His footsteps echoed loudly in the hall, armor clinking as the mail shifted against his body. The once awe-inspiring throne room was desolate and ruined, rugs tattered and charred and soaked with blood, the walls cracked and close to crumbling. He was glad that he was the only one who need see the gruesome scene. Silence choked the air around him, but a small, feeble sound slipped through. The Hero of Peratha. That is what they called him—what he was supposed to be...but how could he feel like a hero now? He held the blade tight in his hand, the tip sparking weakly as if it too did not wish for what was to happen next. He fed his magic into it, the fire exploding into a blaze as it coated the blade. The body of the fallen king still moved, still groaned, and stretched pointlessly for its throne. The deed was not yet done.

The Hero stepped on the remaining scrap of the king’s cloak, stopping him, and the defeated monarch gave out, his head resting against the floor softly.

“Do you have any last words?” he asked. The man deserved at least that.

The king took some moments to respond, breathing haggardly, lips smacking dryly for a drink that would never come, “Did any survive? My daughter? My sons?”

“I couldn’t take any chances. I’m sorry.” he said.

“Let it be done then,” the king said, and he raised the blade, stabbing it down through the man’s back, right through to the heart. The king gave a last sigh as death took him, his body turning still. He left the blade planted in the body, walking forward up the steps and taking his seat on the throne. He had done it. It had taken years—decades, but here he was. The prophesized hero had fulfilled what had been foretold. Maybe now he could finally go back home.

It hit him then, sitting there with death clouding his nostrils, the grim fog of despair seeping in from outside where his men were taking prisoners and executing those who could not be trusted to cooperate. A simple thought. The tree outside his house, and the street behind it. Watching cars go by as his mother prepared breakfast in the kitchen. It was such a small, simple thing, but right then he wanted it more than anything in the world.

He stared up at the heavens. Surely, he was done. There could be nothing more they could ask of him. “Is this what you wanted?” he screamed, so tired but still defiant. “I was supposed to be a hero. This was supposed to be my second chance. But all I’ve done—all I’ve ever done, is ruin everything I touch, even here in this world.” Fate was cruel, and the gods that commanded it crueler. How many innocents had he been forced to kill? Why hadn’t they just surrendered? Why did they all have to resist so much?

“I know you’re listening. I know you’re there. You’ve watched this whole time like my life is just a show to you. Well, I’m done, you hear me? Either you send me home, or I’m coming there myself,” he said, standing up and striding over to the body of the king, withdrawing the sword and holding it poised at his throat. Just a quick stab. That was all it would take.

He felt a pressure in his head, the presence of the gods that had been silent for years now clear to him. They had left him to figure out everything for himself, but now they had finally come to talk.

“You are not the Hero.”

The pressure, their presence, faded, and he put all his strength into piercing his throat, but his hands dropped the sword numbly just before it could reach him. He bent slowly, picking it up and drawing a deep, body-wracking sigh. He waited for the voice to return, though he knew it would not. It seemed simpler to stand there forever than accept that they were gone, and what their message meant. He was not the hero, but there was still a part for him to play. All of this was for nothing. All of this was wrong. And now, the lines of the prophecy made complete sense to him.

And the tyrant will welcome his coming

He laughed. How could he not? It was funny. It wasn’t just funny, it was hilarious. He wasn’t the hero. He never had been.

He was the villain.