To think that I once feared this day. When the prophecy came to me that I would be usurped, I knew I could not allow that to come to pass. I hired as many soothsayers and magicians as I could to find out if I could avoid my fate and, alas, it appeared that the more I would fight my fate, the worse the ending may become. That I, the great Tyrant-king Alavast the Bloody, would loose my throne, one way or another. Then I silenced them; the dead can’t speak, and I would prefer the word of this prophecy not get about, and start another pointless rebellion.

So, in the grip of fate, I accepted my end by hurrying it along as best I could, in hopes that my death, my end of reign. would be less extreme. Many in my kingdom would prefer that, to see me fall in the most grisly fashion, but I refused to grant that wish.

Instead, I sought out the peasant boy fated to bring my downfall. There he was, wailing in a ditch, next to his deceased parents. As tempted as I was to drive my sword through him, tempting fate in that matter wasn’t in my best interests. No, instead I scooped up the pathetic, fragile thing, and whisked him home to my palace. I intended to raise him as my own heir, to teach him how to rule as I did, with an iron fist and no mercy for those who knew not their place.

I was such a fool.

I had never found myself so vulnerable as the first time he called me father. I taught him of control and power, while he taught me warmth and joy. Whilst I am what I am, draining the populace through taxes, and crushing any who resisted, the insides of these cold halls shone with a never before seen warmth. I taught him well, even in ways I had not intended, and when he- a strapping young man- pulled his sword from my chest to take my place, I wiped his tears with a shaking hand to tell him how proud I was of him. He would rule nothing like I would, the people already cheering behind him.

But perhaps that would not be a bad thing.