congratulations.   you have toppled a king.          but what is a king to a god?   and what is a god to darkness itself?   the spies infiltrated the palace,  months of planning not going to waste and they took their moment:   tsar vasily the third,  dead on his own throne.   his wife,  terrified and attacked;  bleeding on the courtroom floor as healers rushed to her.   their children:  one cowing in terror and the other brandishing a sword.   oh spies,  how your lives have taken such a turn?   you have gone from children to king killers.   will fjerda grant you the title kingslayer?   will you wear it with pride or sorrow?   great trials shall follow this,  how it falls will be upon you.   you wanted this,  remember?   you asked to topple an empire and now you have it.   the world at your hands.   rivers change over the courses of many lifetimes and all bridges tumble down.   kings on their stone thrones and sitting in their high houses are no different.   the man who lived in opulence while his kingdom starved and lived in fear..   i suppose he had to go.

but what now?   are you going to run from the false lives you have built in the kingdom you are determined to ruin?   are you going to leave butchery and betrayal in your wake?   you’ve left a mess on the killing room floor and someone has to clean it up.   perhaps you will stick around ravka long enough to see the ruin that you’ve left.   and maybe you will learn that a old, lazy king was better then a young, foolish one.

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