Terrible pain fills your body.
But you're not finished yet.
You pull yourself to your knees.
You lean forward and spit blood.
But more keeps flooding up into your throat.
Something vital was hit.
With this grim thought, you stand up and stagger forward, blade at the ready.
A rebel lunges for you.
You parry.
You slash.
He falls.
You turn on another man and plant your blade through his chest.
You take another strike to the back. And then another.
One hits you across the neck. The mail holds. You stand up.
A blow catches you on the side of your head. Your injured leg gives out.
You fall for the second time.
Blood floods into your punctured lungs.
You cough, but you can't clear away the fluid.
You begin to choke.
You cough again.
Blood dribbles from your dying lips.
You try to pull yourself onto your rear.
But you can't move.
I can't breathe.
Your body is as heavy as lead.
I can't breathe.
Blood floods up your throat, pooling in your mouth.
I can't breathe.
Your vision grows dark.
I can't breathe.
You're so tired.
I just want to sleep.
I just want to rest.
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May this realm see peace in the aftermath.
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-Six Years Later-
Rade has spent so much of his life at war.
Too much.
He regrets none of it.
Because today, he has finally won.
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The Stiedry queen was defeated right after the Marshal was slain. She was disposed of quickly. It was the same for the prince, King Sobik's son. He suffered an unfortunate "accident" shortly after reaching Wrido.
The risk they presented was simply too great. No other claimants can be alive to oppose him.
The problems came after.
Several other houses maintained loyalty to the Stiedry family and refused to recognize Rade's claim. They threatened secession, and another war broke out. Dozens of other small splinter factions broke off, all elevating separate claimants of varying legitimacy.
But today marks the day they are all put down.
Here, Rade sits, on King Sobik's old throne in the capital of Wrido. Two long banquet tables are set up in the middle of the room, where men and women feast. The only ones who eat here are the nobles who were loyal to Sobik, and those newly appointed to fill now… vacant positions.
His city. His people. Celebrating his victory.
The ghost of a smile spreads over the king's face.
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Rade stands up, and the room falls silent. He raises a goblet, preparing for a toast.
A cry of pain cuts him off. Rade throws the goblet down, his hands drifting for a sword, his eyes flicking to the massive doors of the entryway.
A guardsman stumbles through, hands clutched to his throat, blood spraying from the wound. He only manages to make it a few steps before his legs give out, and the guardsman crumples to the ground.
Screams erupt from the tables. Those with arms stand up and draw their weapons. Two guardsmen rush in front of the steps to Rade's throne and ready their spears.
Several push through the doors and flee.
Chaos seizes the hall.
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