Ezra stood in front of the large double doors, sparks of lightning emitting off his warm flesh. His eyes shifted between the two guards who stood watch over the entrance to his father’s throne room.

  “Move,” Ezra screamed.

  The two guards flinched as though they were struck. They both felt his energy — his untamed anger spilling into the halls — and they wanted no part of it.

  Their hands trembled as they grasped the iron handles.

  “Y-yes, sire,” one of them stammered, struggling to get his words out as both men pushed open the heavy doors with trembling haste. Their eyes stayed fixed on the floor. None of them were brave enough to meet his gaze. They knew better than to stare into the storm that gathered in his eyes.

  As Ezra stepped into the throne room with Joseph’s lifeless body cradled against his chest, the hall inhaled — and fell silent.

  Soldiers flanked each side of the room in lines along the walls — La Mort’s trusted men, the bravest of all his warriors. But today, brave wasn’t enough. No one dared to look up; it was as if the room itself feared to witness grief made flesh.

  Tears flowed down Ezra’s cheeks like an endless river, grief braided with rage until the two became indistinguishable. His boots struck the cold floor with each step toward his father — a drumbeat of accusation on its way to pass judgement on the accused.

  The throne room rose around him like a cathedral of power, thin blades of cold light slicing through the stained glass high above. And at the far end, seated upon a throne of darkness — forged from the skulls of his enemies — sat La Mort.

  Motionless. Soulless.

  A king without compassion, with two guards standing at his sides like statues carved from shadow.

  Ezra’s eyes dropped to Joseph’s lifeless face, then to his father’s. Holding his friend close, as if his soul was still bound to this world, he spoke — low, raw, through gritted teeth.

  “Is it not enough to own the galaxy… that you must take what little I have on this planet?”

  La Mort gripped his stomach, his mouth curling into a venomous smile as a short, cold chuckle rolled through the air like distant thunder.

  “Enough? It will never be enough. In war, there is always someone — or something — to be conquered, boy. There is always another pretender who beats his drums of war, another thief in the night trying to steal what I forged.”

  He raised his hands, showing them to Ezra. “These hands have been through many wars. Split the blood of those who refused to bow. I shed blood, sweat, and tears to give you boys a life most could only dream of.”

  He leaned forward slightly, his voice darkening. “You think me a monster? A beast with no leash? Tell me, boy… how am I the monster that haunts the galaxy’s dreams? I gave them all a choice — surrender or perish. They refused. So tell me, are they not authors of their own ruin? Does their blood not stain the soil their ancestors died to build?”

  Ezra’s jaw tightened. His lips trembled, words fighting to escape. His eyes flicked to the black metal slab at his side. He walked over, laid Joseph down gently upon it — as if afraid to cause him any more pain. His hand lingered on his friend’s chest for a moment.

  When he straightened, he moved forward. Closer to the throne. Closer to the man who had taken everything from him.

  “No!” Ezra’s voice cracked into a roar that shook the air. “You lie! You cast the first stone and hide your hands. Joseph was a good man — a noble man. He didn’t deserve to die at your command. And you would make me believe his death was my fault? No!”

  His fists clenched. Sparks erupted across his skin, lightning crawling up his arms.

  “You took a man’s life to send a message to a child! That doesn’t make you a man, Father. That doesn’t make you a king. All it proves is what everyone already knows — you’re a tyrant. A coward. A man who crushes the weak to feed his ego!”

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  La Mort’s fingers curled into a fist. The sound of leather straining filled the silence before his hand slammed into the armrest of his throne.

  “Watch your tongue, boy!”

  “Or what, Father?” Ezra spat. “You’ll do to me what you did to him? No… you wouldn’t harm your precious heirs, would you? Only the ones who can’t fight back.”

  La Mort rose from his throne with measured grace — and in that moment, the air shifted. A cold darkness settled across the room.

  “You forget yourself,” he said. “I am your king — and you will show me respect.”

  Ezra didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

  “Respect?” he said quietly. “Tell me, Father — what did respect ever buy me, other than a life of misery and despair?”

