Overwhelmed from what he had done, the prince collapsed forward, his hands sinking into the puddle of bile and spilled wine. He retched again, a violent, agonizing spasm that tore through his chest, but there was nothing left to give. His stomach was as empty as a soldier's purse in a brothel. He tried to settle his thoughts, to find the cold logic to calm his fears, but the world was a spinning vortex of nausea.
He tried to lift his head, to find the boy's eyes and beg, but his neck felt like a rusted hinge. Shame, heavier than any crown, forced his gaze back down to the filth on the floor.
What have I become?
He was a man who struck his own blood. He had become the very monster he had spent a lifetime hating and loathin, the ghost of his own father, reaching out from the red sands of Arlania to claim him at last, twenty years too late. He had survived the lash, the chains, and the sands, only to be defeated by a silver cup and his own rotting heart.
