3. Blood - A Guilty Prince, A Ruthless King

Bodies litter the floor. Liquid oozes from their wounds, ragged and raw, dripping down between the cracks in the cobblestone. Splattered across the walls. Singing the tale of a sword arching upwards, an axe hacking through bone and flesh and –

Percival bolts upright, a burning sensation running up the length of his throat. He bites back bile, chokes on the acidic tang, falling into a fit of egregious coughs.

But waking does not free him from the nightmare.

Still, the metallic tang lingers in the air, in his nose, on his tongue. Still, he can hear orders barked and knights shouting, screaming, crying. The ring of steel clashing against steel, the sickening crunch of bone beneath the weight of a weapon or armoured feet.

He had wanted this. To wrestle control of the throne from his father, the damned old fool, and rule like he was destined to. Still wants it, but thoughts of birthright do little to calm his breathing, or stop the tears from trailing down his cheeks.

What he had not considered, perhaps, were the consequences of his actions. Sure, he knew that violence was the likely outcome - his father would never have given up peacefully - but the battle is seared onto the back of his eyelids. Replayed every time he blinks or shuts his eyes to sleep. The horrors he had witnessed, had instigated, will never leave him.

A ghost, paler than the bodies he had spied the next morning, hanging over his shoulders. Haunting him as much as their glassy eyes had. As much as their mouths, still open in wayward screams and dying gasps, had shaken him to his core.

He cannot let the sea of blood lining the castle floors be his legacy. But how can he convince the people that his actions were just, insist that only knights of the king were harmed or killed, when even he feels like such a statement lacks definite weight?

Let them judge me, he thinks, inhaling a single deep and shaky breath, I will prove them wrong.