Prologue

"My love."

"You like to call me names like that, don't you?"

"My lord, I beg-"

"Shut up. You think you can persuade me?"

"I…" He sealed his eyes; blurry, tear-stained vision fixed on the deep red carpet. How many times had his blessed feet ruled those fibres? A thousand? A million? However many times they had, today was sure to be the last.

There was no coming back from this.

"Finally quiet?"

His rival, lover, enemy, friend: the man that encompassed all his love and all his hate, that man now sat before him, pale cheek rested on paler hand. His slim legs were crossed; skinny limb over skinny limb, each adorned in its own embroidered expensive trouser case. Even his hair seemed to be taking part in the humiliation, long white strands sticking straight down, brushed and proper, while his own auburn hair stood up in every direction as if it wished to flee his filthy scalp.

"So what's it going to be, Illa?"

He flinched- it had been so long since he'd heard his own name that the very syllables it consisted of sounded foreign; like clunky, unfamiliar music to his ears.

"I'll give you three options."

The younger man that sat on an ornate golden throne in front of Illa tapped his foot, a repetitive motion that drove him to anxiety as if it were the ticking of some impatient clock, the fury of which could bring the minute hand slamming down on his neck like some black-clad executioner.

"Would you rather be beheaded, hung, or burned?"

Illa found himself unable to answer- merely crouching down in a permanent bow on the floor like the meek, pathetic excuse for a knight he was.

Hanging… his father had hung. The cracking sound as the platform fell away underneath him- and the incessant chocking of the man that swung beside him, unlucky enough to have a neck able to withstand the force of the fall without snapping. He would never die like that.

Burning sounded excruciating. Not only the pain as the flames licked the soles of your feet, but then that same pain was amplified and heightened as they danced around the rest of your body, eventually swallowing you whole as if you were a weak mouse falling prey to the venom of the snake that encased you. Beheading was the best option. If he was going to die, he'd rather it be short, clean and sharp: with no ties to his sorry excuse of a father.

"B-"

"Burning? That can be arranged." The prince cut him off with a smirk, placing his foot, wearing the most delicately crafted of shoes, on top of Illa's head so he could push the man down. He forced his forehead to touch the carpet as he bowed before him, knees huddled underneath a sweating torso as the prickly material dug into his skin and left an uncomfortable indent- the kind of mark the bed sheets leave on your face when you wake up from a particularly satisfying nap.

"I mean beheading, please." Illa paused for a second before remembering to add a respectful, "Your highness." At the end of the statement. It would do him no good to anger the man more than he already had.

"Usually I'd go with your first answer. But since it's you…" He dug the heel of his shoe into Illa's head, making him grunt in pain. "I guess I'll reconsider."

"Thank you, your highness." Manners were key, when dealing with a person as unreasonable as him.

"Do you remember my name?" In a sudden change of topic, he lessened the pressure he was putting on Illa's head and allowed him to look up, to see the beautiful room which had once been so familiar to him.

The intricately threaded scarlet curtains, strands of gold and bursts of silver flowing through them like a swishing school of fish, spreading boundless amounts of colour and patters wherever their pretty little fins happened to flick towards. Each banister, statue, mural, windowsill, seat, bed frame: everything that resided inside the ornate room was handcrafted and loved to a degree someone the likes of Illa could never hope to match. The smallest item in this room- perhaps even one thread from the assortment of tapestries that lined the walls- would be worth enough precious coins to buy Illa many times over.

He hated rich people sometimes.

"You don't remember? Have a guess."

He didn't remember. Even when they had spent time together, privately and out in the open, he had never let his first name become common knowledge to Illa. It had bothered him, at first. If he truly loved him, why had he been so adamant to hide such a crucial part of himself for so long? Of course, the answer was clear to him now. The prince had never loved Illa: and now he was going to kill him.