Sunlight fades into darkness.

Indeed, the sun dissipates into the ebony-colored yonder. The rattle and clink of armour rumbles throughout the night as knights continue their search of the wanted fugitives. With torches, the Loyal Knights comb every nook and cranny of this sprawling city.

The night seeps into the Imperial Palace. Silver light filter in through the windows as they cleft the air apart. In the castle’s atrium, the clamor of combat echoes throughout its entirety—a duel between Balor Pallas Barn and Arturo de Cortein of House Cayrel. Balor, second-born prince of the Imperial Kingdom, closes in on his opponent with a vigorous strike. However, his adversary dishes out a swift and skillful parry with the strong flat of his sword.

As the night light glistens off of the beads of sweat on his brow, Balor darts forward, aggressively reacting to Arturo’s parry. He boldly lunges his rapier, aiming for his opponent’s chest with his full weight behind the blow. But Arturo reads his attack beautifully, ducking low. The prince’s blade slips barely over his head and disturbs Arturo’s stray locks of fine auburn hair. With the opening created, opportunity arises.

The wide, glowing, sapphire blue eyes of Balor watches helplessly as the blunted point of his adversary’s rapier aims directly for his abdomen. The prince, however, sees the blade halt just as it contacts his padded vest, for Arturo has clear and complete control over his actions.

“Did you earnestly believe that riposte would land? Your focus is lacking today,” his taller, strongly-featured opponent comments, raising his eyebrow.

Balor ignores the comment as he moves to his right, where a small table stands. On that table is a towel, which the prince grabs. A groan ruptures from Balor’s throat as he rips the padding from his body and launches his rapier into the ground. The rapier clatters along the stone floor, sending echoes along the vaulted ceiling of the atrium.

The prince lets free a labored sigh as he brings the towel to his face, burying his flushed face within it.

“Truth be told, Arturo, my mind is elsewhere,” Balor says. “Nothing is going as it should.”

“Does it ever, my brother?” Arturo replies.

Arturo collects the discarded blade and looks it over for damage. Finding no measurable fault in the steel, Arturo focuses on the blade’s wielder. Balor withdraws his face from the towel and glances at his fencing partner and confidant. He opens his mouth as if to speak, yet no words can properly convey his acrimony.

Arturo’s pale blue irises hone in on the distraught prince, pivoting the retrieved saber in his grasp and offering its hilt to Balor.

“That’s enough for tonight,” says Arturo. “Come, let us walk.”

The two return their fencing equipment to the rack and depart from the moonlit atrium. They walk in silence through the castle, the dimly-lit passages mere husks aside from the stray patrolman who stands to attention as they pass. They exit the castle, coming upon the royal garden—a walled sanctuary of an abundance of flowers. Square in shape, the space is dominated a fountain with a statue of the Hero King at its center.

The pair halt as they approach the foot of the fountain. The Hero King’s stern face captured well in the painted marble; arm raised in triumph. Balor and Arturo seat themselves along the side of the fountain. They watch the water gush from the spouts beneath the Hero King’s feet. But Balor’s eyes appear glossy, watery, breaking his gaze upon the statue.

“All I want is to be remembered,” Balor honestly expresses. “I want to be remembered for doing something…”

“Not everyone is rewarded with a meaningful life,” Arturo returns.

“It aches my heart to witness my brother squander his opportunity. He’ll be remembered, while I’ll only be a footnote in history.”

“Putting aside our reservations about Lelantos, I believe it’s best to remember that we all must make sacrifices.”

Balor sharply glares at Arturo.

“Haven’t I sacrificed enough!?” Balor roars, his body shaking. “I’ve paid countless hours to stopping the Descendants from falling upon New Charil, and my reward is to watch my brother ruin everything?!”

Arturo gently places a hand upon the shoulder of the forlorn Balor.

“That is your place, my brother—your place as a soldier, not as a king,” Arturo responds, calm as a steady sea.

“I cannot stand here and watch as everything falls to pieces!”

“It is our place—no, our duty—to hold the pieces together, to support our king in every way possible. Lelantos can be molded into a suitable king, but such things take time and a considerable amount of effort. We cannot abandon our station for something as ephemeral as dreams.”

