the king is dead. his body swings from the noose my men have strung up, but his throat had been slit prior to the grisly showing; back and forth, back and forth, and back and forth once more he goes. his dagger is lodged in his heart, the family crest on the hilt snapped in two. i limp to the balcony, gripping the crown so fiercely that my palms go slick with blood. the emeralds embedded in the silver wink at me and beg to sit upon my head.
instead, i toss it over the ledge, and watch it shatter on the streets below. the citizens in the streets scream with joy, their sun-scarred faces glancing up to smile on a new order.
your hand lies steadily on my shoulder. i will see you on the other side a thousand tomorrows from now.
today, you must rejoice in the youth of your reign.
