A short story.

nothing more.

Words had never left a man so disheartened. A catapult had gone off in the night, possibly around seven. None of the men hiding aside castle walls had heard it, and so, its ungodly might crushed one of several towers, ending the lives of at least fifteen people. And still, the soldiers who hung drunkenly about the keep heard nothing.  The King, sitting somewhat askew on his throne saw his tray topple from the armrest and clatter loudly to the floor. He watched as some of the smaller fruits that had been on it rolled away to the darkened corners of the room. Any intelligent man would realize what was happening, but none of the people, and certainly not the King, had. It was their folly for allowing such a dreadfully fat and dim-witted man to claim power. A black-garbed figure stood beside the throne, of whom the King still had not been made aware of. A steely gleam of a blade, since tinged with scarlet, flashed. The King fell to the floor, unmoving.  Now there were no soldiers in the keep. Only corpses.  There was no King, and the only ones alive were walking through streets drenched in blood with a mildly cynical look.

A boy was once told this story, and that his father was the King.

Author's Note

Just felt like writing something.