Silently gazing at my father lying on the ground, his strikingly beautiful face etched with indescribable sorrow and weariness, I recalled how at twelve years old, I had pestered my grandfather for a curse.
I succeeded in cursing my father and Heather—they would never, for eternity, win the love of those they cherished. Perhaps, just before my father collapsed, he suddenly realized that the woman he loved most was still my mother!
It was he who married Heather, as treacherous as a viper, he who destroyed our once-happy family, and he who indirectly caused my mother's death!
I did not help him up. Instead, I stared at the throne he had just vacated. My mother wanted me to be king, so I would be king. It was just a chair, after all—I believed I could sit upon it. Though, perhaps, I would have to tread over countless corpses to do so.
For revenge, what did a few more bodies matter?
My mother's grand funeral had just ended when I was accused of treason!
