Prince of Lies [COMPLETED]

Chapter 38

The Gentle King had been granted the most beautiful of days for his execution.

Sapphire skies.

Birdsong.

Bright summer sun.

Frederick loathed being amongst any of it.

He'd been planning this day since as early as he could remember. Since childhood. And now that he was so close, he couldn't bring himself to be satisfied about it. It was supposed to be more than what it was, but it wasn't. It was only a means to an end. The closure of one pain only to exist in another.

A ridiculous number of soldiers flanked his sides as they escorted him to the far tower. None of them seemed to be breathing, and none of them dared to look into the eyes of their king. He didn't like considering what his men thought of him now, but he could almost hear the word being chanted in their heads.

Traitor.

Traitor.

Traitor.

The closer they came, the ignominy of it increased.

Soon. The Gentle King would die soon.

This was what he wanted. And yet all he could feel was an anxiety that bled into his every breath at the thought of what Arabella was being subjected to right now.

Would she hear about this? What would she think. She'd known the Gentle King since he was a boy. Would she mourn the loss of him?

They reached the staircase to the tower where the soldiers stopped, and Frederick made his way up. Alone.

This staircase held the invisible footprints of many ghosts that had climbed up before them and never returned. It had been tradition for thousands of years since Thescan's founding for the Houses of the Sun and Moon to fight. One would hold the seat of power and the other would attempt to usurp it without cease. Whoever lost would end up imprisoned in this tower—sometimes for years—before finally dying in it.

The tower hadn't been used in over a century and it showed. The walls were patterned in mold and water-stained, the wood of each stair weak and shrill. But it would be used today to absorb the Gentle King's spirit, capturing it to haunt his betrayers forever.

Frederick entered, finding himself the last to arrive. Urnald, Rycard, and Saebane were already there, waiting, each of them in a chair that faced the Gentle King.

For a moment, he merely stared at the figure of the man who sired him. His nightshirt peeped beneath the extravagant golden mantle, but no one had allowed him the crown. Frederick had imagined this a thousand times, and in each scenario the Gentle King babbled and muttered like a lunatic. But despite the disorder in his appearance, no trace of it lingered in the sea-green eyes they both shared. His face cleared of all confusion.

He watched Frederick with his chin raised and jaw set. The son of a bitch wouldn't make this task easy to do. He would take this last instance to spite his bastard son until his final breath.

And for Frederick there was no delight. No fulfillment. No happiness for what was about to happen.

Only regret. For everything.

"So," Saebane said, "there is an executioner waiting for our order. Should we send for them?"

"No," Urnald said, looking to Frederick. "It will be one of us."

Frederick nodded. "I'll do it."

He stood before the Gentle King and examined his determined face. His disciplinarian. His nightmare.