They called me the Scourge of the Seven Realms. The Black Emperor. The man who'd conquered half the world before his thirtieth birthday.
None of those titles mattered now, as I lay dying on the blood-soaked marble of my throne room.
"Any last words, Damien?" High Priestess Celeste stood over me, her blade—my own sword, stolen during the battle—still dripping with my blood. Behind her, the leaders of the rebellion watched with hungry eyes, eager to see the tyrant fall.
I wanted to laugh. After everything I'd done, all the kingdoms I'd conquered, all the battles I'd won, I was being killed by the woman I'd once loved. The woman I'd trusted above all others.
"You won't win," I managed, blood bubbling from my lips. "The demons... they'll come regardless. You've doomed everyone."
"Better the demons than you," she spat.
The irony was bitter. I'd conquered the world to unite it, to prepare for the demonic invasion my visions had shown me. But fear and propaganda had turned me into a monster in their eyes. They couldn't see that everything I'd done was to save them.
"So be it," I whispered. "May you live long enough to see your mistake."
Celeste raised the blade for the final strike. "Goodbye, Damien."
The sword fell. Darkness swallowed me.
And then...