The throne room was cold despite the burning torches that lined the walls. Shadows danced across the stone pillars, stretching and twisting as if recoiling from the stench of blood that lingered from the morning's executions. Chains clinked softly as the traitors knelt before the black throne; six men, bound and trembling, their heads bowed so low their foreheads touched the bloodstained floor.
Armin sat high above them, his crown resting heavily upon his pale brow. His eyes, sharp and colourless, moved across the men without expression. He could smell their fear. It clung to the air, thick and sour, more suffocating than the smoke from the torches.
One of the men raised his head, face streaked with tears and grime, "Mercy, my king," he gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of desperation, "Please… I beg you, mercy. For the years I served your father, for the blood I shed in his name."
The words hung in the air, trembling.
Armin said nothing. His hand rested upon the arm of his throne, fingers tapping softly against the cold stone. He looked down at the man, and for a brief moment, the memory of his father surfaced; a voice deep and patient, echoing from a time long gone, 'Mercy to your subjects, Armin, is strength. Mercy to your enemies, wisdom. But mercy to traitors… that is weakness. And a weak king invites ruin.'
He drew in a slow breath, his gaze unfocused, the firelight reflected in his pale eyes. The memory twisted within him, sharp and heavy.
'Must a man kill his weakness to lead others?' he thought.
The question bit into his mind like the edge of a blade, colder than the air around him. It lingered there, fragile yet undeniable, as the cries of the traitors filled the hall.
Armin rose from his throne with a quiet, deliberate grace. The chain-bound men fell silent. He stepped down from the dais, his boots leaving faint red prints upon the stone. When he stopped before them, the guards on either side waited for his word.
He looked at the traitors; faces once known to him, men who had shared his table, his victories, his father's trust. Now, they were nothing more than hollow shells of regret.
His hand lifted.
The executioners moved in perfect silence. The flash of steel cut through the dim light, followed by the dull, final thuds that echoed like slow heartbeats. Blood spread across the floor in thin streams, curling around the boots of the guards and the hem of Armin's cloak.
When it was done, he stood motionless. The torches hissed, the air thick with iron and smoke.
Armin's gaze drifted toward the floor, toward the bodies that once called him brother, ally, friend. His father's words still echoed faintly in his mind; strength, wisdom, weakness, the three faces of a ruler, all blurred together now beneath the weight of silence.
He sighed quietly, the sound lost in the vastness of the chamber. For all his power, he felt small in that moment; a young king standing over the corpses of his own people, trying to understand what it meant to lead.
Then, without another word, he turned and ascended the steps to his throne. His crown caught the light once more, its cold gleam casting a pale halo over his features as he sat back down; eyes distant, heart heavy, and the question still lingering in the hollow quiet of his mind.
…
James sighed in relief at the Collective Energy that was, after so long, finally entering his body at a rapid speed.
'Huh… is this how rich people felt in back in the States? No wonder they said, money came and went like water… what at unusual feeling…' James lampooned at the surreal feeling of the current situation.
Then he spread 99% of the Collective Energy he had just gained across all the various kingdoms and tribes, keeping the remaining 1% for his own use to contact those of his race. This way, within a century, the population would rapidly reach 500,000 as long as Armin kept on his war path.
Word Count: 692 words