Kalakuta's legs finally give out.
He collapses against the throne, sliding down until he sits on the blood-soaked steps leading to the seat of power he has just claimed. Pathfinder clatters from his weakened grip, the armament's crimson glow fading as it rolls across the marble floor.
In the silence of the throne room, with only the King's corpse for company, Kalakuta's mind drifts.
He thinks of Kamal.
His first friend.
The brother who tended to his wounds and broke some of the chains present on his mind so long ago.
Kamal was the first to agree as he whispered dreams of freedom in the darkness, even when hope seemed like a fantasy too cruel to entertain.
"I'm sorry, brother," Kalakuta whispers, his voice barely audible. "I was selfish. So selfish."
Then comes Garett.
The man who could see patterns in chaos and turn desperate fights into calculated victories.
