In the throne room, silence hovered. The royal guards had fled hours ago. Only the Sun King and his loyal Soldier, who in a better time had been named the Marshal of the West, remained. The Sun King sat upon his dark wooden throne, head turned upward and to the side, glaring over the ruins of his kingdom from the high window. In truth, he could see little out of the ordinary; from his vantage point, the window only showed the cloud-speckled sky and the highest rooftops.

The Soldier knelt below the dais, two paces left of the center, in his customary spot. A red cloak hung drenched and heavy about his shoulders, and a bloody sword lay at his feet. His once-golden armor was covered in dark splotches. Dozens of bodies littered the floor around him, fellow countrymen and royal guards whom the Soldier had once trusted, all rightly executed for either rebellion or cowardice. An empty space remained to his right: a wound, gaping like the evidence of the betrayal it was. The Soldier could not bear to look at it, to think of who should be standing there. The familiar faces now lifeless on the floor were reminder enough.

“Please reconsider. You must flee,” the Soldier said.

The Sun King remained still as stone, face upturned to the morning light, disappointment etched in every feature. Unfazed by the corpses piled throughout the hall, the very notion of popular dissatisfaction with his leadership seemed a grave insult. In pride, he would not retreat; to back down would be to admit wrongdoing, and the only wrong committed here was that of the peasants who dared question his supreme vision.

The door burst open again. The Soldier regained his feet in a flash, sword in hand. Six people poured into the throne room, each wielding long sticks with ordinary knives tied to the ends. The Soldier recognized every face. The mob leader, a butcher who had run a shop two blocks away from the Soldier’s house, pointed a cleaver-on-a-stick at the throne.

“Slay the Warmonger! Slay the Sun Deceiver!”

The other rebels took up the chant, and the Soldier’s eyes narrowed in rage. How dare these common rebels speak the name of the Sun King with such sacrilege? The Soldier lunged, bisecting the pitiful excuse for a weapon. The next strike severed the mob leader’s head from his body. The next four rebels perished with equal speed; bakers and cooks were hardly suited for combat, regardless of how sharp their knives might be. The Soldier had just pinned the last rebel under his foot, raising his sword to execute the tea-shop waitress, when the door swung again.

Into the room stepped the once-Marshal of the East, now turned Traitor alongside the rest of the rebels. His black armor was glossy as ever, his forest-green cloak vivid and unstained. Righteousness shone high and proud in his clear gaze. Ten others in military uniform followed after him. The Traitor stopped when he saw the carnage around the Soldier’s feet. The last survivor raised a pleading hand to the Traitor.

“Stop this madness, brother! Let that poor woman go, and do not hinder our justice further. Our only quarrel is with the Sun Deceiver’s reign.”

A footstep sounded behind the Soldier, and the Sun King himself rose from the throne.

“Marshal of the East! I take you in, bestow upon you the highest honors, and you scheme to take my crown by force. How dare you show your face here,” the Sun King shouted, pointing his finger at the Traitor.

The Soldier glared at the Traitor and each of his lackeys in turn. He knew every rebel’s face from the market, the barracks, the streets beside his house. They had made their choice to stand on the losing side. None could leave this room alive.

“You call me brother, yet you speak the words of an enemy to the Crown. There is only one reward for treason,” the Soldier said, and his sword sliced through the waitress’s neck, sundering head from body. Her lifeless form sprawled on the cold stone floor beside her farm scythe.

“Mother,” one member of the Traitor’s posse screamed.

The whole group of followers charged as one. The Soldier met them head-on. The rebels’ fighting skills were impressive, and their formation showed hints of military training in coordinated attacks. Ten-against-one, the rebels might have defeated a lesser guard, but not the Soldier. Even with his supply of pyrotechnics long since exhausted, desperation lent him strength. The rebels could not be allowed to reach the Sun King.

One rebel fell as steel rained against the Soldier’s bloodstained armor; he impaled another with a third’s spear, kicking out the feet from a fourth and breaking a fifth’s jaw with a solid punch. Minor cuts accumulated through gaps in the Soldier’s armor, but he was beyond pain. His sword cut armor and flesh as easily as cloth, and soon all ten lay indisposed or dead.

The Soldier turned back to the Sun King, ready to plead once more for a tactical retreat. However, the Sun King was not alone. During the fight, the Traitor had somehow snuck past the Soldier’s guard. Now, the Traitor stood in front of the throne, twisting the Sun King’s arm behind his back as a short black sword hovered by the Sun King’s throat. Rage filled the Sun King’s face.

