The Fall of a King

Vaelith stood on the grand balcony, high above the wretched spectacle below. The night air was thick with the stench of sweat, filth, and desperation, but he found it almost intoxicating. The once-revered prince was barely recognizable, dragged through the filth like a broken marionette, his golden hair matted with dirt, his once-proud frame crumbling under the jeers of the very people who once knelt before him.

Vaelith smirked. How quickly the mighty fall.

The rabble pelted him with rotten refuse, their laughter cruel, their scorn unrelenting. He did not beg, not yet, but the weight of his humiliation hung heavy in the air. Every bruise, every tattered remnant of royal fabric clinging to his skin, was proof of Vaelith's triumph.

"Just another pawn," Vaelith murmured, resting his chin on his hand as he watched. "And look how eagerly the sheep devour their fallen shepherd."

When the guards finally hauled him into the royal chamber, tossing him at Vaelith's feet like discarded trash, the once-prince barely managed to brace himself. He trembled on his hands and knees, filth clinging to every inch of him, his breath ragged from exhaustion and disgrace.