The opulent chamber of the Royal Palace gleamed under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, their light casting long shadows across marble floors etched with the faded insignia of a monarchy long stripped of its teeth. Prince Elias Voss, barely seventeen, stood motionless, the cold edge of a knife pressed against the pale skin of his throat. His expression was one of mild curiosity, as if the intruder were a puzzle rather than a threat. The assassin, cloaked in black, his face obscured by a simple mask, had slipped through the palace's lax security— a testament to the democracy's disdain for wasting resources on ceremonial relics like the royal family.
The killer's voice was rough, edged with the finality of his intent. "Any last wish?"
Elias's eyes, sharp and unblinking, met the man's gaze through the mask's slits. "No, kill me. But I have a question: Who are you?"
The assassin hesitated for a fraction of a second, then snarled, "Yotoshi."
Elias tilted his head ever so slightly, the knife nicking his skin just enough to draw a thin line of blood. He didn't flinch. "Is that so? This name was given to you by your parents?"
Yotoshi's grip tightened on the hilt. "Your name is also given by parents."
"Yes," Elias replied calmly, his voice a smooth, unwavering cadence that filled the room like an inescapable echo. "Therefore, I am something called 'nothing.' Think about this: Your name, your identity—everything is given by someone else. If you kill me, one more name will be added: 'killer.' Currently, you are a man, but after killing me, think—a killer. Your family will be labeled like I'm a prince; my family was the ruler, so 'prince.' Yours is scum. The phrase 'equality' is a lie; that is the truth."
Yotoshi's breath hitched, the knife wavering just a touch. He pressed it harder, but Elias's words had already begun to burrow, like roots cracking stone. "Shut up. You royals think you're above it all—"
"Above?" Elias interrupted, his lips curving into a faint, almost pitying smile. "No, Yotoshi—or whatever collection of syllables others assigned to you—I'm below. Or perhaps beside. But let's dissect this further, shall we? Your name, 'Yotoshi.' Who chose it? Parents, yes. But why that name? A family tradition? A fleeting whim? Perhaps they heard it in a market stall, or from a neighbor whose own name was borrowed from some ancient tale. It's not yours; it's a hand-me-down, a label slapped on you at birth like a price tag on merchandise. And you wear it, don't you? You cling to it as if it defines you. But strip it away—what remains? A body? A set of impulses? Or nothing at all?"
The assassin's eyes narrowed, confusion flickering behind the mask. "What are you babbling about? I'm here to end you, not listen to philosophy."
"Philosophy?" Elias chuckled softly, the sound devoid of humor, more like the creak of a door opening to an abyss. "This is reality, Yotoshi. Your identity isn't a fortress; it's a house of cards built by others. Your parents gave you the name, but society gave you the role. 'Man.' 'Citizen.' 'Worker,' perhaps? Or 'dissident,' judging by your presence here. Who told you to hate the monarchy? The newspapers? Your friends? The elected officials who promise change but deliver the same chains? You didn't choose your beliefs; they were fed to you, drip by drip, until you swallowed them whole. And now, you're here, knife in hand, thinking this act is your own. But is it? Who sent you? A revolutionary group? A rival politician? Or was it just the echo of a slogan you heard in a crowded square—'Down with the relics!'—that lodged in your mind like a parasite?"
Yotoshi shifted his weight, the knife's pressure easing imperceptibly. Sweat beaded on his forehead, visible even in the dim light. "You're trying to stall. It won't work. I know what I am."
"Do you?" Elias pressed, his gaze piercing, as if he could see straight through the mask to the fragile core beneath. "Let's test that. Your family— you mentioned them indirectly when you dismissed my point. Wife? Children? Siblings? They call you 'father,' 'brother,' 'husband.' But those are roles assigned by blood and circumstance, not choice. If you kill me, those labels twist. 'Father of a killer.' 'Brother of a murderer.' Society will whisper, then shout: 'Scum.' Your children will carry that stain, passed down like your name. They'll be ostracized, their futures crumbled not by your hand, but by the invisible web of judgments others weave. Equality? A myth peddled by the powerful to keep the masses docile. In democracy, we're all 'equal' until we're not. You, a common man, kill a prince—symbolic or not—and the system will crush you to protect its facade. Your act won't topple anything; it'll reinforce the lie."
The assassin's hand trembled now, the knife drawing another shallow cut, but Elias remained statue-still, his words relentless. "Think deeper, Yotoshi. Your very purpose here—who planted it? Was it anger at inequality? But inequality is the truth you deny. You weren't born equal to me; I have palaces, you have... what? A cramped apartment in the city's underbelly? A job that grinds your spirit? And yet, you believe in 'free will.' Laughable. Your choices are illusions, scripted by environment, upbringing, propaganda. If your parents had named you differently, raised you elsewhere, would you still be here? Or would you be a loyal voter, cheering the parliament that keeps us all in our places?"
Yotoshi's voice cracked, anger giving way to something rawer—doubt. "Stop... you're twisting everything."
"Twisting?" Elias's tone softened, almost gentle, but it was the gentleness of a surgeon's scalpel. "I'm unraveling. Your identity is a threadbare cloth, patched together by others' expectations. Pull one thread—your name—and it frays. Pull another—your motives—and it tears. Who are you without the labels? Without 'Yotoshi,' without 'assassin,' without the rage someone else ignited in you? Nothing. Just like me. I'm 'Prince Elias Voss' because history and birthright say so. But in this democracy, I'm a puppet, a decoration. Powerless. And you? You're the tool they send to prune the decoration. But after? You'll be discarded, your identity shattered into 'criminal,' 'traitor,' 'example.' Your family? Collateral. Equality is the lie; hierarchy is the truth, hidden in plain sight."
