The King
By Derek Young
King Critosse of Radalia was in a pensive mood. He thought about the many things it took to be a king. All the dull topics of trade, politics, and laws meant absolutely nothing to him. He had been king for only a few days now after his father had been assassinated in his sleep, and he was already tedious of his royal position.
His father, the great king before him, had cared about these things, but, then again, Critosse and his father were completely different in many ways. After his father died, the citizens of Radalia had anticipated Critosse to be as great of a king as his father was before him. So far, the citizens were wrong.
King Critosse was barely sixteen years old, barely a grown man. How could he rule a vast kingdom like his great father had? He had lived life freely, taking each day as if it were his last. But now here he sat on a great throne of rich jewels, living the bland life of a king. He knew he had the power to get whatever he wanted, but there was only one thing he wanted at the moment… revenge for his father's death.
The king gave a deep sigh. He closed his eyes for a few moments as if to try to get some sleep when, as he somehow predicted, the door to the throne room burst open. Critosse opened his eyes to see the Captain of the Guards enter; he groaned under his breath. "What now, Captain?" he asked in a slightly annoyed voice.
The Captain entered the throne room in a regal gait, showing a narcissistic personality. "Your majesty, we have found more clues to your father's assassination."
Critosse started and instantly sat upright in his throne. "What have you found?"
"Your majesty, you remember that we found the dagger and the threatening letter written by one called 'Zivaran?'"
"Yes, yes." The king remembered wholly the letter that was left by his father's body. It had said that the writer, 'Zivaran,' would return to kill Critosse if they did not give into the demands of giving their kingdom to Wilcovia. Ever since then Critosse had been kept under supreme security with guards following his every move.
"We found, after close inspection, a ripped cloth of a Wilcovian cloak was found in the window. It seems our assassin had escaped through the window and his cloak was torn."
"Interesting," replied the king. "So that means we need to look for a Wilcovian with a torn cloak?"
"Yes, your majesty, it's most likely one of the Wilcovians that came along with the ambassador. The guards will keep their eyes open for this criminal."
That night, King Critosse escaped from his chamber. Over the years, he had explored every corner of his castle, learning all the secret passages to avoid the royal guard. Sleep could not find him; he had to get away from his royal confinement. He armed himself with his long, silver sword for protection.
He sneaked through the dark streets of the rich district. There was barely anyone out on the streets this late at night. A great full moon shined in the night sky alongside many sparkling stars. The occasional lantern lit the doorstep of a tavern or merchant's shop. He continued through the night quietly, trying not to arouse any suspicion.
As he walked through the quiet streets, he passed by a man. The man was obviously Wilcovian since he wore one of the gray cloaks that were one of the country's cultural clothing. Critosse instantly remember what the Captain of the Guards said; he felt his eyes look at the cloak. The cloak was torn.
He felt his blood start to rush. This was the man who had killed his father. It seemed at that moment, the little voice inside his mind that spoke of common sense disappeared and he felt himself uncontrollably shout at the man and unsheathe his sword.
The man jumped at the sight of the king and began to run. Critosse chased the man with his sword burnishing brightly in his hands. His heart beat loudly and his breath was deep and enraged like a raging bull.
Critosse chased the man to a dead end alleyway. The man cringed as the king's shadow grew above him; he turned to Critosse and instantly dropped to his knees, shouting out cries of fear and confusion.
"It's no use!" screamed Critosse. "I know what you've done!" He held his sword fiercely, ready to strike.
"No, your majesty!" cried the man, begging for forgiveness.
As Critosse watched the man cower, he thought it was most unbecoming for the assassin of his father, but he thought no longer. The silver sword shined in the moonlight as it fell.
Critosse slept well that night.
The next morning the Captain of the Guards returned to him in the throne room with a dirty, peasant looking man in chains. "Greetings, your majesty," said the Captain as he bowed. "We have caught your father's assassin… Zivaran."
He threw the dirty man to the ground. The man was very old, Critosse could see, and had a long gray beard and wore a Wilcovian Cloak. Dirt stains covered his gray cloak and, after close inspection, Critosse saw many small weapons like daggers and knives inside his sleeves.
Critosse went pale and felt nauseas as he realized what had happened. "Oh, thank you, Captain," he said, wearily. "Go… take care of him." The Captain left with the assassin yelling disrespectful things as he struggled to escape the Captain's strong grip.
The king dizzily stood up. It seemed that in his rage to find his father's assassin, he had become one himself. He killed an innocent man. The image of the cowering man came to him again and again until he laid himself for a long rest. The sleep of King Critosse was haunted forever more.