I hope y'all know the story of Macbeth.
Pakratt stared down the dimly lit stone hallway, almost trying to stop himself from doing this. But he wasn't stopping himself. He had to go through with this. He had prepared for this, drugged the guards, he had the weapon; it would take a few seconds. A few short seconds, then it would be over.
The torches on the walls cast an eerie glow, flickering shadows taunting and tormenting him. They were like ghosts, ready to forever haunt him, reminding him of this corrupt deed.
His grip on the dagger tightened, as he forced himself to take a step down the hallway. One step there. And another. And another. His footsteps seemed loud, ripping through the silence of the night. He tried to be quiet, but they still seemed to be echoing through the castle, making him wince. It was highly unlikely anybody would be awake in this part of the castle, but he could take no chances.
The door seemed to loom over him, causing him to pause and look up at it. Open this door... Go into the room... Do what I need to do.
'I can do this,' Pakratt whispered to himself.
He put his hand on the door gently, turning the doorhandle slowly, as not to make any noise. The door was large and heavy, and it's creaking rang out through the castle. Pak stopped immediately, listening for sound. He had not drugged the king; any noise could wake him, then he'd be truly screwed. After a minute of hearing nothing, he had to make himself start moving again. Only open the door a little bit more... Then he could get in.
Pak squeezed through the gap between the wall and the door once he had opened it enough, and saw his target: King Blame, asleep, on the bed bang in the middle of the room. His two guards, Arkas and Sevadus, lay passed out on two chairs on the far side of the room. Pak knew that not a sound would wake them, not ay time soon, at least.
'Do it! You'll become the king, you'll become rich, famous!'
'Don't do it! If someone catches you, they'll kill you!'
Pak shut his eyes tightly, trying to block out the battle of voices in his head. The point why he should, and why he shouldn't. He had to, right? He would become the king! He would be rich, people would respect him!
'People will love you! They never liked Blame anyway,'
'You'll have to live the rest of your life knowing that you killed Blame for selfish reasons,'
Pak tried to block them out once more, looking straight ahead to where Blame lay. He couldn't let anything stop him now.
He approached the bed, his grip on the dagger getting stronger.
'I have to, I have to, I have to,'
Pak looked down at Blame. He had once respected this man, but he couldn't care less about that now. He needed the wealth and respect of being a king. He had never been treated with respect, only the slight fame that came with defeating to invading armies; but it hadn't lasted long. Pak craved that respect, the glory, the fame that came with the defeat. And this was how he would get it.
His hand shook slightly, fear suddenly starting to take effect over the strong sense of determination. Could he really go through with this? What if he was caught? No! He wasn't going to back out now!
He lowered the dagger, and in one swift move slit the king's throat deeply. Blood rushed out of the new wound, staining the white sheets on the bed red. It was like a burst of colour, seeping out into a starburst pattern. He stood, mesmerised, before shock and realisation of what he had done struck him. He dropped the dagger, and it hit the ground with an emphatic clatter. Pak winced, but didn't bother to pick it up. He didn't think to. All he thought was he had to go; now. Only now did the reality of the situation sink in. He looked over to the guards. They were still unconscious, unknowing of the situation. Before he went, he knew he had to finish his plan.
With his finger, he took some of the blood from Blame's throat. His breathing had long since halted, his pulse slowing to a stop. It seemed too quiet.
Pak picked up the bloodied dagger, and walked to the far end of the room. He smeared some of the blood on the guard he recognised as Sevadus, and placed the dagger in the hand of Arkas. This way, the murder might be pinned on them, not him.
He made his way back to the door, closing it slowly behind him. He still couldn't make noise, for fear of being found; he had to make it back out and far away from the scene.
The torches on the walls cast an eerie glow, flickering shadows taunting and tormenting him. They were like ghosts, forever haunting him, reminding him of the corrupt deed he went through with.