Far away, that old emperor stands drenched in the blood of his sons. The skies are silent now, the wind no longer stirring. The earth that had hummed and thumped with a promise of power to come, a taste that he has almost forgotten, that earth has gone back to its slumber.
Rivulets of blood ran the length of cold marble beneath his feet, seeped into the thick carpets that muffled feet on the aisle. The weapon clutched in his hand dripped with it. It was a peculiar weapon; a cross between a sword and a whip, long enough to cut the distance between him and any enemy in an instant and sharp enough to cut to the bone in a single thrash.
Those princes with weak constitutions, cuddled and indulged into decadent practices, blunted with greed and false self worth; none of them would have stood a chance. And they had infuriated him.
Failure always did.
