He was alone when it finally happened.

  Poison in his cup. Effortless, and quiet. There were no people around to rush towards him. His servants had abandoned him and he had long lost the people's adoration.

  The ash-borne prince, the under-dog prince- he used to be the public darling. Until that woman, that vile, horrendous bitch came and ruined his life. The war was supposed to be his, the sword his to wield, the glory his to seize.

  The throne would never be given to him. So obviously, he had to dedicate his entire life to steal it. He'd put on every mask, tell every lie, ruined every noble that dared to step on him.

  Only for that northern bastard to come and take it. Without a single sweat, like the monster he was.

  But he'd give up the throne even, truly, if it meant he could be in the embrace of Lilliana, the sweet sweet maiden from the church. Her pale skin, soft blond hair and kind green eyes that melted his resolve whenever he looked into them.

  But even she had turned her face away from him. She who so lovingly used to hold his arm and giggle at his quips, quivered at the sight of him and hid behind her new 'protector' , as if she never even knew him.

  They were not lovers, but he would've asked her to be.

  She wasn't supposed to say no. She, she must have felt love for him, the same he did for her.

  It was all that woman's fault. The red-haired demon with amethyst eyes. She was there, whispering traitorous words into the ears of the northern king, foiling every alliance he tried to make, driving a wedge between him and his destined lover, poisoning the good people with half-truths and conjectures about his past.

  And the poison in the cup, that was her doing too.

  Or maybe it wasn't. She seemed to harbor a special kind of hatred for him. He would have expected a spectacle out of his death.

  Was it because they were once engaged?

  He swore he could vaguely remember a time she had looked at him with hearts in her eyes and rained on him simpering words of fttery.

  Perhaps, this was her way of telling him he was beneath hatred in her eyes. He had become so insignificant, so powerless that she didn't even need a sword or the realm's blessing to end him.

  Just poison, a weapon used to orchestrate silent deaths.

  It was an old family bottle of wine. He didn't choke when it went down his thoat.

  It was the slow, numbing type, the type that lulled you to a sleep you never woke up from.

  The mansion was empty. All of his family were dead. The servants had left. Perfect for the little lord's body to rot and decay until some straggler happened to come upon it.

  The light in his eyes was fading soon.

  Though there was no light in the mansion, only shadows.

  He should've hated her more in his final moments, but everything felt so exhausting. He wished to see Lilliana, y his head on her p and hear her ethereal voice. He wished to hear the people appud as he returned from the battlefields.

  He wished the pain in his heart would stop. He wished a maid would bring him a gss of water to quench this unbearable thirst.

  He wished he could just grasp the hilt of his sword one more time.

  He wished...there was someone, something, anything familiar with him, but the ghost of a mansion he hated.

  Antonia...Davis...the name sounded far too soft in his dying gasp.

  'If there is another life, I swear I'll see you burn along with your northern whore of a king.'