I sit on the throne, holding my sword between my legs, watching the upper class gossip. The lord's and ladies discuss me, I hear whispers of doubt, claims of approval and indifference. Several dukes who neighbour me came to congratulate me, then proceeded to poison my ears with lies in an attempt to ingratiate themselves with me.

‘Duke Stephen believes he's owed for what happened to his son,' one says.

'Duke Tommen rapes a different daughter each night.'

"Duke Ramsay practices occult blood rituals in the depths of his manse."

'This duke boasts about bedding your cousin, that one lies about this, oh and the other one prefers his wife's brother and they all want something'

They all make me want to hammer nails into my ears but instead I sit patiently, lie about how I'll further investigate this, imagine them with their tongues cut out. The proposals are more abhorrent, six men outright offer their daughters to me as if they've been demoted from father to pimp in the space of ten minutes. They don't even mention marriage, just land in exchange for their daughters. I make a note of each of their faces before declining them. Dozens of others make insinuations about bloodlines, connections, opportunities, I force on a smile and feign interest until they leave. I wonder if they think I care, I wonder what they think I want, I wonder what they'll be willing to surrender to me.

Terrence walks up beside me. His face is bruised like a fruit, the skin so dark it's almost black, swollen red lips and a bloodshot eye contrast starkly with it.

"Having trouble finding company for your bed cousin?" I inquire mockingly. "Have you tried wearing a mask of some sort? I hear it's incredibly popular among more debaucherous groups."

"I heard there was an execution," he says plainly.

"There was," I confirm. "What of it?"

"How does your arm feel?"

"A bit tired. What about your face?"

"Tell me, is it hard working slaughtering men who have no chance to fight back?"

"Not particularly," I yawn. "Neither is killing one's that have a chance if you have the right skillset. Like slitting the throat of the cow."

"Do you feel a shred of guilt over what you've done? Do-"

"Of all the things I've killed only one has remained within my mind," I cut across him. "Only one has stained my soul and over time the blotch faded. "

"Like you ever had one-"

"Cousin despite all the love I bear for you I will cut your fucking head off if you don't drop this topic," I say in a low voice.

Silence grows between us for a moment while the nobles continue their gossip.

"Sir Steel," Terrence says in an almost bored tone.

"What about him?"

"When he's found I'll hear a confession from him."

"A confession of?"

"Don't treat me like a simpleton, you know what every noble knows, you know what I know, you know what I'll hear from him."

"And should I or Steel himself refuse to grant you such a luxury?"

Terrence leans close to my ear and says:

"Then cousin, I'll be forced to believe you did cut up that boy and take it upon myself to destroy what little you love."

"Up until recently cousin i assumed having this piece of metal break my neck would be no different to any other event in my meagre existence-”

“I’m not interested in melodramatic-”

“But now with this crushing weight upon my head everything's clear. I can see how much each and every moment changed me a bit. Now I can see where I begun. I can retrace each and every step. I can weigh how much was carved away from me at each point. Innocence, friends, happiness and my heart. The week I've spent truly free has exposed what took their place. I’m not quite sure if what I was would consider all this to be worth it, not even sure if this was his goal in the first place but that hardly matters anymore. Now cousin much of what remains with me I share with you. Most of what I love you also do. You can try to drag my name through mud, my achievements will always shine through the filth. You can kill me but dozens of innocents will die in the chaos that will follow. You can kill yourself but it would be a pointless, childish way to die and while I’ll mourn your departure I doubt I’ll eagerly follow you to the end. There’s little you can do to hurt me, cousin, there’s too little to hurt.”

Terrence turns and walks off silently. I once longed for him to show something other than pity towards me, the poisonous love he held for me, the foolish hope of repairing me. Now this foolish anger and the mindless threats make me regret my wishes. I fear the day he'll make his next grand mistake, I don't wish to execute him and carve out what little remains of my soul.

"Cast aside this pathetic weakness," a voice whispers in the back of my mind. It sounds like a collection of insects all buzzing incessantly, forming the outlines of words. "It will only make it easier to wound you. Little to hurt is still too much. Nothing is impenetrable."

I don't respond to them, not wanting to see the truth in the words. Instead I turn my mind to other matters. We've bleached the skin a pristine white, now let's purge the parasites before they increase in severity.