“Honorless traitor! Faithless ingrate!” The Sun King shouted curses as he tried to break out of the Traitor’s hold, but he was frail and mortal against strength that had but one equal.

The Soldier stopped in his tracks, lowering his own weapon. His gaze flicked between the one he called King and the one he had called brother. Was it too much to ask that both survived this day? For the first time in decades, the Soldier lowered himself to pleading.

“Drop this matter, I implore you. Forgive his crimes. He is not our enemy; he is only confused. Let him go, and there need be no further conflict,” the Soldier said to his King.

“Save your pleas, brother,” said the Traitor. His sword hovered dangerously close to the Sun King’s throat. “Yield the throne, and the Sun Deceiver need not be harmed.”

The Soldier sank to his knees in supplication. “Please, let this madness end—”

“Never yield; let no traitor live,” the Sun King decreed.

The Traitor then understood that the Sun King could not be reasoned with. His sword moved left two inches, cleanly slicing into an unprotected neck. The Sun King shuddered and sagged against the Traitor’s grasp, blood streaming from the fresh wound.

Dropping the defeated leader of a past regime, the Traitor flicked his sword. Blood spattered across the ground, splashing on the Sun King’s royal silver robes. Clean black steel shimmered, devoid of even a hint of the life that the sword had just claimed. The Traitor held it aside and extended a gloved hand to the Soldier.

“Peace, brother. With his death, you are free from this tyrant’s commands. I have no quarrel with you; only the Sun Deceiver’s reign had to end. His mind was gone, and his principles with it. This man is not the visionary you once wished to serve.”

“Free?” the Soldier repeated, emptiness in his voice. A sword dropped from his hand to the floor. The clatter of metal on stone echoed through the lifeless halls of the palace.

Behind the Traitor, the Sun King clutched his damaged throat. His mouth moved, but fluid bubbled forth instead of sound. Each fading gasp marked the dissolution of his dreams, each pulse of weakened heart a loss of the vision that one alone had dared to speak when all others remained silent and content.

“You are right, brother. You were always right,” the Soldier conceded, regaining his feet. Hands empty, he slowly approached the Traitor whom he had once held as an equal, a singular like mind in all the world, a worthy opponent. The Traitor smiled in welcome, sensing the Soldier’s resolution. As the Sun King gasped soft breaths against the stone floor, the Soldier stepped over the dying leader, approaching the Traitor.

“You always walked the righteous path, even when it went against your orders. I have always admired this in you.” The Soldier clasped the Traitor’s arm, gazing deep into green eyes in an identical face. Long ago, before this very throne, clasping hands in brotherhood rekindled, they had pledged themselves to Crown and Country—but there was no point in wishing now for what could nevermore be. “I have my orders.”

Ten inches of steel plunged through the Traitor’s heart, slicing armor and bone effortlessly. Gasping, staggering back, the Traitor swung his sword. His counterattack was too slow. The Soldier caught the Traitor’s wrist, metal gauntlet claws stabbing through the Traitor’s glove to pinch tendons. Raised steel shivered over both of their heads. Fingers spasmed, and the sword fell from a weakened grasp.

The Traitor wavered on unsteady legs. Both hands clutched at the dagger hilt protruding from his chest, but no amount of applied pressure could stem the bleeding from such a deep puncture. Red streams escaped from his grasp, flowing across dark armor. The Soldier retreated, and the Traitor sank to his knees, metal armor clashing against the stones below.

“I... understand,” the Traitor croaked, gaze never straying from the Soldier’s face. He seemed about to say more, but his strength failed before he could speak again. He collapsed, curled about the dagger through his heart.

The Soldier rushed to the Sun King’s side, gathering the fragile body into his arms. The warmth had not yet faded, and the faint pulse of life still shivered beneath the skin. The Soldier used a dry corner of his cloak to clean the crimson stains from his King’s ashen face. As though reanimated by some fell power, storm-grey eyes fluttered open at the touch.

“The Cloud... my heir,” the Sun King whispered. “She is still young... they will question her claim. You must sort the loyal from the rest. Help her... as you once helped me.”

The Soldier shook his head. “The Cloud is not your disciple, but your usurper. I beg you, do not trust her, my King, or the Empire of your dreams may never come to pass.”