Balor’s eyes withdraw from Arturo, descending slowly to the ground. There is a hard, earnest truth in Arturo’s words, a reality that Balor must admit: he is no more than a tool to protect the crown. The pallid light of the moon illuminates the teardrops trickling down the prince’s eyes. He clenches his face as if to hide the fact that he’s crying, but Arturo knows the truth.

“By Dias, what am I to do?” Balor speaks, his voice crackling under the weight of his emotions.

“The first and most difficult thing to do is to know your place in this world and accept it,” Arturo offers.

“Yes… I suppose you’re right…”

Balor stands up, attempting then to wipe away the tears that he has had. With his tear-wet face, he gazes up into the night sky. An ocean of stars reflects off of his reddened eyes, blooming across the stratosphere.

As the fledgling night carries ahead, the prince Balor bids farewell to the truthbearer Arturo. On his own now, Balor escapes the darkness of the night. He traverses a long hallway, his leather boots rebounding across the space. This hallway is a particularly famous place, for it depicts statues of the former kings and queens of the past one-hundred years.

Balor’s walk grinds to a halt as he is fully embraced by the shadows of the room. Long panels of stained-glass usher in a faint sense of color into the space, colors which warp around Balor’s face.

He will never bear the weight of the High Crown upon his head.

The legendary sword Arbandor will never be wielded by his hand.

Nobody will look to him with happiness and glee.

Nobody will cheer his name.

Nobody will erect statues in his honor.

Nobody will remember his conviction and determination to see the Descendants cast out.

Nobody will remember him before he dies

Nobody will remember him after he dies.

Nobody will remember him.

The indomitable expressions of his ancestors’ statues torment him. Balor’s nails dig into his head, feeling the agony of his rapid heartbeat in his head. His breathing becomes so erratic that his head feels light and weightless. His sobs and moans fill the atmosphere.

The prince collapses onto the floor, which beckons the attention and concern of the nearby knights. They attempt to reconcile him, but Balor is not controllable. His shrunken irises temporarily leave him to find that he is at the feet of one of the room’s many statues. He follows the feet to its legs, then to its torso, then to its face, finding then the familiar face of his father, the great and noble Divus Nomos Barn, casting a gaze down at him.

Targeted by his father’s blank stare, the prince feels taunted, judged by his father and his legacy. No one will remember me… Balor wholeheartedly convinces himself. No one will remember me!

Balor climbs up his father’s statue and escapes the hallway. However, his balance is inconsistent, faltering like walking on two left feet. Clutching onto walls to maintain his stance, the sorrowful prince slowly makes his way down hallways and chambers.

At the end of one hallway is a brilliant white light. Balor’s pace quickens, hauling his broken soul to what can only be Utopia. With his mind completely overtaken by his demonizing thoughts, the prince toils tremendously to reach the end. Feeling the safety of the light consume him, Balor somehow ends up in the Dining Hall of the Imperial Palace.

And there, under the light of a thousand eternal sunflies, is the ravishing Princess Lucia, whose sight breathes life into Balor’s broken spirit.

She turns his way and smiles at his presence like she always does.

“Balor, there you are!” Lucia warmly receives, ascending from her chair.

A lithe smile rises upon Balor’s face as the existence of his dear sister alone wipes away his tears. As his eyes stretch over the long, masterfully decorate table, his thoughts fall into silence. “Oh, Balor was invited too?” Suddenly, the agitated voice of Prince Lelantos Midas Barn emerges from the scene. “Ah, I see… This was all a trick to get us all together, wasn’t it Lucia?”

The princess giggles.

“Sorry, Lelantos!”

Indeed, as Balor’s view expands beyond his sister, he can make out two others: there is his eldest brother Lelantos, who is seated to the right, and there is his father, the Empyrean Divus, who is seated at the helm of the table. The wrinkled face of Divus curls up with a gentle smile, turning his sapphire blue eyes onto the inheritor of those eyes.

“This is certainly a surprise,” Divus reacts, then raising his left hand up above Lucia’s head. “Well, come, Balor. Join us.”

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Without hesitation, Balor walks down the hall, swerving around two long tables, and seats himself beside his sister. Spread across the table is a large banquet of food, from a succulent smoked roast, to legs of turkey, to fresh fruits and vegetables. Servants eloquently pour delicious red wine into the cups of those at the table as they chatter.