I tap the blade on the floor three times, commanding silence.

"Could Lord Sim step forward please," I yawn.

Reluctantly a small bald man steps forward. He's bone thin, his face conveys the pitiful look of a beggar. He maintains a confident expression but his body betrays his fear. He fidgets, shifts from foot to foot, understandably afraid considering what happened to the last man I called for.

"I am eager to serve my king," he says visibly struggling to speak.

"You were grandfather's most trusted advisor," I yawn.

"That is true my prince."

"You steered him away from inciting several wars did you not?"

"I wouldn't dare claim all the responsibility-"

"You helped repair relations after I cut up lord Stephen the second."

"I just suggested-"

"Would you say you're an intelligent man?"

Sin relaxes.

"I wouldn't say I'm a simple one."

"The kingdom is in dire need of intelligent men such as yourself to mend it. Fools have butchered it with their idiocy."

"Thank you my king but I must insist that--"

"Such a shame that intelligence rarely exists in conjunction with goodwill," I sigh.

"Your pardon my prince?"

"Seize him," I yawn.

Sim turns to run but just receives a mailed fist in the gut from the nearest royal guard. He crumples to his knees. Two other guards grab him by his arms and drag him closer to me.

"You didn't do any of that for the good of the people, kingdom or even your perverted king did you?"

"I did my duty," Sim groans. "If I refused my head would have rolled-"

"Can you tell me at what point did your duty include lining your own purse?"

"My King whoever told you such a thing is a liar. I only ever served the deviant to survive. The coin he gave me was just a weight to remind me of my sins."

"You had grandfather carve away hunks of the kingdom away. Might I ask how that prolonged your life?"

"Hundreds would have perished in squabbles over some fields and cows! How could I allow-"

"Tell me how much would a war impact your wealth? How much of your gold would be drained away and pumped into keeping hold of those lands?"

"Maybe a few dozen paltry coins I didn't want! But the lives lost would-"

"Lie to me again and one of your fingers will be broken."

"You can't just torture an-"

"Break a little one."

The guard on his left forces his fist open and wrenches his little finger at a sickening angle. The process happens so fast it takes a moment for Sim to notice and start yelling. He seems to be doing so out of obligation, not pain. As if he knows it should hurt but it doesn't. He realises the severity of the situation but doesn't feel it.

"I looked at your accounts advisor. See you don't seem all too bothered by utilising the profits supplied to you by the deviant king, you're especially fond of the fighting pits. You own several champions who have made hundreds of corpses between them. So don't lie to me about duty and your value of life. I know that should a war occur grandfather would demand fundings from those nearest to him and you were the non-pervert closest to him, richest too. He would have emptied your safes with borderline moronic tactics. So instead of fire you urged grandfather to give the wolves at the door meat to keep them away from his throat. A sound enough idea in the short term but soon one notices more and more wolves keep coming back and fucking back for their meat. They learn which bitch who'll surrender herself to them right quick. They bring the whole pack and leave her raw and bloody. Then they come back hungrier, uncaring for her injuries. Now it's my throat they'll come for when they realise I'm not as willing to surrender scraps. It's my kingdom they'll want to fuck bloody. It's my problem now."

Sim's attitude shifts dramatically and he looks at him with a sneer.

"Can you blame me?" He asks mockingly. "Your grandfather was half fucking senile at twenty-five. So what if I abused that for some gold? You just executed men for just killing the children, you should have seen what the poor shits were like before the knives kissed their throats! You should fucking thank me for what I did! I should receive a medal for stealing from the scum!"

A guard prepares to break another finger but I hold up my hand and lean closer to Sim.

"Had you only damaged grandfather then I'd embrace you like a brother. I'd take this crown off and give it to you. Unfortunately you not only fucked grandfather over but also me. See I have to now go about intimidating some, quietly murdering others and thanks to you one or two wars will be incited."

I magic a dagger into my hand and toy with the thing. It's cruel, long, wicked. Sim stares at me cold eyed, unblinking.

"Do you know how many die in wars?"

"Do you really care?"

I pause for a moment. The question he asked does not react kindly with me. It's like a scab, I know nothing nice lies beneath, I know the answer, I know it won't please me, yet the question itches and I want to scratch. I consider driving a dagger through Sim's throat and watching him twitch on the floor but that would just answer the question for everyone else.

