The throne room was a skeleton of its former glory.
Rain hammered through the broken stained glass, slashing streaks of cold across the cracked marble floor. The great banners of the royal house, once symbols of strength and unity, now hung in tattered shreds, scorched at the edges, swaying like ghosts in the wind. The air stank of blood, ash, and something heavier—something final.
King Allen knelt at the base of the throne he had fought so hard to protect. His armor was cracked open at the ribs, one gauntlet missing, his royal cloak shredded and soaked in red. The weight of the crown pressed heavily on his brow—not with pride or power, but as a cruel reminder of how much he had lost.
And standing before him, sword drawn, was Simon.
Not a stranger. Not an enemy general or an assassin from the shadows. No—this was the boy Allen had taken in as a child. His brother. His blood in all but birth.
Allen blinked through the haze of pain. "What the hell are you doing, Simon?" His voice was raw, trembling between disbelief and agony. "It hurts… damn it, it hurts. I gave you everything. I raised you like a son."
Simon's jaw tightened. Water clung to his eyelashes, but his eyes—those familiar eyes—were filled with something Allen hadn't seen before: resolve. "You did. And I never forgot. But that's exactly why this hurts so much."
Allen's hand reached toward the throne—not for support, but as if the mere act of touching it might remind him of who he once was. "Why?" he whispered. "Why are you doing this to me?"
Simon exhaled slowly, like every breath cost him something. "Because I love you. And I can't keep watching you destroy everything we once stood for."
Allen's eyes widened. "Destroy? I protected this kingdom. I held it together when the world turned its back on us. You think I chose war? I chose survival."
"You chose fear," Simon said, his voice quiet but firm. "You chose to meet every threat with fire, every doubt with a blade. You stopped listening to your people. You stopped listening to me."
Allen leaned forward, coughing. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. "Because every time I listened, I was betrayed. Every time I believed, someone died. Do you think I don't carry that? Do you think I sleep at night?"
"I don't know who you are anymore," Simon said, and for the first time, his voice cracked. "You were my hero. The man who taught me to fight, to believe in something greater. Now… now I look at you and I see a shadow."
The words cut deeper than any sword could. Allen's eyes stung—not from the blood, not from the pain, but from the ache spreading in his chest.
"I shut you out," Allen admitted, his voice barely audible. "Because I couldn't bear to lose you too. You were the last piece of my family. The only thing I still believed in."
Simon's grip on the sword faltered. His hand shook, raindrops sliding down the blade. "Then why did you turn into the thing you swore you'd never be?"
Allen looked down at his bloodied hands. "Because peace built on promises dies quickly. Peace built on strength… lasts longer. Or so I thought."
They stood there, frozen in the storm of everything they had become.
Allen raised his head, his gaze softer now—wounded not by steel, but by memory. "If you truly believe I've become the monster… then end it. But don't pretend this is justice. It's mercy. Maybe even love, twisted as it is."
Simon stepped closer, his boots splashing through rainwater and blood. "I don't want to do this," he whispered. "But I can't let you keep tearing us apart. The people are afraid, Allen. They don't see a protector anymore. They see a tyrant."
Allen's lips curled into a bitter smile. "I became the villain to keep them safe. Funny, isn't it? That in trying to save everyone… I lost everything."
Simon knelt in front of him now, sword still raised, but lower. "You didn't lose me."
Allen's eyes flicked up. "Didn't I?"
Silence.
Only the rain answered for a moment. It poured through the broken ceiling like a judgment from the gods, cold and unrelenting.
Simon closed his eyes. "I wish there was another way."
"So do I," Allen said, almost gently. "But if this is how it ends… I'd rather it be you."
There was no rage anymore. No defiance. Just tired acceptance in the lines of Allen's face. The storm had passed inside him. What remained was a man ready to fall.
Simon leaned forward, forehead resting against Allen's. "I'm sorry," he whispered, voice cracking. "I'm so damn sorry."
"I know," Allen whispered back. "Just… remember me as I was. Not what I became."
Simon pulled back, eyes glassy.
Then he raised the sword—hesitated for a breath that felt like eternity—and brought it down.....