It was a time of change, a time when the winds of destiny blew through the ancient halls of the palace. The king was dying, and with him, an era was coming to an end. The once-majestic palace, with its pagoda-style spires reaching towards the heavens, now stood as a symbol of a fading regime. But as the sun rose over the horizon, a new dawn was about to break, bringing with it a promise of hope and renewal.

"The land itself seemed to hold its breath as the king's life hung in the balance. The gentle breeze that usually carried the fragrance of roses was now heavy with anticipation, and the joyful melodies of birds and horses had given way to a tense silence. The palace, once a hub of activity, was now shrouded in a suffocating stillness, as if time itself had paused to witness the inevitable.

"As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the kingdom stirred from its slumber, but the mood was somber. Whispers of the king's declining health traveled like a plague through the corridors, and the people huddled together in groups, their faces etched with worry and grief. The fate of the kingdom hung in the balance, and all eyes were on the royal palace, where the king lay on his deathbed, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"The night fell, and with it came a sense of foreboding. The palace was cast in a veil of darkness, broken only by the flickering of the dying caved transparent candle light wax in the wall.

 In the royal chambers, the king breathed his last, and with a final, rattling exhale, his soul slipped from his body. The kingdom mourned, but even in their grief, they knew that a new era was about to begin.

 The dawn broke, and with it came a sense of possibility, a hope that the future would bring a better tomorrow. 

The kingdom of Blackthorn was abuzz with mixed emotions as the shocking news of King Blackthorn Dave's passing spread like wildfire. From the bustling northern trading region to the serene southern ports, people whispered and grumbled among themselves, grappling with the reality of their beloved monarch's sudden and unexpected demise.

Tears cascaded down the faces of Samuel, the late king's only heir, and the Queen Dowager, casting a somber pall over the kingdom's collective grief. The once bright and cheerful palace halls had fallen silent, the weight of their loss weighing heavy on the hearts of all those who had gathered to pay their respects.

A procession of palace workers, their families, a powerful priest, and esteemed invitees made their way towards the ancient mansion where the wake was to be held. They emerged from the large underground hut, their footsteps echoing off the concreted steps as they followed the Queen Dowager and Samuel through the grand corridor. Tall, separated concreted pillars stood sentinel, guiding them towards the towering Pagoda structure that lay ahead.

As they neared the ancient mansion, the chief and his family bowed in respect as the Queen Dowager and Samuel led the way through the two doorways that opened into the sitting room. The chief priest followed close behind, his presence offering a sense of solace and hope for the uncertain future that lay ahead.

While many mourned the king's passing, others quietly rejoiced, believing that the late king's strict commands had sealed his fate. But the kingdom was divided in its feelings, with some lamenting the loss of their leader while others wondered what the future held for their beloved Blackthorn.

The palace gates swung open, and the guard, his armor glinting in the sun, emerged with the priest in tow. The priest, dressed in a white robe, bore the symbol of the cross of Jesus on his chest. His whitish complexion and round face, framed by a mask cap, were a testament to the Christian priest's dress code.

As they made their way towards their destination, the hushed whispers of the villagers echoed through the air. The news of King Dave's passing had sent shock-waves through the kingdom, and many villagers discussed the late king's legacy with mixed emotions.

Suddenly, a short bald man broke the silence, declaring, "The wicked king is dead at last!" His words hung in the air, heavy with bitterness. But before the villagers could react, a stranger emerged from the crowd, a fire burning in her eyes.

 "You insolent civilian!" she reprimanded, her voice ringing with indignation. "How dare you speak ill of the late king?"

The short man, incensed by the young girl's interruption, lunged towards her. But before his hand could connect with her face, he found himself face to face with a towering figure. It was one of the late king's personal guards, his eyes blazing with anger.

The guard held the short man in his grip, the force of his stare enough to silence the man's protests. "I'm sorry, sir," the man stuttered, his bravado evaporating in the face of the guard's fury. The guard, his duty to protect the priest taking precedence, released the man and resumed his escort.

The short man, trembling with fear, fled the scene, his footsteps echoing through the narrow streets of the village. The guard, his gaze never leaving the priest's side, guided him through the crowd, a silent reminder of the late king's enduring presence in the hearts of his people.

The morning sun streamed through the windows of the Royal Palace, illuminating the empty halls that Samuel now called home. The silence was heavy, punctuated only by the soft rustle of Samuel's movements as he rose from his bed. 

The weight of his father's absence hung over him like a shroud, a constant reminder of the responsibilities that now rested on his shoulders.

As Samuel approached the mirror, his reflection stared back at him, a reflection of the man he had become and the legacy he had inherited. The dark complexion, the white beard, the long face, all mirrored his father's features, a constant reminder of the man who had shaped him. His white hair, styled in an afro, and his white eyes, glistening with unshed tears, added a depth to his countenance that belied his thirty years.

As Samuel held his face, memories of his father's slap.......