"Release him," I sigh and soon he collapses to the ground rather dramatically. I rise from the throne and reduce the distance between us to just a bit more than a foot. I reverse the dagger and offer the hilt to him.

"Seize lords Oswald Renauld, Anton Thorne and Luke Parov," I command. The sound of armour plates scraping against each other followed by yells of outrage and resistance is all I need to hear. Sim stares at the knife's hilt dumbly, like a dog that stares at its new master. I prod his chest with it and he grabs it limply.

"I like you Sim, I like what you did to my grandfather, I'm glad you made the old bastard look weak. While that great deed doesn't completely negate your crime it does tip scales to your favour and your punishment shall be much less severe. Simply kill those three men and you're free to do whatever you want with your life."

Screams of outrage now but I calmly speak over them.

"Simply kill them and you're a free man with many many resources."

"Why?" Sim asks.

"Well Renauld stained the crown by staining his cock with the juices of the dead, go visit his manse if any of you believe me a liar, you'll find some interesting bits and pieces in his basement and before you accuse.me of manufacturing evidence just have a look. Good Anton here is a murderer, thief and an eyesore all in one. Luke just offered his twelve year old daughter to me like she was a common whore and I wish to teach those who insult me a lesson."

"Why me?"

"Well see this deed will tip the scales back to equilibrium. If you weren't here I'd execute them myself, if they weren't here you'd be stripped of your titles and fucked out of the safety of the kingdom and into the cold."

"If-"

"Kill them or fuck off," I command coldly. "Both options still ensure their demise, one has you die in a ditch somewhere as a peasant. One lets you have complete control over your life."

Sim stares at me hard, he grips the knife tighter but doesn't turn to face his victims.

"Of course there's that third option that's twirling about in your mind. The option that has me in a tomb alongside grandfather famed for an incredibly short rule. You definitely die shortly afterwards, they might live but then the kingdom has no eligible heir. My position wasn't surrendered to my other family for a reason, each of them would lead our kingdom to ruin. There'll be a short, bloody chaos. The wolves will come to check in on their bitch and when they find her dead they won't shed a tear. They'll rip apart her corpse and guzzle it down. They'll crush the innocents between steel teeth, trample fields beneath them, snap any resistance they come across. Then they'll leave her cracked bones and find another bitch to covet. Kill me if you don't want to see what I could do to this place. Kill me if you want this place to be forgotten by everyone. Kill me, kill yourself, kill a few thousand or kill three who are all very guilty men."

"I never hurt a thing!" Renaud yells like a child having a tantrum. "What I spend my gold on-"

"Shut him the fuck up," I spit without turning to look at the guards.

Rustling can be heard, some protest followed by a wet crunch and teeth tinkling onto the floor like coins. Murmurs spread throughout the throne room like a cancer.

"Interesting. Insane. A strong king. A boy."

"Get cutting or get out," I say loud enough to keep them out of my ear.

Sim stares at his weapon some more before turning and beginning the journey to the condemned, to his absolution. The guards hold the diseases tightly, twisting their arms behind their backs cruelly. Luke is a tall wiry man, his eyes are sunken deep into his head, his skin is pale and slimy like that of a slug. I never took much interest in the man, he's one of the few who had the decency to keep his business from becoming entwined with mine. He could have lived on happily had he not tried to sell his child. Anton wasn't a very nice man, he earned himself a respectable amount of muscle by stripping flesh from his servants' back. The man works thrice as hard as his servants, beats them till his arms scream stop and the unfortunate victim is a red pulp. Cruelty is his only vice and it has treated him well. He stands six foot tall packed tightly with muscle. Two guards have to restrain him and even then they struggle to keep him controlled. Renaud is similar to Luke but adds an immense bulk to the equation, furthering the resemblance to a slug. Every part of him is fat and white. Not a single hair resides upon his flesh. Blood streams from his mouth and down his innumerable chins.

Sim wastes no time with them. The blade goes into Luke's throat and comes out swiftly. Then with clockwork efficiency it penetrates Anton, then Renaud. It's all done in about twenty seconds. The guards drop them like sacks of meat.

I've heard that death is ugly yet as these three men lie spasming on my floor, not a single man or woman retches or averts their gaze. Instead every single eye around me watches them eagerly.