The prince took the stage to the cacophony of trumpets. The crowd murmured.

"My fellow countrymen, the rumors are true. The King is dead.

The murmuring grew louder.

"Under normal circumstances, this news might have been delivered to you by the Ministers or Cardinals," he motioned to the row of robed figures looming on the stage behind him. "My beloved father would have been interred after a month of national morning. And only then, with the blessings of the Cardinals, would I stand in front of you and claim my rights as heir."

"But we do not have that luxury now. Even as I speak, the army of Salynim surrounds our city. Our spies tell us that their reinforcements are only two days away. When they arrive, the combined army will tear down our gates and pillage our city."

Silence fell.

"With his last breath, my father urged me to move forward with his plan to attack the waiting forces. Right now, we outnumber the hordes waiting outside. A swift and decisive strike now will cripple their present forces, making the reinforcements inadequate against our city defenses. But to do that, we have to take up arms, every last one of us. For the men and women, we have arranged sticks and repurposed some farming equipment. The children will be supplied with rocks. Together, we will crush the enemy and let the world know what happens to infidels who disrespect our Queen. They could have left with the bodies of the ministers and their families, and apologized formally, but they threatened us and kept spreading the lies about our beloved Queen. We tried to warn them again by burning all their farms from Zunim to Goyari, and what did they do? They besieged our city! The bastards! We will not let them get away with this! We will fight to the last man, woman, and child! We will bathe in their blood and tears!! And then, we..."

The crossbow bolt in his throat prevented him from finishing his speech. The ministers rushed half-heartedly to their rapidly expiring new liege who clutched at this throat, trying to keep the blood in. "Guards?" someone inquired, reluctantly.

Unari had already ducked into an alleyway as the commotion broke out in the square. Five minutes later, he slipped through the back entrance of a dingy bar and found the others at the corner table.

The elderly gentleman at the table cocked his ear. The shouts were spreading. "Sounds like you did the job."

"Do you think it'll work?" Unari slumped down onto a chair and rested his mini crossbow against a table leg.

"The contacts I have in the ministry all suggest that the Ministers will all support a truce," said the man, studying his glass carefully, "And we're back-channeling terms of a cease-fire with the Salnym. But none of it would be possible if our own monarch craved war. We were lucky enough to have the King succumb to consumption, but the Prince was healthy and no one would dare touch him because..."

"Yeah, the four generation curse." Unari looked out the window as a crowd rushed by.

"You did a great service to your country, son." Everyone at the table nodded in agreement.

"What'll happen to me now?"

"Well, once things settle down, you'll definitely get a pardon. The tumors shouldn't start forming for at least a year, and they'll only be limited to you since your have no next of kin."

"In that case, gentlemen," Unari rose from his seat, "I better finish my paintings."