Dont read this, this is just stories I want to read

Regicide

Dream wasn't going to kill the king.

That was a job for assassins, and Dream wasn’t an assassin. He was a thief, and he never spilled enough blood to kill. Only enough to get caught under his fingernails, only enough to spray red across a white ceramic mask, only enough for him to smell it on his clothes when he shed the smiling cover and counted his ill-recovered blessings.

But it was never enough to kill.

And Dream was only a thief. The only thing he wanted from the palace was encrusted with gold and jewels, shining with something worth more than his life. The king could keep all his pulsing veins intact. Dream would be in and out and the sovereign’s heart would still be beating—for that wasn’t his ultimate goal.

That didn’t mean he was unarmed. The well-sharpened dagger was still strapped to his thigh, an equally lethal sword strung across his back. He kept them tight to his body to hold back the sound, pressed himself against stone walls and bit his tongue beneath the mask. He was more than an expert. He’d done this a thousand times, at least.

Though it was his first time sneaking into the palace, his first time coming so close to a king. But the current holder of the crown was only a week off his coronation—he couldn’t be much more than an idiot, whoever he was. There wasn’t enough time between then and now for a new royal to learn much of anything important. This king was still in that strange phase of newness, where everyone fawned and practically threw themselves at his feet.

But not Dream. He may have bowed to a previous monarch when he saw him in the streets, but he knew the man who’d paid for his untimely end. He knew that his son had taken the throne a tad too young and stupid. He knew that he hadn’t been ready—and it left the odds stacked greatly in Dream’s favor.

They kept the crown in the throne room at night. It seemed idiotic at first thought, but the throne room had to be the most heavily guarded room in the palace. And though the basement had a vault, the crown itself was too frequented to be worth locking away. The only thing it would’ve done was cause a hassle. So it stayed by the throne where the king could find it every morning, close and ready enough to be placed atop his head.

Dream had spent what felt like years preparing to sneak past the guards at the entrance of the throne room. When the moon was high and the kingdom was asleep, well-trained knights stood ready at the heavy doors with weapons in their hands. Dream was already holding his breath before those doors even came into view.

Miraculously, there was only one guard. Dream had to swallow a thick rush of shock. He felt it collapse in the pit of his stomach, but he snuck by anyways. It was pathetically easy, the knight out and on the floor with only the press of gloved hands on his throat.

And Dream just let himself in.

It didn’t take long for him to figure out why there wasn’t any care applied.

There was someone standing by the window. The large windows that backed the throne where it sat, big enough to bask the gold in glimmering sunlight during the day. Big enough to coat the floors silver in this hour of night. And though their back was facing Dream, the sight of anyone unexpected was enough to make a thief stop in their tracks.

No one had bothered to prepare him for this. For the sight of a slim figure bathing in moonbeams, for the cascading sheen of fabric that was a cape in an unidentified color, for the glimmer of the crown he’d been sent here for—still sat atop the king’s head.

The king turned his head to the side. Dream could tell that his gaze was still cast toward the window. He was clueless at best.

“I thought I told you,” his voice was harsh enough to be a monarch, but his accent was thick and swirling, “not to let anyone in here right now.”