The man stepped back half a pace, the knife lowering slightly, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Elias watched him, unblinking, his mind already mapping the fractures spreading through Yotoshi's psyche. The breakdown was just beginning—layers upon layers to peel away, until nothing remained but the hollow shell of a man who once thought he knew himself.
But Elias wasn't done. Not yet. "Now, let's talk about your memories. Those cherished fragments you think make you 'you.' Were they truly yours, or..."
Yotoshi's voice broke like thin ice. "Stop… stop it. Don't speak. Just—tell me what to do."
The words came out ragged, almost pleading. The knife trembled against Elias's throat, no longer a steady threat but a desperate anchor. Elias regarded the man with the same detached curiosity one might show a wounded animal.
Slowly, deliberately, Elias raised his hand. His fingers—long, pale, unmarred by labor—closed gently around the assassin's wrist. Not to push the blade away. Not to disarm. Simply to hold. The contact was cool, almost clinical.
"Kill me," Elias said softly, "or kill yourself."
The words landed like stones dropped into still water. Ripples of silence spread outward.
Yotoshi's entire body shuddered. His breathing turned shallow and erratic; the mask could not hide the way his eyes widened, pupils dilating in raw panic. The knife wavered, then pressed harder for a heartbeat—as if sheer physical force could drown out the voice inside his head.
Elias did not flinch. He leaned forward the tiniest fraction, so their faces were only inches apart.
"If you kill me," he continued, voice low and measured, "a new name attaches itself to you forever: killer. The newspapers will print it. The courts will stamp it. Your children—if you have any—will inherit it like a disease. 'Son of the man who murdered the prince.' Democracy loves its spectacles; it will make an example of you and your bloodline to prove the system still protects its decorative relics. You will pay. Not with your life alone, but with everything that ever mattered to the fragment you call 'you.'"
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"Or," Elias whispered, "you end the farce right now. One motion. Your heart. No new label. No inheritance of shame. Just… nothing. The same nothing we both already are."
Yotoshi's hand shook violently now. Tears—whether of rage, terror, or something nameless—gathered at the corners of his eyes, soaking into the fabric of the mask.
For one endless second, the room held its breath.
Then, without warning, without a word, Yotoshi wrenched the knife away from Elias's throat.
And drove it into his own chest.
The sound was wet, final. A choked gasp escaped him as he staggered backward, hands clutching the hilt. He sank to his knees, blood blooming dark across his black clothing like spilled ink. His eyes—wide, disbelieving—locked onto Elias's face one last time.
Elias watched without expression. No triumph. No horror. Only quiet observation, as though cataloging the precise angle of collapse, the rhythm of the final breaths.
Yotoshi toppled sideways. The knife remained embedded. A slow pool spread across the marble.
Silence returned, thicker now.
Footsteps—hurried, multiple—echoed down the corridor outside.
The double doors burst open.
First came Marcus, the head butler, silver-haired and impeccably uniformed even at this hour. Behind him, two royal guards, a maid clutching her apron, and the night steward—all of them frozen in the doorway, staring at the scene.
The prince stood motionless in the center of the room, a thin line of blood tracing his throat where the blade had grazed him. At his feet lay the body of the intruder, knife buried to the hilt in his own chest.
Marcus was the first to speak, voice cracking despite years of practiced composure. "Your Highness… what—what happened here?"
Elias turned slowly to face them. His expression was calm, almost serene. A single droplet of blood slid down his neck and disappeared into the collar of his silk shirt.
"He stabbed himself," Elias said simply.
The words hung in the air.
The maid let out a small, strangled sound. One of the guards took an instinctive step forward, hand on his holster, eyes darting between the prince and the corpse.
Marcus swallowed hard. "He… he came here to kill you, didn't he?"
"Presumably." Elias's tone remained even, conversational. "He held a knife to my throat. Asked if I had any last words. I answered his questions instead."
The steward blinked rapidly. "And then… he just—"
"Turned the blade on himself," Elias finished. "Of his own volition."
No one moved for several heartbeats.
Marcus finally found his voice again. "We must call the authorities at once. And medical—even if…"
"Unnecessary," Elias said. He glanced down at the body once more, then back to the butler. "He's quite dead. You may verify if you wish."
None of them did.
The prince stepped carefully around the spreading blood, moving toward the open doors as though nothing more remarkable had occurred than a spilled glass of wine.
"Clean this up," he instructed quietly. "And inform the Prime Minister's office in the morning. They'll want a statement for the press. Something tasteful. 'Tragic suicide of a disturbed individual inside the palace grounds.' Omit the philosophical discussion."
Marcus stared after him, mouth slightly open.
Elias paused at the threshold, turning just enough to meet the butler's eyes.
"Oh—and Marcus?"
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"See that the body is identified quietly. I'd like to know the name his parents gave him."
With that, Elias Voss walked out into the dimly lit corridor, leaving the stunned household staring at the corpse of a man who had ceased to exist the moment he believed he did.
The palace, silent witness to centuries of pageantry and now this quiet annihilation, closed its doors behind him.