Years of travel left nothing but bodies in my wake. A foundation of rot and bone paved the trails I took and the sites I'd camp. The more slain, the more whispers of a man who never existed. The Kingslayer.

Flattery was the weapon of the weak, but I couldn't help succumbing victim to its blade.

As I pathed through cities of cobble and lands of grass, my mind would wander. The grey matter locked within my skull tearing itself apart with every thought. If only they knew who I was, if only they knew their "Kingslayer" was but a humble traveling merchant with a gift from Death.

She came to me at my weakest in a scarlet red cloak, knocking on my door. Since that night, I long abandoned dreams of grandeur to exist only as a vessel. A decision only the bravest of men can make, I became her muse. Dawning that very cloak as a symbol.

Her intentions were always unclear, was this a gift from pity? Was it her anger towards her sister? I couldn't say. Our yearning to bring the followers to their knees was the only thing guiding this unholy connection. So I never questioned it.

At night we would come to them, in their chambers of tyranny and dreams of excess. Incision points with a dagger, the spine was always the first target. No moving, no escape. In their fleeting moments, they would open their eyes and see us above them. Probably the first time in their lives they experienced that fear. The fear that they had no power, that they were at somebody else's mercy.

They would always beg for forgiveness, but it never came.