He was the son of a Witch and a Warlord. The Heir of the House of the Dark. He had been trained from birth to sink the world into Eternal Night -taught about magic, about combat, about lies- and, in the night of his twelfth birthday, as he rode to the battle that would make the world his, he couldn't believe they had bought it all.
He had learned empathy when they taught him to read his enemy, compassion when they gave him strength, love from the cruel paintings watching over his childhood room. He was Good.
He approached the gold-clad Warrior of the Light. At once he could see the arrogant gesture of his face, the cruel way in which he grasped his sword, the tyrannic soul bred from self-righteousness.
He dismounted with a snarl and drew his own sword.
.finis.
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