“I am sorry for this,” Lucia apologizes, but more solemnly, turning to her father. “It’s just… we haven’t eaten dinner together since Mother passed. I just…”

“I know…” Divus replies, his words as weighed as his daughter’s. “Your mother was always the fabric binding us together. It’s been…very different without her.”

“I still expect her to come in and check up on my research,” Lelantos adds, then emerging with a heavy sigh. “Things have certainly gotten complicated, haven’t they?”

A steady silence covers over the room like drapery. The family quietly work upon their meals, carving their roast with knives. This is, until a grin extends up the cheeks of Lelantos. He ascends from his chair and raises his cup into the air.

“Come, enough of the secrets.” He rises like the dawn of a new day, then sarcastically puffs out his chest. “As your future king, I decree that we have dinner together every night!”

Lelantos’s grin spreads like a gleeful infection. The elation develops along the face of the princess, who also surges from her chair and rises her glass.

“And as princess of the Imperial Kingdom, I second this,” Lucia playfully proceeds, joining in with her eldest brother’s antics.

Their father tenderly smiles as brother and sister relish and laugh at their joke. Divus begins to ascend, just as they did, however he is abruptly seized by yet another coughing attack. His lungs are set ablaze, filling up with his own blood. He incidentally drops his cup of wine, which crashes and spills all over the table. He huddles over as he clasps at his chest.

Lucia and Lelantos, eyes widened by their father’s affliction, grab ahold of their father.

“I’ll take him upstairs,” Lucia converses with her brother.

“Yes, Raphael should be back with his medicine,” Lelantos returns.

Lucia gently helps her father up to his feet. Once up out of his chair, Divus grabs ahold of his daughter’s right arm and uses her as a guide in order to safely exit the room. Whisking her father away, Lucia takes Divus upstairs. This left Lelantos alone at the table with his brother, the unusually quiet Balor.

Lelantos cuts into his slice of roast. The moist, luscious meat splits open with utter ease, practically falling off of the bone. While Lelantos fits the tender meat into his mouth, his brother doesn’t bother with his food or with his wine. Silence expands into several minutes, the space filled only with the sound of Lelantos chewing and sipping his wine.

However, without even moving his tongue, Balor speaks in high volumes. The image of his brother enjoying his meal reflects off of his reddened eyes. His gaze like a sharpened sword, thrust deep into the being of Lelantos. Lelantos seems oblivious of the emotions highlighted by Balor’s eyes, or perhaps he is simply ignoring him.

“Today was a fun day, wasn’t it?” Lelantos suddenly breaks the quiet. “I don’t believe surviving an attack was on my to-do list, yet it presented itself to us.”

“Do you oppose me?” Balor asks his brother a pointed question.

Lelantos pauses before placing another slice of roast on his tongue.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you oppose me?” Balor repeats with increasing rage.

In the next moment, there is an absence of sound between the two brothers, save the echo of Balor’s voice moving to the other end of the hall. A long, weighty sigh heaves out of Lelantos’s lungs as he turns to face his brother. It is abundantly clear to Lelantos that his brother is not in a stable mindset, given the tears still fresh upon his eyes.

“I do not wish to interfere with your duties,” Lelantos builds the courage to speak.

“Do you or do you not oppose me!?” Balor spits fire, slamming his fists into the table, rocking the plates and the glasses.

As the defeated image of his brother casts off of his pale blue eyes, Lelantos retracts back into himself, his heart swelling. Indeed, Balor is a wildfire awaiting ignition. Lelantos knows that he must delicately assemble the words to properly convey the truth…

“Leave us,” Lelantos orders.

With their future king’s word, the servants and Loyal Knights bow respectfully and proceed out of the room. As the sands of time trickle into seconds, Lelantos can feel the air around his brother shift, like heat waves squirming. His ire is much like a whetstone, tapering his glare to a fearsome point.

And Lelantos, whether or not he admits it, is the target of his rising temper.

“Brother, you really have no clue, do you?” Lelantos earnestly questions.

Lelantos, sympathetic to his brother’s plight, ganders upon the developing anger on Balor’s face. Lelantos’s words bounces off of the confines of Balor’s skull, leading to a hopeless fraying of his mind. After all, it isn’t the first time Balor has heard that today. One of the terrorists—a tall, silver-haired man—stated the same exact thing to him. “You really don’t understand anything, do you?” he can hear as the man says.

