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The King is Dead

Once upon a time, there was a King.

Clever and kind, a man of justice and truth, this golden man led a peaceful life, in a peaceful kingdom. He was renowned as a perfect ruler, lands and people cared for beyond traditional measure.

However, despite his gentle and forgiving nature, he was not without enemies.

But his was not an army of darkness, or vengeful gods like in most tales, his was one man. Just one, that hated the King and wished for nothing less than the rulers downfall. So the man wove stories filled with blood and horror with his silver tongue, he twisted the King’s image, turning this bright, caring mountain of a man, into a façade that hid a devious murderer.

Soon, even those most loyal, those who had served for many years, who proclaimed to love the King, were swayed by the mans lies. Soon they too joined the screaming and shouting mass, scorching voices pushing past once gleaming stone walls;

“Off with the King’s head!”

“He lied to us!”

“Kill the King!”

And the King, already so sad and troubled by the recent loss of his wife, was worn down by his subjects hateful words. He gave in to the darkness surging upon his kingdom, infecting the people he had sworn to protect and govern with kindness.

Alone and broken he sat upon his throne, one pale calloused hand resting amidst the dust covered chair his wife once occupied, waiting in the dark for the sweet release of death. For he had promised to give everything to his people, and he, above all else, was a man of his word.

And there, under the silver moon, the man who had brought this terrible chaos and ruin to this kingdom, stood before the King, and demanded the crown.

“No.” Said the King, his once deep booming voice barely a whisper.

The man frowned, snarling like an animal he spat more curses and lies.

“Perhaps you are right,” said the King. “But neither are you.”

For the first time, the King was angry.

“You would lie to my people, hurt and twist them into darkened hollow versions of themselves. I care not what becomes of me, my life belongs to the people, and if they wish to end it.. who am I to stand in their way. But you,” The King hissed, stepping down, boots falling heavily upon the stone steps. “You hurt my people in ways that will take ages for them to recover. You filled them with poisoned words and empty promises. I care not that I am the one they turned against, but you tore away their peace.” The King snarled.

That, I cannot forgive, sir.”

Rage simmered beneath sun-kissed skin, soft eyes turned to ice, glowing like hellfire. The golden King looked like a vengeful god in those moments, and the liar, for the first time, was afraid.

The door had been locked, and the King was armed; golden sword gleaming in the dim light.

The man drew a breath, eyes wide as the sword arced through the air. There was a spray of crimson, and a thud as a body fell to the floor.


Just as the sun was rising, the people of the kingdom burst through the halls large doors, only to freeze in their tracks.

Before them, alit by the first embers of light, lay the King.

The red painted across the floor mockingly guided their gazes across the corpse of their ruler, over the stained golden sword, and finally, to the silver-tongued man. Whom sat, on his knees, eyes wide in horror, mouth agape, with blood splattered across his cheek.

The man uttered no sound as he was bound and sent to be hung for his crimes. He had nothing to say. What was there to say? He had lost to a dead man.

The people cursed and wept, laying their beloved King to rest with the care he deserved. Trying in vain to give what they had failed in life.

Like the King predicted, those events raged like a storm in the peoples hearts, and broken, the people dispersed, leaving the Kingdom to fall into ruin and myth, but legends as they say, live forever.

Long live the King.


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