Blood Oath of Gold

Prologue

Today, things would change, things would change for the worse, or maybe it was for the better.

     "My son," King Minan, ruler of the Kingdom of Gold demanded, "please, step forward." The young man, only eighteen years of life, Prince Acacius, quickly straightened his posture. He stepped forward, counting each and every step in his mind.

     One, two, three, four, five, six, sev–

     His father's voice was booming, as every king who ruled before him had, "my son," he began. King Minan stood up from his throne made of pure gold and marble. "I have planned that you shall become king of the Kingdom of Thorns, the kingdom which I have founded for you, my son. But," the king paused. Taking a single step away from his throne and closer to his son.

     Acacius swallowed his saliva. He was bracing for the impact of his father's words he dreaded ever since Acacius had first gone to war and served as both a warrior and a general.

     "You have failed."

     There it was, those three small words that crushed Acacius' soul.

     "You have disappointed me, my son." A few small gasps and laughs from the king's court were nothing but mere whispers in the young prince's mind.

     Acacius' eyes filled his tears. What was he thinking?

     I am a prince. I do not feel emotions. I only feel bloodlust and rage. Emotions lead to weakness. And I have neither.

     Acacius blinked back tears, trying to conceal anything and everything from his father's prying eyes.

     "You should have done better."

     He nodded, head turned down to the marble floor. The king blinked, "step closer, my son." The young man took two steps, shutting his eyes and preparing once more for the loud shouts.

     Then another pair of three steps.

     In the middle of the sixth, he felt extreme pain in his left eye.

     Grabbed by his white tunic, Acacius stumbled backward. His right eye, unharmed, welled with tears, could see nothing but a blur of colours, the medium beige of skin of both him and his father, off-white of his father's tunic, and the colour of some sort of liquid on his fingers.

     It was gold.

     Shimmering, shining, glistening gold.

     It was blood. Acacius was bleeding golden blood. Everything felt numb. But those were only a few milliseconds of what was perceived as peace. Another strike, another painful strike too much for the young prince to bear.

     The sharp pain was like biting down with as much force as one could muster on a group of cracked teeth: an electric jolt of shock and hurt. Acacius' hands flew to his left eye. "F-Father," his right eye widened, only mildly blurred by rushing tears–which mixed with his rushing blood–a terrified and betrayed look present and stinging.

     The king held out his right hand, which held the dagger. The dagger was golden, on its side was engraved something Acacius couldn't make out. Then he remembered what it said: ADS to MS. Acacius Dagger Steele to Minan Steele.

     The dagger was a gift from Acacius to his father.

     More blood flowed down the side of his face, the wound deep and painful, and Acacius gripped King Minan's arm, holding him back from cutting him again. "Father–" Acacius's only working eye widens, "–why?"

     He may be a king, but he is weak. I can get out of this.

     Everything that happened after the two slashes of the king's dagger was a blur.

     The only thing Acacius remembered in excellent detail was his father's body bleeding out from the giant gash from his throat to stomach, laying on his throne, and something off about his open eyes. They were silver. Acacius thought they had always been golden, like the kingdom.

     Acacius felt arms wrap around his upper body. He was being dragged away, out of the main hall, by the castle's guard to the Dark God knows where. But, besides that...

     Now, Acacius was a murderer.