The Written Mirror

I never wanted the throne.

That’s what I told him. That’s what I told them all.

My name is Freddy—well, officially it’s Prince Frederick the Second, named after my father. I was the gentle one. The quiet prince who loved books more than blades, who wandered through forests instead of courtrooms, who watched his father rule not with envy — but reverence.

King Frederick the Great — my father, my hero.
A man of rare kindness. Of impossible strength.
He ruled Ardalan with a golden hand, warm and fair, just and feared. They called him the Heart of the Realms. I simply called him Dad.

He was the kind of man who knelt to help a beggar and dined with generals in the same breath. And he loved me with all of him — even when I flinched from his legacy, when I whispered, “I’m not like you.”

He would smile, ruffle my hair and say, “That’s why you’ll be better.”

I believed him.

He believed me.

It was meant to be a simple afternoon.

Just the two of us walking through Veilwood — his favourite place in the kingdom, where the trees whispered secrets, and the wind tasted clean. There were no guards. No advisors. Just father and son. We laughed. He told stories of when he was my age — wrestling with politics and nightmares in equal measure.

I remember the way the light broke through the canopy, catching the silver in his beard.

Then we heard it.

Rustling. Steel. Footsteps. Too many.

Bandits.

His face shifted in an instant — calm to alert, like a wolf smelling blood. Even older now, he was formidable. He drew his sword, placed me behind him.

“Run, Freddy.”

We bolted through the trees, breathless. The sounds behind us grew louder, closer. Then the forest broke into sky.

A cliff.

We stopped at the edge, wind biting our faces, the drop beneath us vanishing into mist and stone.

I turned to him. “We climb,” I said. “Hold the ledge, wait them out. They’ll think we jumped.”

He blinked. Then — pride. That soft fatherly pride that I’d always lived for.

“Brilliant,” he said, clasping my shoulder. “You think like a king.”

He dropped first, gripping the rocky edge with strong, weathered hands. “Come on, Freddy!”

I didn’t move.

He looked up, puzzled. “Freddy?”

The bandits spilled from the woods like shadows. My father heard them, his face blanching. “Freddy, they’re here! GO!”

But I stayed.

The first man approached me. Scarred, savage, eyes like stone.

And then he knelt.

One knee to the ground. Head bowed.

Another. Then another. All of them. Kneeling before me.

My father’s face twisted into something I’d never seen before — pure confusion. Then horror.

“No,” he whispered. “What is this? Freddy, what is this?!”

I walked slowly to the edge of the cliff. I knelt beside him, his fingers white with strain as he clung to the rock. His blue eyes — the ones I’d inherited — searched mine, desperate.

I crouched, gripping his fingers gently. One by one, I began to prise them from the rock.

His breath caught. His face twisted in disbelief. “Son, no—Freddy, no!”

And then, at last, I spoke.

“Your Majesty,” I said, voice suddenly smooth as silk. “Your reign was long. Peaceful. Celebrated. But peace is a lullaby that puts empires to sleep. You taught me kindness. Mercy. Diplomacy. And I thank you. Truly, I do. Because now I know the tools to break a kingdom without ever raising a sword.”

Another finger slipped.

“You saw the people’s love as your strength. I saw it as their weakness. You ruled by worship. I will rule by fear.”

He panted in desperation, trying to find footing, to pull himself up, but there was nowhere to go.

“These men,” I gestured to the bandits below, “are no bandits. They are soldiers. Forgotten by your treaties. Scorned by your mercy. I gave them purpose again.”

Another finger gone. Only two left.

“I was born in your shadow, Father. And in the shade, things grow twisted.”

Tears streaked his face, carving paths through sweat and grime. “Freddy… please. I love you.”

“And I loved you too,” I murmured. “But love is for boys. And I am a king now.”

“Freddy… help me. Please.”

I tilted my head, studying him — the pitiful shake in his shoulders, the way his fingers clung to the edge like brittle roots on a cliffside, tearing loose one by one.

“I never wanted the throne,” I said, voice velvety soft.

His eyes widened, lip trembling. “You’re lying.”

I leaned in, close enough to see the reflection of myself in his tears. Then I smiled — slow, deliberate, cruel.

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

And with a flick of my wrist, I peeled away the final finger.

He didn’t scream.

He just fell.

The wind swallowed him whole.

I straightened. The cliffs behind me offered no comfort. The men below did not cheer. They simply watched — as I turned from the edge, the smile still lingering, quiet and satisfied,

My voice did not tremble.

“Let it be known,” I declared, “that King Frederick the Great has fallen to his death in a tragic accident. The prince tried to save him… but it was too late.”

A silence. Then applause.

I smiled again, soft and serene.

“I am King now.”

And in the Four Realms, where kindness once ruled, a new name echoed in the dark.

Frederick the Black.
The boy who smiled.
The son who waited.
The shadow that took the crown.

I never wanted the throne. 

the lie coiled like smoke in my mouth, sweet and effortless. The meek shall inherit the earth, they said. But the strong shall write the scripture. 

My gospel begins today.

And every verse drips red.