“What do you mean?” Balor irefully seeks.

“Your efforts against the Descendants, though commendable, have been fruitless,” Lelantos confesses. “Father has been delivering aid to the Descendants for the past several years. Today’s attack was less likely an assassination attempt on his life and more likely an attempt on yours.”

Balor’s brow scrunches together, his frown hangs even lower. He attempts mightily to summon up words to form a sentence, but only wisps of air escape.

“When I become king, I will end this war and grant emancipation to humankind,” Lelantos states with confidence.

“…Why?” Balor mutters a single word, shaking like a leaf.

“Because, Brother, enslaving humankind is not going to achieve Utopia.”

Balor leaps out of his chair, sending it down to the ground.

“And freeing them will!?” he roars, shattering the airwaves.

“Yes, I candidly believe it is the right course of action for our people as well as humankind.” Lelantos states in truth. “How have you not come to this conclusion when the rest of us long since have?”

“What?”

“You’ve not questioned why Father has not given you any Loyal Knights to play out your war? Or how he has been patient with my research? I’ve not been merely reading books, Brother.”

“No…” Balor continues to deny, shaking his head. “How can you and Father believe in humankind after what they did to Lucia!?”

“It’s not just Father and I. Lucia has been perhaps the biggest contributor to our cause.”

Balor hesitates for a moment, trying to process what his brother just said.

“…What?” he utters.

“When she goes off on her own, do you think she just innocently wants some alone time?” Lelantos goes on, ripping Balor apart. “No, Brother, she’s reaching out to Malik and giving him information. Do you so firmly believe today’s attack was a mere coincidence?”

Balor’s confusion burns away, morphing into an expression of absolute fury.

“Lucia would never…!” he hisses.

“Don’t be so obtuse. Father, Mother, Sister, myself, even Uncle—all of us believe that the future—that Utopia—goes hand-in-hand with humankind. You’re the last one remaining that still clings to the past.”

“No…”

Lelantos releases a tired, exhaustive sigh. He calmly lays his wine down, pulls out of his chair, and approaches the seeming inapproachable Balor, whose face is red with rage.

“Listen to me, Balor,” Lelantos genuinely implores as he places his hand upon Balor’s shoulder. “Whether you accept the truth or not is irrelevant. Father and Sister have been hard at work plowing this ground and sowing the seeds for my rise as king. I’ve no desire abandoning you to the antiquated ways of our kind, Brother, but if I must, I will.”

Tears begin to fall from Balor’s eyes as he feels a sudden weakness in his knees.

“No!” Balor cries. “Lucia would never…!”

“Face it! Lucia is not under your disillusion!”

“Liar!”

“Lucia is not your ally!”

“LIAR!!” Balor, with his eyes clouded by tears trickling down his face, suddenly and vehemently explodes, much to Lelantos’s surprise. His eyes shoot as wide as coins as Balor’s hands move without thought, swift to find Lelantos’s throat. Lelantos’s wheezes and chokes echo throughout the Great Hall as Balor’s fingers spread across his throat, viciously squeezing the life out of him. Yet these gasps of life are but mutterings before the thundering reverb of Balor’s mad ranting.

“YOU’RE A LIAR!” Balor’s cracking voices ruptures. “LUCIA WOULD NEVER BETRAY ME!”

“B…Balor…” Lelantos manages to get out. “I can’t…I can’t breathe…”

But no matter how much he begs, no matter how much he pleads, his words fall upon the deafened ears of his rabid brother.

Weakened, Lelantos collapses to the floor, hitting the cold stone brick floor on his back. There is one choice in Lelantos’s head—the only choice. Lelantos’s left hand reaches down to his waist. His hand blindly and hectically rummages for the handle of his sword, the adamas blade Arbandor, but with his mind starved of oxygen, his hunt turns up empty.

Balor’s teardrops splash upon Lelantos’s face, slithering down his cheeks as if he were the one crying. Lelantos’s vision begins to slip into blackness. He gives it one final push to preserve his life. His left hand sluggishly rises, pounding against Balor’s head, yet the frenzied prince is hardly fazed. His expression is an amalgamation of sorrow and wrath, which barely twitches amid Lelantos’s assault.

