Eradin Vastille, the fourth prince of Andar bowed his head exhausted, allowing the rough loop of rope to snake its way around his exposed neck. Looking up again, his tired eyes gazed upon the crowd before him. Their jeering remarks and taunting smiles no longer stirred the flames of his anger. He had learned long ago that emotion just sharpened the pain. Instead he turned his head to the left, watching as the hanging corpses of his brothers shook in the still morning air. Though long dead, the three bodies stayed swaying, the struggling of his last living brother Adrian giving them movement.
Looking upon his older brother, Eradin couldn’t help but shiver. The colour of Adrian’s face had transitioned from a flushed red to a vibrant purple hue in the short time that he had looked away. The boy’s eyes bulged outwards as his bloodied hands tore at the rough twisted fibres that choked him with an animalistic fervor. Eradin turned away once more, unable to bear the sight of his brother’s torment. Looking back to the mob that stood before him, his eyes began to itch. No tears came forth, the water long since lost in the weeks leading up to the execution. Closing his eyes, Eradin wished death would come for him already. Instead his ears were greeted by the voice he hated most.
“Hello Eradin,” The casual greeting prickled his skin in a way that no other words could have. Another bout of shivering stole control of his bruised and battered body. Opening his eyes, he looked upon the face behind his kingdom’s demise.
“Azerell,” he croaked, his parched throat struggling to speak after weeks of neglect. A deep rooted loathing began to bubble up from his chest.
The man looked the same as Eradin remembered, a tall imposing figure dressed in robes of deep red and gold. His long face still bore the same ashen beard and bushy eyebrows that gave him his familiar appearance. Oh how he wished he could smash that stupid looking-
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“It’s almost time you know,” Azerell paused as if allowing his words to sink in. “Have you any last requests?”
Silence seemed to fill the air around the two figures, the noise of the crowd fading into the backdrop. Eradin clenched his teeth so hard he thought they might crack. Digging his scabbed wrists into his restraints, he repeated the question back trembling.
“Do I have any requests? Azerell you piece of dredged up horseshit! My father trusted you! You were as good as family to him!”
The man just looked back at Eradin, taking in his bound form before averting his gaze.
As fast as it came, the intense fury filling Eradin left him. All that was left was a hollow shell of despair and self hate. Hope had left him and death was waiting. There was no escaping this.
Eradin began to sob, his chest heaving as his pent up emotions poured out of him.
“I don’t wan’t to die. He choked, newfound tears flowing down his cheeks. Please Azerell, don’t do this. Please, give me a chance. I will-"
“I’ve already told you Eradin, this is it. Azerell almost looked sorry, his face wearing a look of pained understanding.
Eradin closed his eyes, forcefully shutting off the tears. Slowly his sobs began to die down, his body growing more and more still. Sniffling Eradin opened his eyes. Looking towards his country’s former Grand Magician and his father’s best friend, Eradin steeled himself.
“Azerell. You are a piece of human garbage. I hope you rot in Hell.”
As the hate filled words left his mouth Eradin fell from the platform and the rope went taut.