  The sun fell below the shoulders of the horizon, and the city of Nelence emerged in glorious twilight, her lights and windows sparkling in magnificent necklaces draped luxuriously over her buildings and towers and skyscrapers. Far above the tallest buildings stood a Cyclopean relic, a pristine cylinder of architectural brilliance that had stood at a height of over a hundred and fifty stories since the birth of Isardis. It was Isardisin all of its immortal grandeur, among the clouds, higher than heaven. At its highest floor, peeringnogazing through a window onto the city below, stood the King Alexius IV. He was a tall man, and although his body was very old it still seemed to echo a strength not found often. Here was a warrior, an Ariladat, the greatest of fighters, the strongest, and the bravest of creatures, who had proven himself above all others to the previous King, and was thus nominated as his successor. Alexius face, reflected in the warm candlelight emanating from a chandelier, conveyed this character almost as much as his actions would. It was lean and straight, the nose was thin and the eyes large and round, the pupils never dilated behind green irises. He heard the door behind him click open, recognized the hesitant step of his son. His left hand tightened over a golden staff, the ornament passed on from King to King, since the foundation of Isardis. Alexius hated his son. He turned, his eyes met his sons faceand he saw himself in the man before him, the despicable man before him, the man that would plunder the throne if left to rule.
Little bits and pieces of his long-deceased mother had melted together with his own in the mans face, most specifically his nose, which was flat and round, almost like a pigs, ruining the handsomeness of our genetics, thought the King. Alexius had always hated the nose. He had wanted his son to look exactly like himself; he had wanted a clone, not an offspring, but a duplicate that would go beyond his wildest expectations. Since the boys birth he had been disappointed, always disappointed. An abysmal failure on his own part, for even wanting a son.
He wasnt a boy anymore, thoughthat much was sure. He was old now, his long hair had started to gray, wrinkles had begun to grin under his eyes and around his mouth. Every day he looked more and more like Alexius, and every day he acted less and less like him. The woman he had finally found to marry, a princess from the province of Davan, was a whorenothing more than a filthy whore from a poor, filthy province, birthed from the lips of a whore mother, conceived by a bastard father.
It showed in her face, in her consistent disrespect toward Alexius, in her defianceshe was a harlot, and although he hated his son, and had secretly loathed him for as long as he had existed, he knew that if there was any hope of saving Isardis that the next heir down the line, his grandson, would have to be strong. He needed a strong mother, a cunning mother, a beautiful mother. Not unlike that girl he had met yesterday at the councilwhat was her nameHara.
Such a pity, thought Alexius, Hara will never see her husband again. Alexius realized that he had been glaring silently at his son this whole time, his fingers white over the ornate orb at the end of his staff. Ive had enough of this, father. Cassandra is in hysterics after what you pulled tonight. You two hate each other. You hate my wife. You hate your own daughter. Alexius felt his hatred churn about, and he had great difficulty restraining himself. Sweat began to perspire on his hands, and a bead of moisture ran down the golden surface of the staff. Ill disown you if you call her my daughter ever again, Alex. She is the daughter of a harem. If you have anything sensible to say youd better say it now before I call the guards.
Guards? Guards? You dare to call the guards on me ? Youre delusional, father, youve really lost it this time Enough! I have decided. If you marry her you will not inherit the throne. Alex tried to speak, but his fathers intensified glare silenced him. Get that bitch on a train back to Davan. I dont want to ever see you two together again. Alex closed his eyes tightly with his fathers words, then opened them with a renewed passion, and stepped forward, his boots clicking on the marble floor. He came face-to-face with his father, their noses nearly touching, each with his face soaked in sweat.
Dont and he paused, realizing the gravity of his defiance, call her that. Alexius felt the anger boil over, felt it thrum through his broadening veins. He gritted his teeth together, lifted the golden staff into the air, and heard its otherworldly swoop as his arms brought it down over Alexs head, smashing the skull, soaking the round orb at the end in blood. Alex didnt crumple, but fell, as a tree does when it is cut down, his boots clattering on the marble. Alexius dropped the staff, and felt a lurch in his stomach. What have I done? The King fell forward, on his knees, lifted the bleeding head in his hands, the fluids dripping onto his extravagant satin robes. He could see the folds of the brain through the gaping breach in the skull, could see then that there was no hope.
He dropped Alex to the floor and backed away on all fours to the window, squeezed himself into the fetal position and began to shake, his breath coming in wheezes and gasps.
What have I done?
It felt like a waterfall, like the deafening roar of a waterfall, the memories of his son flooding his mind, thrashing about. I loved my son. He saw Alexs birth, his little face in his arms, his screaming mouth, how he was covered in disgusting liquidbut then noticed how he calmed as he felt the heartbeat of his father, felt his chest expanding with his breath. He saw Alex playing on a beach, the wind was strong, he heard his laugh, the laugh of a happy child, and saw a red kite intense against a blue, cloudless sky. He saw Alex playing in the bathtub with his mother, splashing her with bubbles, screaming with glee.
It was all there, the love that he had never admitted to feel, the flood of it drenching his mind.
What have I done?
The guards charged into the room, swords and pistols drawn, only seconds after the event had taken place. They shouted Where is the killer, to the King, but the King didnt reply, said nothing, as the Royal Doctor arrived from the party several floors down, not even bothering to take out his tools, seeing, as the King did, as the murderer did, that there was no hope for the body of the Kings only heir, which now lay in a dark, crimson pool of its own blood.
Murderer.
What have I done?
The King lay there, curled at the window, as the early morning arrived. Guards had been posted nearby, and his officials had been shouting at him for hours, begging to get a word out of him, but finding it impossible. The body was taken away by a coroner, the blood cleaned by a tear-eyed maiden from the polished marble floor. He overheard the guards talking about how the princess had been informed, how she had cried and then left without a word to anyone.
It was all Alexius fault, everything was his fault. I am a murderer. He clenched his fists at the thought, his breath coming in haggard wheezes. The guards heard, and they rushed to his aide, picking him up and carrying him through the hallways that the King saw in only a blur, his eyes wandering the painted portraits of past rulers and generals and great men, each with his own frame of opulent gold. He was dumped into his bed, and the guards began to shout for help. He heard the thumping of more feet on the floor, noticed he couldnt move his body, his vision narrowing to a pinpoint of light. The noise around him blurred and thickened, and he blacked out. 
