raised.
Allen looked up again. This time, there was no command in his eyes. No fire. Just a weariness that came from decades of fighting wars no one else had dared to face.
"If you truly believe I've become a monster," he said, "then finish it. But don't pretend it's justice. It's not. It's mercy. Maybe even love—twisted, yes—but love all the same."
Simon hesitated.
"I don't want to do this," he said, voice barely audible. "But I can't let you keep tearing us apart. The people are afraid, Allen. They don't see a protector anymore. They see a tyrant."
Allen let out a breath that sounded like a laugh—bitter, hollow.
"I became the villain to keep them safe. Funny, isn't it?" His mouth curled into something that might've been a smile. "In trying to save everyone… I lost everything."
Simon sank to one knee, sword still in hand, blade pointed downward now.
"You didn't lose me," he said.
Allen blinked. The faintest flicker of hope sparked behind the pain. "Didn't I?"
Simon said nothing.
Only the sound of rain answered.
Allen bowed his head. Not in defeat. Not quite. More like surrender. The quiet kind.
"I wish there was another way," Simon whispered.
"So do I," Allen replied. "But if this is how it ends… I'd rather it be you."
There was no anger in his voice. No pride. Just quiet acceptance.
Simon leaned forward, his forehead resting against Allen's. A final moment, shared in silence.
"I'm sorry," he breathed.
"I know," Allen said. "Just… remember me as I was. Not what I became."
Simon closed his eyes.
And then, slowly, he stood.
He raised the sword.
Hesitated.
The breath that followed stretched into eternity.
And then—
Steel met flesh.
The sound was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of sound that should echo for lifetimes—but didn't.
Allen collapsed forward, lifeless.
The crown fell with a dull clang, rolling to a stop beside his body.
Simon stood motionless, staring down at the man who had been his king. His mentor. His family.
And now, his burden.
Behind him, the doors to the throne room groaned on rusted hinges. Footsteps echoed. Shouts in the distance. The revolution hadn't stopped. The fires hadn't died.
But the king was dead.
And the boy who killed him had no idea what came next.