The Weight of Sorrow
The city of Babylon lay shrouded in darkness, its towering walls and hanging gardens swallowed by smoke and shadow. Night should have brought silence and rest, yet the city groaned like a wounded beast. Fires burned unchecked in the lower districts, casting flickering orange light against stone streets slick with blood. Screams echoed from alleyways, mingling with the distant clang of steel and the low thunder of collapsing doors. Babylon, once the jewel of empires, now crouched beneath the iron fist of King Xerath, broken and bleeding.
Within the palace, chaos reigned.
The once-majestic throne room—where silk banners had danced in perfumed air and golden braziers had glowed through countless feasts—had been transformed into a slaughterhouse. Marble pillars were chipped and cracked, stained dark where bodies had fallen. Shattered shields lay scattered across the floor, trampled beneath boot and blade. The great lion statues that guarded the throne stood silent witness, their carved eyes forever staring upon the carnage they could not prevent.
Xerath's elite guards, men sworn to die before allowing harm to their king, now lay dead or broken. Some had surrendered, dropping their weapons and fleeing in terror. Others had chosen death, meeting it with hollow eyes and trembling hands. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and burning oil, so heavy it clung to the lungs with every breath. Even as the fighting faded, the echo of clashing steel lingered in the hall, as though the stones themselves remembered violence.
At the center of it all stood Logan.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, his armor dented and scarred, his dark cloak torn and soaked through. Blood—too much blood—slicked the blade in his hand, dripping steadily onto the marble floor. He did not bother to wipe it away. His grip was firm, but his hands trembled ever so slightly, not from exhaustion, but from memory.
Logan had once been a boy with bright eyes and an unbroken smile. War had taken that from him long ago.
Now his eyes were cold steel, haunted and distant, as though they gazed not upon the fallen king before him, but upon a thousand ghosts that followed him everywhere. Each life he had taken weighed upon him, stacking one sorrow upon another until his soul felt heavier than any armor.
At his feet lay King Xerath.
The tyrant's crown had rolled away during the final blow, resting crooked beside his lifeless hand. His eyes were open, frozen in shock and disbelief, his mouth twisted as if trying to speak words that would never come. Xerath, the butcher of villages, the breaker of children, the king who had ruled through fear and cruelty, was finally dead.
For a brief, fragile moment, Logan felt something loosen within his chest.
The screams of his past—the night his village burned, the sound of his mother's final cry, the lifeless eyes of his father staring skyward—seemed to fade. The rage that had driven him for decades dulled, replaced by a hollow stillness. He had sworn an oath over the ashes of his home that Xerath would fall by his hand.
That oath was fulfilled.
Logan closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Victory, however, tasted bitter. Xerath's death did not bring back the dead, nor did it erase the years stolen by war. It did not cleanse the blood on Logan's hands or the shadows that clung to his soul.
And peace, it seemed, was not yet earned.
Soft applause echoed through the ruined throne room.
Logan's eyes snapped open.
From the far end of the hall, beyond the fallen bodies and broken banners, a figure stepped forward, his boots clicking against the marble with deliberate calm. Lord Arcturus emerged from the shadows, his dark robes unmarked, his silver hair neatly tied back as though the palace had not just burned around him.
Once, Arcturus had been Xerath's most trusted advisor—a man known for his sharp intellect and honeyed words. He had counseled restraint when others urged cruelty, earning the loyalty of nobles and servants alike. To many, he appeared reasonable, even kind.
Logan had never trusted him.
"Remarkable," Arcturus said smoothly, his hands clasped behind his back. "Truly remarkable. The great Logan, the Orphan of War, standing triumphant at last."
Logan turned slowly to face him, blade still raised. "If you value your life, leave now."
Arcturus smiled faintly. "You mistake me for a fool. I know better than to cross blades with a legend."
Around them, palace servants crept from hiding, drawn by the promise of survival. Noblemen peeked from shattered doorways, whispering among themselves. Arcturus raised his voice just enough for them to hear.
"Babylon is free," he proclaimed. "The tyrant is dead. And now, the city must be guided toward order."
His words spread like fire.
Before Logan could speak, Arcturus continued, weaving his trap with practiced ease. He spoke of stability, of preventing chaos, of protecting the people from further bloodshed. He named himself the only one capable of holding the fractured kingdom together. Guards who had surrendered moments earlier found renewed purpose in his certainty. Nobles, desperate to preserve their wealth and power, eagerly pledged support.
Logan watched as allegiance shifted before his eyes.
He realized then that the battle he had fought was only the beginning.
By dawn, Lord Arcturus sat upon the throne.
The palace staff bowed. The nobles knelt. Proclamations were issued declaring Arcturus the lawful ruler of Babylon, chosen by necessity and blessed by fate. Those who questioned the legitimacy of his claim were quietly removed before the sun fully rose.
Logan stood at the palace balcony, overlooking the city as light slowly crept across the rooftops. Smoke still curled upward, but beneath it, life continued. Merchants reopened stalls. Mothers gathered children close. The people did not cheer. They merely endured.
A new ruler, born of old lies.
Logan felt the familiar weight settle upon his shoulders once more.
Babylon did not need another tyrant dressed in gentler words. Arcturus's rule would be no different—only quieter, more insidious. Where Xerath had ruled through open terror, Arcturus would rule through manipulation and betrayal.
The city needed more than a king.
It needed a guardian.
As the wind tugged at his cloak, Logan knew his path was set. He could walk away, let Babylon rot beneath another crown, and seek solitude from endless war. But the faces of the helpless rose unbidden in his mind—the children hiding in rubble, the widows mourning husbands, the countless souls crushed beneath ambition.
He had been an orphan once.
He would not allow Babylon to become one.
Logan sheathed his blade and turned from the throne room, his steps heavy but resolute. His war was far from over. The enemy had merely changed its face.
And somewhere within the vast, wounded city, hope waited—fragile, trembling, but alive.