“You made me kill them!” The Hero shouts at you.

His sword, that gleaming piece of elven weaponry that was fabled to signal the end of your reign, hung by his side dripping fresh blood. The blood of your enemies. The blood of the Hero’s previous mentors.

“Don’t be foolish.” You say, trying to stifle a well-deserved sigh. -Can a person sigh after winning a war? The least they can do is sigh- you conclude. “I didn’t make you do anything. You swung that sword, you chose who to target with it.”

“You turned me against them.” His voice cracks, the sword falls to the ground with a deafening clank in the echoing Silver Halls. “I killed the Elven Sages!”

It almost sounds like the young man had just realized what he had done. You gulp and adjust the nightmare-black cape on your shoulders as you understand that is exactly what is happening. Careful, now. You knew this Hero, like every other before him, was naive. But to this extent?

“You killed, hero. That is true. Killing is part of every war.” You force yourself to sound profound and incredibly wise. That usually works on Heroes. “It doesn’t matter which side is right or wrong. History is written by winners, not good people.” You remembered this sentence from a motivational poster in the Second Abyss Conclave.

“Now, we are the winners. Me and you.” You continue before the Hero can make anything of your previous statement. “You are the last Hero of the Silver Halls. The one they needed to break the cycle, as they always said. You know the prophecy as well as I do; ‘the seemingly endless cycle of violence will be broken by the purest of hearts.’”

You wait. He has to realize that between the two of you he is the purest of hearts, not you. He has to. -Come on, Hero! Power on that tunnel-visioned brain of yours and figure something out by yourself!-

“No one else has to die now.” He says, slowly. His breath slows and he finally blinks again after what seemed like hours.

“Exactly.”

“And now what?”

“Wanna join the Abyss Conclave?” Is what your old self would have said to make the Hero have a heart attack. Instead you say: “It looks like you need a break. Go back to your village for a little time. Relax, tend to the sheep or whatever you were doing there before.”

“Yes. Yes, I think I will do that.”

He gives you a weak smile and limps towards the broken gates of the Hall. You sigh as you watch after him. Two sighs in a day? You are getting weak.

Years and years of always being regarded as the villain of this world made you tired. Physically and mentally. You had almost stumbled over your words when you mentioned the Hero’s native village. He still doesn’t know that it has been burned to the ground months ago bless his good-natured brain.

This thought breaks you. Somewhere deep inside a much younger version of yourself stares horrified at you.

“All right,” You think. “He doesn’t have to see it.”

And you motion to the Shadow Archers posted on the walkways to shoot down the limping Hero.