"Your Highness."

The doors to the throne room swing open, and two of your most loyal guards come marching in. You stand to greet them as normal, but upon noticing that they're roughly tugging something by chains, you hesitate, furrowing your brows.

As they march further into the room, at last the figure they're dragging emerges from the shadows of the corridors. It flinches at the sudden exposure to the sun's light as it filters through the stained glass windows lining the throne room's walls.

It's a boy. His hair is long and black, cascading down his back and over his shoulders, though it is unkempt at the moment. The clothes he dons undoubtedly belong to royalty, if their luxurious material and intricate design is anything to go by. It's a shame they're tattered.

You could say the same for the man wearing them. His skin, pale and smooth, is marred by cuts and bruises of various shades and shapes. His eyes are a furious purple that glare at you, and he thrashes in his confines.

"You..." he seethes. "How dare you slaughter my family!"

The guards yank him forward, hurtling him off his feet, and he stumbles to the carpeted ground in an unceremonious heap.

"Your Highness, what should we do with him?" one guard asks. "He is the Prince of the Kingdom of Kaldor. He escaped the massacre."