Heir to a Bloody Throne

Prologue

Valor grasped a handful of the dirt that made up his father's grave, numb to the tears trailing down his cheeks. The wind from the brewing storm whipped through his choppy hair, but he barely acknowledged it, reddened eyes fastened on the bloodstained dirt in his hands. He hadn't been ready for it to end, not like this.

His heart ached, worse than any physical pain he had ever experienced. Herobrine was dead, and it was his fault.

"Val, go!!" The command went in one ear and out the other as the boy charged at the brigands that threatened his home. The sounds of screams shattered the air as thunder bellowed above them, lightning striking his enemies from the heavens. The exhilaration of battle had him in its wicked clutches, until he was struck in the side of the head and sent crashing to the ground.

His vision had barely focused enough to register the sword arcing above him when his father appeared before him, throwing himself against his attacker with a mighty roar. Diamond struck iron, and the man fell. Herobrine turned, blank gaze flashing over him to check for injury, then his form locked up as a sword jutted out through his chest.

Valor heaved a sob, bowing his head over the grave again. He should have listened. Had everything his father had taught him been in vain?

His miserable gaze lifted to the crude marker he had used to mark his father's grave, upon which hung the simple circlet of gold that he had used to mark his status. His diamond pickaxe, stained with crimson blood, lay on the ground beside the marker, having been dirtied by Valor' hand.

A scream rang out, and it took Valor a moment to realize that his own breath was gone. Herobrine whirled about, slaying the man with a single blow, but the damage was done. The next instant, he was collapsing, first to one knee, then onto his side. His weapon fell to the dirt with a thump, and Valor lunged for it, taking it clumsily in both hands and lurching to his feet.

The rain, before just a trickle, increased in its intensity until it became a downpour. Valor swept his soaked bangs out of his eyes, staring at the pickaxe as the rain washed it clean. Removing the last evidence of the massacre that had occurred.

He had seen red until the last man was falling before him, the last screams going silent as the life left his eyes, and only then did Valor turn back to where his father lay. The man had not moved since he fell, and Valor teleported to his side in a flash, abandoning his weapon and falling to his knees in the dirt. Grasping his shoulders, Valor turned him over, but his eyes were dark and blank, and no amount of screaming his name would bring him back.

Valor reached out, grasping the wooden handle of the pickaxe and tugging it closer. What was he to do now? His father was gone, his home, burned. He had nowhere to go, no one to turn to.

Stupid, stupid reputation, stupid rumors, if not for his father's mind games this wouldn't have happened. The brigands had only sought them out in the name of presumed vengeance, for a crime they hadn't committed that his father had allowed the world to believe.

His gaze fell to the circlet once more, and he swallowed his tears, the rain around him beginning to subside.

He had a legacy to uphold.