In the Great Hall, the King of Lormere stood in pale cream breeches and a billowing white shirt, watching the Sleeping Prince warily. Behind him lay piles of bodies: soldiers, guards, and any servant who had been foolish enough to try to bodily defend their king. All of them dead, most of them slain before they could raise their weapons. The king held something in his hands, a metal disc on a chain, brandishing it at the Sleeping Prince as though it were a gift. The Sleeping Prince smiled indulgently at the king. 'eoeIf we could talk,'e the king said, his face pale, his hair a frenzy of dark curls around it.'eoeNo talk, Merek of Lormere,'e the Sleeping Prince said, his smooth, calm voice a contrast to his maniacal smile. 'eoeYour men are all dead.

Your castle and kingdom are mine. The only words I'll hear from you are your pleas for mercy.'eMerek's dark eyes flashed. 'eoeI assure you, you won't,'e he said. 'eoeI won't die begging.'e Then he lunged.The Sleeping Prince stepped to the side and raised one of his swords, arching it through the air until it found its sheath in the unprotected breast of the new Lormerian king. King Merek made a soft sound of surprise and turned his eyes to the Sleeping Prince, his disbelief childlike.

Then those same eyes fluttered closed and he slumped to the ground. The Sleeping Prince watched him, his expression unreadable.Then he stepped over the king's body and crossed the hall, mounting the steps to the dais. He walked along its length, dragging a bloody finger down the long wooden table. When he reached the high carved seat, he frowned. Peasant craftsmanship, dull and uninspiring. He deserved better.And now Lormere was his, he would have it.