"I once wished to become the destroyer... but now, all I crave is peace."
Alfred's voice trembles as he speaks, his breath ragged. Blood drips from his lips, pooling beneath him like a crimson river. His vision blurs, his body broken beyond repair.
"This world knows nothing of death... nothing of pain..."
A bitter chuckle escapes him, hollow and empty. He has fought for so long, carried the weight of so many sins, but in the end, he stands alone.
He sways where he kneels, his half-severed arm hanging uselessly at his side. The cold seeps into his bones, numbing the agony. As his fingers twitch against the blood-soaked ground, a single thought drifts through his fading consciousness.
"Yes... this is where my story ends. But I still remember that place... the place where it all began."
---
The streets of our city pulsed with celebration. Drums thundered through the air, their deep, rhythmic beats blending with the laughter of children and the raucous cheers of men who had long awaited this moment. Banners of our kingdom, the Kingdom of Novels, fluttered against the crisp northern wind, their golden embroidery gleaming under the fading sunlight.
We had won the war.
It was a war we knew little about, fought against a land we had never seen-the Kingdom of Warriors.
To us, it was nothing more than a distant tale, whispered by traders and carried on the lips of returning soldiers. We did not know who our enemies truly were, nor did we understand the causes that had driven our rulers to battle. But none of that mattered now.
All we knew was that victory meant survival.
For months, the markets had stood empty, the fields abandoned. The war had drained our city of food, of men, of life itself. But today, that would change. Today, the war had given us something in return-something to eat.
For the first time in our lives, we were allowed into the heart of the city-the place where all the great Novels lived and shaped their destinies. My brother Nicolo and I could hardly contain our excitement. The streets, once distant and forbidden, now welcomed us with open arms, draped in banners of triumph and alive with the echoes of celebration.
But we were not just guests. We were participants.
For seven days, we had trained relentlessly, our hands blistered from the weight of our swords, our bodies aching from endless drills. Every strike, every movement had been sharpened to perfection. Tonight, we would stand before the King of Novels himself, performing our swordplay in the grand competition.
Nicolo, always the dreamer, had a plan. He leaned close to me one evening, eyes gleaming with determination.
"If we win," he whispered, "we can eat as much as we want."
And so, we fought-not for glory, not for honor, but for the promise of a full belly, something we had not known in far too long.
The clash of steel had finally ended. Our swords were lowered, our breaths heavy with exhaustion and exhilaration. The competition was over, but the true moment of judgment was yet to come. The officials informed us that the winner would be announced after the execution of the war traitors.
Excitement buzzed in the air, but a strange unease settled in my chest.
We were instructed to gather in front of the execution platform. The crowd was already there, their voices rising in anticipation. Some whispered, others laughed, but all eyes were fixed on the approaching prisoners.
Then, she appeared.
A woman, barely able to stand, staggered forward, her body covered in deep wounds and dried blood. In her trembling hands, she clutched something-something heavy and lifeless.
A severed head.
The thick layer of crimson hid its features, but I did not need to see its face to feel the weight of its loss.
Her eyes met ours for a fleeting moment, and in them, I saw it all-fear, despair, and a sorrow so deep it threatened to swallow her whole.
But it wasn't the sight of her wounds or the gruesome trophy she carried that shook me to my core.
It was the laughter.
The people of my own country-men, women, children-mocked her. They jeered at her suffering, found amusement in her agony. To them, she was not a human being.
She was a traitor, deserving of ridicule.
Deserving of death.
My stomach twisted.
For the first time, I wondered who the real monsters were.