Glinting, glowing, trembling—the edge of the blade rests above the neck of the kneeling man. Gasping, inarticulate sobs splutter from the man’s plump lips; hands scrabble at the stone floor feebly, searching for some way out, perhaps, or merely an echo of the madness that had plagued them all for far too long.
He is the king! A voice whispered across the ages, hearkening to an ancient ideal. Meanwhile, the city behind him burns; mournful cries of loss echo hauntingly.
He has done this. A stronger voice, purposeful.
The blade rises, flashes, falls. Red stains the stones. Justice.