For the second time in decades, the Soldier had begged; for the second time in decades, he was denied. The Sun King clutched at blood-drenched armor.

“My most faithful follower... my first... and my last. Though all the world may forget, you must not. Serve my heir. Do not let my... our... vision fade,” the King pleaded. For a moment, the Soldier saw him not as the Sun King who had united an Empire, but as the small and insignificant Scholar who dared speak out against a decaying system. Even back then, the Scholar had carried within him an idealism unlike any the Soldier had ever seen before or since.

“O Sun King, I will uphold your vision until my flames burn no more,” the Soldier vowed.

The Sun King went still. Not long afterward, his body grew cold and stiff. The Soldier set the body upon the throne, arranging his limbs such that the fallen King reclined in somber contemplation of the world below. The Soldier paused to survey his work and frowned. The golden crown had fallen from the King’s head. The Soldier hunted around for the crown, but when he found it, the finely wrought gold circle had been trampled into a flat plate. He placed it at the foot of the throne instead.

Outside, the sun had begun to rise. A ray of early sunlight pierced the gloom of the throne room, striking the King’s face. The Soldier’s breath caught at the sight of his King’s serene expression. If it were that expression alone, the Sun King might have been holding court as usual. Now, though, the royal robes were stained red, the gold crown lay beneath his feet instead of upon his head, and wispy grey hair shone like a silver cloud around his face. The Soldier bowed in ceremony before the dais.

The Soldier tore a strip from one of the rebels’ clothes and set it afire. Using the wad of fabric as a torch, he lit various tapestries and wooden furniture throughout the throne room. As a last step, he set the base of the wooden throne alight as well. The burning palace would become a pyre fit for a King; the Soldier saw no need to accelerate the process by igniting the body directly. All that the Soldier had done was at the Sun King’s behest. It was fitting, then, that the Sun King’s departure be left to more ancient and fundamental forces than a mere Soldier. In time, if Nature willed it, the small fires would spread to consume the palace.

The Soldier prostrated himself before the throne one last time.

“I will carry your torch unto all the lands, that the world may bask in the glory of an undying Sun. Only then may you rest knowing that your vision is complete.”

The Soldier turned away, consigning the image of the fallen Sun King into his memory. Nothing should have remained for him here, yet his eyes were drawn to the side before he could leave. Black armor and bloodstained green fabric sprawled across the stone tiles. Lifeless hands would never again bear sword or spear, and nor would kindness soften the lines of a face identical to his own. The Soldier’s eyes began to sting from ambient smoke, and he knew that he should leave now or not at all. He laid the Traitor’s sword lengthwise upon its owner, a final gesture of respect to one who deserved better.

“I served the King, and you served the Country. As duty bound me to this course, I know that it has bound you. Marshal of the East, how I envy you this day—it is the highest honor to die in service of sacred oath. Your mission ends, but mine may never. Farewell, brother.”

The Soldier shut the heavy oaken doors of the throne room for the last time.

Outside the palace, no breeze dared disturb the still morning air. Dozens of citizens had camped out overnight, eager for news of the inevitable overthrow. Their cheers had dwindled overnight as more among their numbers succumbed to sleep, but cheers seemed unnecessary now. The revolution’s success was certain. As the ornate wooden doors creaked open once again, the citizens grinned and jostled each other out of sleep.

The previous night, two hundred thirty-one rebels had entered the palace. Today, one Soldier exited. He was not one of the rebels, yet every person in the square recognized him on sight. Blood streaked the Soldier’s once-yellow armor, staining his cloak with lurid dark splotches. His head glowed like fire in the morning light. A dark longbow cut across his torso, and smoke coiled up from the sheathed sword at his belt.

“By the Sun King’s decree, all traitors must perish.”

A brave citizen charged, but the Soldier cut him in half with a single swing. Three more would-be rebels met the same abrupt end while their wiser comrades fled the scene. The Soldier chased them, slaying each with fire and steel that knew no mercy. When those who fled on horseback gained too much of a lead, he brought arrows to the bowstring, shooting the citizens and horses alike. He spared none, for choosing to run was surely a sign of guilt. A traitor once was a traitor always; thus his King had decreed.

The Soldier glanced about for a moment, finding himself in the scrublands outside the Capital city limits. The dead surrounded him, but some living rebels had temporarily fled beyond his reach. The Soldier marched onward into the dawn.