"Is that all any of you can really do?"
Lucien Valecrest laughed, his voice echoing through the burning capital as he ascended the grand marble staircase leading to the palace's throne room. The once-proud city was now a warzone, its streets soaked in blood, its skies lit crimson by blazing rooftops. Screams echoed in the distance, and steel clashed against steel as Lucien's army clashed in an all-out battle with the empire's forces across every street and alleyway.
The night was alight—fires raged from homes, casting flickering shadows like twisted lanterns guiding his every step. His crimson cloak billowed behind him, torn and darkened from the blood of enemies and allies alike.
And here he was, alone, walking with confident purpose toward the emperor.
Knights came at him in waves—the emperor's chosen. Heavily armored, meticulously trained, and praised as the kingdom's finest. They charged like wolves, desperate to protect their dying throne.
But they were cut down just as quickly.
Heads were cleaved from shoulders with surgical precision, the air filled with the sound of metal slicing flesh, followed by Lucien's sigh.
"You're all really pathetic."
He muttered, amused, as the final knight's corpse tumbled down the grand staircase, blood trailing in its wake. His cold, bloodshot eyes now locked onto the great gilded doors ahead.
Without pause, he marched forward and kicked them open with a thunderous crash that shook the marble halls.
"You…!"
Came the voice of Emperor Caelum Virellian, seated high upon his throne. His hair was silvered, his face lined with age and pride, yet his spine remained straight, and his eyes—sharp.
Flanking him stood a final retinue of knights—if those Lucien slaughtered outside were elites, these were legends. Veterans of countless campaigns. Slayers of monsters. Shields of the Empire.
"The Gods will strike you where you stand!" the emperor roared, voice heavy with wrath and desperation.
Lucien ran a hand through his tangled, blood-matted hair, his grin widening.
"Then they would have done so long ago."
He drew his sword—the very blade the emperor had once gifted him in honor of his undying loyalty. Now it gleamed with betrayal.
"Not one step closer, you devil!"
Came a sharp cry. Vivienne, captain of the royal guard, stepped forward, radiant in silver armor etched with divine sigils. Her voice rang with fury, her gaze unwavering.
Lucien gave a low, dark chuckle, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Lady Vivienne! I'm afraid I cannot do that."
She needed no further provocation. With a wordless cry, she and her knights charged, blades gleaming beneath the throne room's flickering torchlight.
Lucien sighed again, disappointed.
"Tsk. I was still talking…"
One knight reached him first, shield raised high—but Lucien was faster. A single sidestep, a swift swing—and the knight's head fell, lifeless, armor clattering beside it.
"Time for the rest of you…"
He whispered, spinning through their ranks like a phantom. Another fell. Then another. Each swing of his sword was a death sentence. Blood sprayed the pristine floors, splashing the red-and-gold banners hanging from above.
The throne room became a graveyard.
Lucien stood at its center, smiling amidst the carnage.
"I'm quite disappointed. And here I thought I'd find a semblance of challenge."
He bowed mockingly, his blood-soaked sword dripping onto the polished marble. It was almost poetic—steel meant to protect the realm now stained with its downfall.
"I can't believe I used to respect you!" Vivienne roared, charging, her silver blade shining with holy enchantments.
She moved like a storm.
But Lucien was death itself.
Before she could swing, his sword was already through her heart—clean, silent, without resistance. The light vanished from her eyes as her body crumpled to the floor.
"Oh, Vivienne... if only you had served me sooner."
Lucien whispered, yanking his blade free.
"Now fo—"
A sudden, searing pain exploded in his chest.
An arrow.
It had pierced him clean through, from his back and out through his heart.
"What…?"
Blood spilled from his lips as he staggered, slowly turning—only to see Prince Adrien Virellian, bow in hand.
Beside him stood Roselyn Valecrest—Lucien's lover—hiding behind the prince's cloak, eyes averted.
"Roselyn…?" Lucien's voice cracked, low and stunned.
He took a weak step forward, arm outstretched, fingers trembling as if trying to reach her cheek.
But Roselyn didn't meet his gaze.
She only shrank further behind Adrien's form.
"It's over, Lucien…" Adrien said, his voice filled with a pity that only ignited Lucien's fury.
Lucien coughed, the laugh that escaped him now heavy with blood.
"You pity me, don't you…?" he snarled.
"You… you turned Roselyn against me—!"
A second arrow struck, hitting his heart again. The world dulled.
Lucien looked down, his chest gushing blood from both wounds.
His grip loosened. His body faltered.
"Well… played…"
He wheezed, a final, broken grin on his face as he collapsed to the floor—his blood mixing with that of his enemies. The throne room grew silent.
The tyrant rebel had fallen.
The emperor lived.
A good ending… right?
Well… not really.