  La Mort’s voice deepened, his tone venomous. “Misery? Despair? You dare to spit in the face of your father — your king? I gave you more than you ever deserved, boy. And yet you still pushed me to this.”

  His gaze flicked toward Joseph’s body, cold and remorseless. “You were warned. Again and again. But you defied my rule. You feared no consequences. So I gave you one. His death is the price of your defiance — nothing more, nothing less.”

  Ezra’s voice didn’t tremble. His will didn’t falter.

  “One day, you’ll answer for your crimes, Father,” he said, his voice breaking with rage. “And when that time comes, I hope you can look into the mirror and accept that you brought this upon yourself.”

  Ezra lifted Joseph’s body from the slab, holding him one last time before turning his back on the throne. Without another word, he stormed out of the room — lightning still sparking faintly across his arms as the doors slammed shut behind him.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of the kingdom, training in isolation, was Ezra’s older brother — Cane.

  He was nothing like Ezra. He was the embodiment of their father in every way. Some whispered he was worse — cruel, calculated, meticulous.

  He stood at 5’9”, slender in build but carried himself like a giant. Every move was sharp, deliberate. Every breath, controlled.

  “Sire, I think you should slow down,” said one of La Mort’s soldiers, watching Cane tear through soldier after soldier with ruthless precision.

  “A break?” Cane scoffed, barely winded. “I’ve hardly broken a sweat.”

  He stood there, face painted with blood — red streaks cutting across his features like war paint.

  “But sire, if we continue at this rate, we won’t have anyone left your age to train with. The floor, the walls — they’re painted with blood. Bones are broken, wills shattered. Allow them rest, sire,” said the soldier.

  Cane paused, a devilish smirk forming through the river of blood across his face.

  “As you wish,” he said slowly, voice calm and deliberate. “I’ll spare these weaklings further pain and embarrassment. Bring in the men in their place.”

  The soldier’s eyes widened, his mouth half open. “Sire… are you sure that’s wise?”

  The smirk on cane’s face quickly vanished. his expression hardened to stone.

  “Doubt,” he said quietly, “is for the weak — and I am not weak.”

  The soldier quickly lowered his head. “You’re right… I’m sorry, sire.”

  As he turned to fetch the men, Cane’s voice sliced through the air.

  “Never again place your own limitations on me. Is that understood?”

  The soldier froze mid-step, gulped hard, then nodded. “I apologise, sire. I meant no offence.”

  Cane’s gaze didn’t waver. Beneath that calm exterior was a storm waiting to be unleashed.

  He believed no man, woman, or creature stood on par with him — and welcomed anyone who dared to test that belief.

  They doubt me, he thought. They look at my stature and see a boy. But after today, they’ll never doubt me again. They’ll all learn what it means to cross paths with the greatest assassin this galaxy has ever seen.

  As the men lined up, the beaten kids limped out of the brown-padded training room, clutching their ribs and holding their faces. Blood dripped onto the floor with every step.

  One of the men frowned. “I thought you said we were sparring an monster, but all I see here is a child.”

  “Your opponent today,” said the leading soldier, “is a monster— its cane.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” another soldier muttered. “Cane? He’s a child. I won’t beat down on a child.”

  Cane tilted his head, and a low chuckle followed.

  “You’ll do as you’re told,” he said, voice cold and calculated. “Or you can just stand there while I beat you to death. The choice is yours.”

  “So be it,” one soldier shouted — and then the room went silent.

  Cane took a few slow steps forward, eyes narrowing on his target’s.

  “Before we start, I’ll give you one warning,” he said, voice calm but his word’s venomous. “Don’t treat me like a child. Look at me as your equal. Because if you don’t…”

  He smiled — slow, cruel.

  “…your loved ones will weep when they come to identify your lifeless bodies.”

  “Your funeral,” one of the men said from the back, trying to sound brave.

  Cane closed his eyes, arms open wide, welcoming the chaos.

  “Oh—no—no—no,” he whispered, drawing it out, patronising. “This isn’t my funeral.”

  His eyes snapped open, burning with hunger.

  “This is my homecoming — and you dear men…” he took a step forward, voice low and razor sharp

  “…are who I’m about to feast on.”