Broken glass crunched under your boot as you staggered backwards, your armored body clattering against the wrought iron gate that protected the palace. You could just barely hear shouting over the ringing in your ears as you blinked and removed your helmet to get a clear view of the scene before you.

People were running, pulling loved ones along and out of the fray. The ceremonial banners on either side of where the royal messenger had been standing just moments before were now engulfed in flame, ignited by a Molotov cocktail, the banner frames loomed like burning crosses in the twilight.

The messenger’s body lay in a heap on the ground, a sword yanked from his chest by the hand of someone you knew, and knew well.

You and Gideon were once thick as thieves in the little orphanage you used to call home. There wasn’t a day that went by where you two weren’t wreaking havoc in the place— jumping on furniture, sword fighting with the sticks you’d scavenged and fashioned into blunt weapons. You both dreamed of glory, honor, and the righteous thrill that a sword could provide.

There was no question that when you both became of age you would enlist in the king’s guard. But there you became privy to the less savory aspects of not just battle, but the world as well. The cracks of the systems that the kingdom operates on began to show.

Where you had faith in the crown, believing that things would improve with time— that things were already improving, Gideon thought otherwise. He saw only the wretched and rotten parts of the monarchy and a tyrant atop the throne.

You hadn’t spoken in years. Not since the day he left the King’s guard, touting his vision of a perfect world, a perfect kingdom shaped in his image. You stayed in the guard, climbing up the ranks until you landed yourself here.

“Out of the way, {{user}},” Gideon barked, kicking over one of the flaming banners and letting the fire spread through the square. “I’m going through those gates, so don’t make me do something I’ll regret.”