text: He was nicknamed Little Prince ever since he was a young boy. He would spend hours on the palace grounds, hiding in nooks or storage closets with his storybooks, pretending he was in a much more magical world than this one. A world filled with fairies, dragons, elves, and dwarves. Magical objects that held extraordinary power, elves with healing powers, wizards and mages who ruled the earth with their magic. It was much better than this dreary planet, which had none of these things. The others called him strange and weird, always in his head and never able to pay attention. His grandmother called him whimsical and imaginative and charming. One afternoon, his grandmother bought Kyros a toy sword. It was a cheap thing, made from an old dying tree. But he carried it with him everywhere, spreading a bedsheet over his shoulders and making crowns of flowers and vines, placing them atop his black hair. He would spend hours in the garden slaying mythical beasts and ruling imaginary kingdoms, saving pretty women locked up in towers. But like all children, they stripped away the magic from Kyros as he got older. His sword was taken away, his story books replaced with school books. Waistcoats and suits took over cloaks and capes. “You’re too old,” his father would tell him. The king and queen favoured Kyros’ family, so it was always important that they kept an excellent reputation. They didn’t need Kyros’ head in the clouds; they needed it down on earth, where it would be used to solve real-life problems. Now, Kyros sat in one of the wooden straight-backed chairs found all over the palace, his parents standing over him, frowning. “We thought you were better,” his mother said with a cluck of her tongue like a hen. It had been a formal dinner with the king and queen, and Kyros had let his formality slip. His back became slumped, and his mind wandered while he picked at his food. And that had gotten him into trouble. “You need to stop doing that,” Kyros’ father said angrily, his jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. “You need to be better. Why can’t you be like Alyx?” He gestured to Kyros’ older brother, standing in the corner. Alyx had never let his composure slip, always presenting himself with his neatest waistcoat and pristine hair. “Alyx does none of those things,” his mother pointed out. “Be better.” And then they left, leaving Kyros alone in the depressing room. He slumped, crossing his arms over his chest. It wasn’t fair. They took away his books and his imagination, forced him to sit still, to hold your tongue, to never act on a whim and always think before you did something. It wasn’t his fault for the way he acted when they stripped away everything good about his life. He huffed out a long breath, longing to return to the brightly illustrated pictures of his books, the ones with painted beasts and dragons and magic. But his parents were right. He was older now, much too old for such things, and he needed to keep his family’s reputation clean. He stood and left, walking down the marble hallway and into his own bedroom. But what he heard made him stop halfway there. He tip-toed next to the open door and pressed himself against the wall, listening. “There’s been this school he’s always wanted to go to,” he heard Alyx’s voice say. “We could send him there.” “Yes, I think that’s a good idea.” Kyros clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle a gasp. He would have never thought in a million years that his parents would send him to a school that he wanted to go to. He thought they would’ve kept him there, stuck behind the palace’s walls. “We will send him money to travel and enough for him to support himself until he finds work.” Kyros grinned. He knew his parents were just looking to get him away from the palace to maintain their reputation, but he was just as glad to get away from them. There, he wouldn't have to keep his back straight or filter his words before speaking. He suppressed a giddy laugh. He couldn’t wait to leave. “We’ll also need a hitman.” A hitman? Why would they need a hitman? “Callyx will do the job.” Kyros’ blood went cold in his veins. Were his parents planning on sending him away to have him murdered? To pretend to send him to a fancy school just to get a man to kill him halfway there? All because he had zoned out during dinner? “It will be a fake enrollment,” he heard his mother say. Kyros stood. He didn’t want to listen to them anymore. They were going to get rid of him, kill him just so they could keep their name free from any scorn that he had brought. But if they were going to kill him, he would kill them first. *** Kyros snuck a match into his pocket. He had been waiting for this moment for a while. His parents gave him the fake letter, telling him he’d been accepted to the school, and he pretended to pack a few of his things so they wouldn't suspect him of knowing their lie. Tonight, his parents had invited a bunch of nobles and aristocrats to dinner, and that was when Kyros was planning to set the place on fire. The hardest part was making sure that everyone perished, and no one lived to tell officials it had been Kyros. The night was long. His parents talked about the weather, stocks, and how successful they were in their careers. Kyros had made sure to keep his tie straight and remembered to use his manners all throughout dinner. At last, when one servant was placing desserts on the table, Kyros stood, excusing himself to the bathroom. In the hallway, he had placed a lamp set by the door conveniently where his family couldn’t see it from the dinner table. Kyros stood over the kerosene lamp, fishing the match from his pocket. He dropped it and watched it burst into flames with a loud whoosh, making the walls glow in orange light and bathing him in heat. Quickly, he ducked out of the palace and watched it burn to the ground. Never again would he be ridiculed or be told to be someone he wasn’t. Ten years later ... Kyros watched as the young girl was thrown at his feet. It was never his intention to play a villain, but people like her forced him into his role. He was no longer the boy who’d spent hours in the garden slaying beasts; he was the one taming them. Kyros watched with feigned pity as Izara stood, her face a mask of determination as she forced herself to her feet. “I will kill you,” she said, voice dripping with loath. “You killed him. You killed them all.” Kyros had been watching her with disinterest and boredom, but as she said that he sat up straighter and stood, staring down at her. “I killed them all? I did. But you know what? They were going to kill me first.” “Good!” “Tell me something, child. When they kill me, they’re called the heroes of the story. They save the kingdom from the little boy who was never perfect, who brought ridicule and scorn to the entire palace. But when I kill someone, I’m seen as the murderer, the villain. Why is that?” He slowly stepped down from the raised dais and made his way toward her. “Anyone can be seen as the hero. But not everyone can play it. It’s all about perspective,” he spat, looming over her. “You could be the villain. How do you know that by ‘saving’ all those people, you’re doing the good thing? Do they want that? Or do they want to be left alone, to be undisturbed?” He leaned closer to her, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You can’t save everyone. And not everyone wants to be saved.” He drove a blade into her stomach, watching as she let out a startled cry and then dropped to the ground. Sometimes you had to burn the world to be seen, to be heard. To be validated. So that’s exactly what he did. END