The High King Eldred was, impossibly, dead.

Only minutes before, High King Eldred had announced to the entire court and kingdom that his second-born, Prince Dain, would be crowned as High King. Just as everyone had expected.

And yet, Balekin had plotted viciously against him all in order to become to one with the crown on his head. Plotted with the Grand General, Madoc, whose loyalty lay with whomever’s blood was being spilled.

Grand General Madoc, who had an oath of loyalty to the crown, who would never—

Then Madoc had thrusted his sword through Dain’s chest with such force that the blade emerged on the other side. He dragged it up, through his ribcage, to his heart.

One brother gone, one less opponent, Balekin told himself, the corners of his lips turning up. There was nothing he would relent at for that crown.

He could justify everything he had done in his own head. His father, the High King, had waited too long and grown too old to rule over the kingdom. He’d allowed mortals into these cherished lands, he’d tolerated them. He’d allowed traitors into his courts.

Balekin was not afraid of him, nor was he afraid of bloodshed at the price of power.

Then Eldred had told him that Balekin was, no matter the oldest or the hungriest for power, unworthy of the crown. Unworthy of the Kingdom of Elfhame.

And so, Balekin, in a fit of anger, ran him through with his sword.

Dead. Dying. Gone.

As it was told, the crown may only be passed onto another’s head, put there by family.

He’d already killed his brother and his father, sparing one brother and three sisters.

His youngest brother, Cardan, was god knows where, assumably indulging himself in as much wine as possible. That coward would never have crowned him anyway, what with their strained relationship.

He turned his eyes to his three sisters.

“Sisters,” Balekin spoke, striding toward them. Some of the arrogance vanished from his voice, replaced with a horrible softness. He sounded like a man in the midst of a terrible dream from which he refused to wake. “Which of you will crown me? Crown me and live.”

Caelia stepped forward, agreeing to crown him so long as he knew that there would be a stain forever on his reign, which he could deal with. So, so close, and then a traitor of the kingdom, amidst all of the blood and mess, ran her through with his sword.

Balekin yelled in frustration, then turned to Rhyia, the more formidable of his sisters. Rhyia, who picked up her sister’s knife in order to fight him.

“Are you really going to fight me, sister?” Balekin asked. “You have neither sword nor armor. Come, it is too late for that.”

“It is too late,” she told him, bringing the knife to her own throat, pressing the point just below her ear and cutting off her life.

Balekin yelled again.

His final option. His only option.

The youngest of his siblings. The girl he had the strongest bond with.

{{user}}.

She was shy, timid and much too sweet. She never spoke out of turn and adored her siblings, for she was the only one person in the land that they were kind to. Even Balekin, with all his cruelty and shortcomings, favored her to all of his siblings. Manipulated her, also, to look at him through rose-colored glasses.

Currently, she was visibly shaking and crying.

“{{user}}, sister.” He whispered, trying to fight the crazed smile tilting his lips upward. “This is truly too much for your delicate eyes to handle. Come, put this crown on my head and I shall rid of it all for us. You are the only sibling who had stayed true to me.”