The Monarch

A man who was once a boy sat on a finely decorated bed clinging to thoughts of false prestige as a crowd of housands marhed against him under his window.

"It is I who weild power, true power, not a worthless, sackclothed band of rebels."

His robe, white with gold laced in intricately designed patterns, had been torn by the tailor who made it.

"I killed their leader and showed them his blood- they will surrender."

One of the protesters had brought enough small explosives to break down the thick wooden gates.

"I have divine right. How else could I be here?"

Some had brought small tanks of gasoline, and although there were enough torches, in the end only a small metal lighter was thrown on the floor.

"Don't those fools realize that they are fighting against God? Against fate? Against the will of the heavens?"

Although the building was layered in marble, enough thickly laid carpet was present to feed the blaze from room to room.

"This will only lead to their destruction. All they will truly accomplish is a mass suicide."

The mob's roars grew as they pushed back from the groaning building. Butlers and other servents were killed as they fled the fire into the dense, angry crowd.

The man began to inhale poison fumes, and as his vision began to fade, he dropped to his knees. His dying breath opened an earnest prayer.