KING’S FALL.

The moon reflected in his golden goblet, the Ophirean red inside of it lazily spinning in a slow vortex.

His jeweled fingers held the drink without purpose, his mind somewhere else.

A soft moan woke him from his imagined voyage, the warm breath of the dancer caressing his member.

She liked to sleep like this, her head on his thigh, the scent and warmth of his manhood close to her lips.

His pale gaze , a gift from his Hyborian father, roamed over the sensual forms of Ajera, slowly stretching on
the silken cushions between his legs.

“You prefer drink to slumber yet again, my lord?” Asked the Zamoran dancer, her eyes glinting with
mischief already, as she ran her fingers teasingly along the dark skin of Nero’s body.

Nero grinned, tilting his head to the side, as he always did when presented with questions he’d rather not
answer. “Ahhhh my dear little Ajera. How can you expect any man to fall to slumber when you are
around?”

His calloused hands, more accustomed to clinging to rock than caressing skin , found their way against the
woman’s cheek. A gentle gesture, something that did not belong with a man of his looks.

His features were hard, much like his father, yet the dark skin he received from his mother was like silk,
encasing a frame that felt as if made of Akbitanan steel.

Many scars crisscrossed his body , mementos of a life lived dancing on the blade of fate. He rose from his
bed , stretching his arms and back as he approached the balcony of his palace. Naked, he watched and
listened to Shadizar.

He loved to hear the sound of the city. Renowned for her misteries and mischief, Shadizar was aptly
surnamed “The Corrupt”.

He had always liked the sound of that. Corruption meant that life had been faced, tried, experienced.

By Bel, God of Thieves, his own was a testament to that.

Born of an Zingaran smith and a Kushite dancer, he had learned to fend for himself very early, growing up
in the alleys and dark halls of Shadizar. His father was a drunk, a violent one at that. He meant for Nero to
learn smithing, so that he could drink himself to stupor while his son toiled. Knowledge of weaponsmithing
was delivered through beatings and humiliation, until one night he found the strength to run away. Quick
of wit, even quicker of tongue, he had spent his youth running a gang of young cutpurses and thieves. His
name was uttered everytime a major crime was committed in the city, and yet, no one was ever able to
arrest him.

The Brotherhood of thieves took care of its members after all.

Corrupting a guard, an officer or a judge was routine in Shadizar, and where that failed, the blades took
over.
He sipped the wine , rolling his tongue inside his mouth , letting it be coated by the earthy aftertaste of the
red. Shadizar was his. Well, not entirely, but soon.

He was one of the four “Princes”. One of the four crime lords that ran every illegal business in the city.
Wealth abunded in his coffers and he had access to all pleasures known to man.

It was not enough.

For years, the power struggle of the “Princes” had turned the streets and alleys into a warzone.

He had lost many brothers to this, it was time to stop it. Where four Princes had failed, maybe a “King”
would be victorious.

He turned towards Ajera, motioning for her to bring his clothes.

He spread his arms and allowed the gorgeous dancer to perform her favorite ritual, dressing her lover in silk
and black leather, turning a man into a fairytale prince.

He indulged her fantasy each time, a small price to pay for a glimpse at Ajera’s innocent side.

Of course he’d never admit it, but he was fond of her. Sharing passion was always the beginning, but of all
of his lovers she was the only one he allowed to sleep in his rooms. He trusted her.

The dagger sank in his side with ease. Akbitanan steel, he forged it for her. A gift for the first time she slept
with him.

His rough hand closed onto hers, his pale gaze locking on Ajera as he slowly pulled the hand away from his
side, and the blade with it.

She was crying, muttering apologies and yet still trying to stab him again. He spun to the right, unbalanced
her and threw her across the room, back onto the bed they shared not too many moments ago.

Fury filled his heart. Anger born of the deepest betrayal. He grabbed her neck and started choking her, but
his grip was getting weaker by the second. His vision blurred, blood poured in his mouth. Metallic
and…sour.

Poison. Set’s kiss.

He felt her cradling his head, her warm tears dripping on his chest and face.

“You have done well my dear. I shall honor my part of the deal aswell.”

A man’s voice, then nothing more. Black fell over him like a shroud.

Pain brought him back to life. Hands and feet exploding in a crimson cascade of torment.

He opened his eyes and saw the chariot ride off behind a dune. A man was upon it, white linen draping his
figure, billowing in the searing hot wind of the desert.

He looked at his hands and feet, long iron nails protruding from flesh, condemining him to the slow death
of crucifiction, and yet, whoever put him there to die also adorned his left arm with a golden bracer.
Time passed, a blur of anguish and pain, of heat and freezing cold. And yet , he refused to die.

Then the sandstorm came, ripping cross and man from the sand, setting him free again. He wandered for
hours, each step an agony in itself.

Ancient ruins guided him to a river, a chance to live.

He would survive.

He would heal and carve a path back to Shadizar. He would take his revenge, one day.

He still had a keen mind, and a sharp wit, no better tools to build a way out of misfortune.

It would take months, maybe years, but it didn’t matter. He was given time, that’s all it mattered.

That, and a chance at vengeance.