There is then a disgusting, gut-wrenching pop which rings out across the Great Hall. Lelantos’s left hand suddenly grows limp. His body falls motionless, his eyes roll into the back of his head. His frantic heartbeat is quelled; indeed, the eldest prince’s life is snuffed out. Yet even still, Balor’s shaking hands don’t move, continuing to strangle that which has clearly passed.

The lifeless expression reflects off of Balor’s glowing, sapphire blue eyes, yet he doesn’t seem to register what he had just done. His belligerent raving continues in earnest, even pulling his brother’s body up multiple times. It isn’t until several minutes later that the breathless expression on Lelantos is processed in Balor’s head. The light of his irises had faded away; his deathly visage absorbed into Balor’s retina.

Balor comes to, the doleful rage upon his face vanishing. Normalcy returns to the infuriated prince, and when the tears begin to dry, his brain slowly manifests exactly what he had done. His trembling hands release Lelantos’s throat, and Lelantos’s face dollishly turns to its side.

“Brother?” Balor mutters, shaking his brother’s soulless body. “Lelantos? Lelantos!”

Balor is only rewarded with silence.

This prolonged silence drives Balor insane, leading to him violently rattling the lifeless carcass of the future king. Yet, no matter how hard Balor shakes, he receives no response. The realization slowly sinks in, and a blizzard runs down Balor’s spine. Comprehending just what he had done to his brother, Balor stares at his two hands. Still trembling from his heightened emotions, the prince attempts to wrap his head around…his own actions.

“No…” he mumbles under his breath. “No, no, no!”

Balor can feel as his seams writhe and come undone. Frantically crawling away from his brother’s fresh corpse, the air is filled with his whimpers. His momentary sense of calm transmogrifies into pure panic. The doublet he wears becomes thoroughly drench in a fierce cold sweat. Balor’s stomach churns vigorously and rushes up his esophagus, resulting in him vomiting. Violently spewing out his stomach content, it pools up beside him.

Enduring an assault upon all of his senses, Balor’s thoughts stir upon a million different things, overwhelming him to the point of hyperventilation. ’How did this happen?’ ‘This is impossible!’ Balor can only gaze upon his two hands with dread and horror, for he had committed fratricide with them.

“What have I done?!” Balor howls, covering his mouth with his left hand.

The distraught prince sits there alone, with no knight, servant, nor sibling to comfort him. A heartrending expression is carven into his face, with countless tears cascading from his chiseled cheeks. He crawls over to his brother’s body and cradles him, sobbing relentlessly.

Yet, as Balor laments the brother he murdered, a dark, furtive voice slithers its way into his skull. It grips him by his deadened ears, and softly it whispers words to encourage the grief-stricken prince.

This is what you wanted, Balor.

“No…!” Balor earnestly insists, shaking his head. “I didn’t want this… I couldn’t have!”

Balor fends off the blackened thoughts, thoroughly rejecting its proposal, yet the thoughts are a powerful influencer. Much like a hand clutching him by the chin, the thoughts overwhelm Balor.

Yes, Balor…

This is exactly what needed to happen.

The thoughts prey upon the prince, seeping into his desires. It is so close to the remains of his dead dreams that it, like an undertaker, can make out the paleness of its skin, the sculpture of its face. Instead of dressing it up for its funeral, however, the thoughts seek to resurrect it.

You yearn for the crown, don’t you?

Whispering into his ear, Balor is completely and utterly seized by these thoughts. Like a morgue, the thoughts examine Balor, exhuming the deepest chambers of his heart.

You want power.

You want the crown.

“Yes…” Balor softly agrees.

Then wipe away your tears and stand up.

Balor, buying where his thoughts led him, sluggishly pries himself out of his regrets, yet such is like fighting a swamp, clinging to him, dragging him down.

You are not wrong.

Only you can do what is right.

This is the last bit of motivation Balor needs.

Balor slowly builds himself up. He staggers to his feet as if drunken, nearly losing his balance. Feeling the power overcome him, his left hand outstretches ahead of him, reaching down for the blade strapped to the lifeless corpse of his brother’s. His fingers clasp around its jagged, adamas handle, and for the first time in his life, Balor can feel the weight of this ancient blade.

“Yes,” Balor concurs with more confidence, standing on his own two feet. “You’re right…”