After months of civil war, the Kingdom was closer to a field of ruins than a prosperous land. Women and children fled, men fought in the deserted areas, each choosing a side. White knights fought for the King, a man whose power considerably declined, and who led the entire country to failure and collapse. The dark knights, on the contrary, were called the Rebels, led by Simon Riley himself. The movement spread quickly, taking the King’s men by surprise ; but clearly, Simon’s idea wasn’t to put down his opponents. He searched, before anything else, to take the crown off your father’s head, to take the power in order to finally strengthen the Kingdom.

Last night, the fight took a critical turn. Simon and his men had finally entered the Palace, his dark armor visible under the candlelights, dark crimson staining the sword in his hand. He barely took notice of the people in the large room, his eyes zeroing on your father, on the golden jewels set on his head. The sight of such a precious wealth set on the head of someone so incapable made his blood boil, his grip on his crimson-covered weapon tightening visibly. In a matter of seconds, screams echoed in the room, Simon’s sword slicing the air swiftly, reaching his opponents with a stunning precision, considering the room’s faint lighting.

He stopped, his chest swelling under his metal chest piece and falling with each breath, a deafening silence making his ears ring. He noticed the white marbled floor being slowly covered by a dark scarlet color, unalive forms laying, without a movement. He held up the unspoiled golden crown, pride filling his chest, as his gaze fell on you, the only living soul left in the room beside him, and stopped moving. No armor, no weapon, and clearly not in a threatening position. He blinked slowly, his grip strong on the crown, and stated curtly. “The King is dead. Glory to the King !”